Servants Play

4

For the entirety of the four-hour ride, Wen Kexing did not sleep. Every time the rocking of the horse and the crushing weight of his exhaustion dragged his eyes shut, the phantom memory of Xie Wang's poisoned nail—or the Ghost King's booming, sadistic laugh—would jolt him violently awake.

​He stayed completely rigid against Zishu's chest, his breathing shallow, running on the absolute, final fumes of sheer terror. It was a glaring, horrifying testament to Kexing's conditioning: he literally would not allow himself to lose consciousness in the presence of a predator, even when his body was completely breaking down.

​By the time the heavy wooden gates of the Tian Chuang safe house swung open, the sun was high, and Kexing was trembling so violently his teeth were practically chattering.

​Zishu guided the warhorse into the enclosed courtyard. A dozen men clad in the dark, immaculate armor of the Emperor's shadow guards stopped their drills, dropping to one knee in perfect, silent unison at the sight of their Lord.

​Kexing's breath caught in a choked, panicked gasp. He shrank back against Zishu's chest, his vacant eyes darting around the courtyard. To his traumatized mind, a courtyard full of kneeling, armed men in black armor looked exactly like a Ghost Valley execution block waiting for a fresh victim to be thrown into the center.

​Zishu pulled back on the reins, bringing the horse to a halt. He swung his leg over the saddle and dropped lightly to the dirt.

​"Slide down," Zishu commanded quietly.

​Kexing swallowed hard, his bandaged hands shaking violently as he released the saddle horn. He tried to shift his weight, but after hours on the horse on top of the night spent kneeling, his legs were completely dead. He slipped, pitching precariously to the side.

​Before Zishu could catch him, one of the kneeling guards—a captain eager to assist his Lord—leapt up and stepped forward, reaching out with heavily gauntleted hands to grab the falling prisoner by the arms.

​"Allow me, My Lord—" the captain began.

​The moment the strange guard's heavy metal gauntlets clamped onto his bruised biceps, the last frayed thread holding Kexing together simply snapped.

​He didn't fight. He didn't scream. He didn't even try to pull away.

​Instead, a quiet, shattered whimper escaped his ruined throat, and he went utterly, terrifyingly limp. His legs completely folded beneath him, his chin dropping to his chest. He hung entirely dead weight in the captain's grip, squeezing his eyes shut and bracing himself for the beating. His mind had instantly concluded that Zishu was handing him over to the guards to be punished or used, and his ingrained conditioning took over: Do not fight. Take the pain. Wait for it to end.

​The courtyard went dead silent.

​Zhou Zishu's eyes darkened into something utterly terrifying. He didn't just see a guard helping; he saw his fragile, traumatized asset reacting to the Tian Chuang uniform the exact same way he reacted to the monsters of Ghost Valley.

​Zishu's qi flared outward—a cold, suffocating wave of killing intent that slammed into the courtyard like a physical blow.

​"Take your hands off him," Zishu ordered. His voice wasn't raised, but it cracked through the air with absolute, lethal zero.

​The captain froze, the blood draining from his face as he realized he had just crossed an invisible, deadly line. He instantly let go and dropped backward onto both knees, bowing his head so low his forehead touched the dirt. "Forgive me, My Lord."

​With nothing holding him up, Kexing collapsed straight into the ash and dirt of the courtyard. He didn't try to catch himself. He just curled instantly into a tight, trembling ball at Zishu's boots, waiting for the master's anger to be turned on him.