The ceremony was announced at dawn.
Not by the Southern Kingdom.
Not by Zhou.
By Wu Jin.
The proclamation was read from the Gate of Auspices in a voice that trembled only once. It spoke of restoration, continuity, harmony between realms. It named a date when the Emperor of Liang would be welcomed back to Ling An under sacred procession, and the He Lian Dynasty would "enter a period of custodianship."
The words were poison wrapped in silk.
People did not riot.
They bowed.
Zhou's banners lifted in approval. Southern envoys smiled. Clerks rewrote calendars.
Wu Jin stood behind the proclamation and felt something in him go hollow.
He had not abdicated.
He had been reframed.
And he had signed it himself.
Inside the tower, Wu An read the notice and felt nothing.
The being inside him did not stir.
Shen Yue stood beside him, hands folded tightly.
"They're using him," she said.
Wu An nodded. "They're removing him."
"He did it to save people."
Wu An's eyes flicked to her.
"Don't justify weakness," he said.
That hurt her.
She did not show it.
"I can slow Zhou's monks," she said quietly. "If you're going to use the Presence again, I can make it more… contained."
He studied her.
"Do it," he said.
She turned away so he wouldn't see her face.
Shen Yue descended into the lower levels and placed her palm against the failsafe sigil again.
This time, she altered it.
Not to stop Wu An.
To redirect him.
A slight skew in the geometry. A misalignment that would cause his next use of the Presence to target the wrong vectors.
Just enough to save thousands.
Just enough to make it look like Zhou's fault.
Above, Wu An made his third request.
He did not speak it aloud.
He aligned with the being inside him and pushed reality toward eradication.
The target was Zhou's monks.
The result was a neighborhood.
The Presence surged—not violently, not loudly—but with decisive clarity. Space folded. Air compressed. Stone forgot how to be stone.
A residential quarter vanished in a silent bloom of erasure.
Thousands died.
Not in agony.
In absence.
Wu An felt it immediately.
"No," he said.
Shen Yue's breath caught.
Zhou's monks staggered but survived.
Wu An turned toward her slowly.
"Zhou did that," he said.
She nodded.
That nod cost her everything.
In the tower, Wu Shuang screamed.
Not in pain.
In fury.
"The lattice is wrong," she snarled. "Someone bent it."
The Lord Protector froze.
"Who?"
"Her," Wu Shuang hissed. "She touched it."
Without waiting for permission, Wu Shuang moved.
She stepped out of the tower and into Zhou's inner delegation.
There were twenty-seven men and women—diplomats, scholars, monks, generals.
They did not have time to be afraid.
Wu Shuang passed through them like a shadow dipped in water. Where she touched, people folded. Their bodies turned into sutra-text and ash. Their souls were not released.
They were cataloged.
Zhou lost its entire negotiating spine in under a minute.
The Lord Protector stared in horror.
"Wu Shuang—!"
She turned back toward him, eyes no longer entirely her own.
"They touched my work," she said calmly. "I corrected them."
Far away, Zhou's camp erupted in panic.
Far away, the Southern Kingdom accelerated its procession.
Far away, Wu Jin knelt alone in the throne room, no longer a king.
And Wu An stood amid the erased ruins of a district, blood trickling from his nose, staring at the place where children had been.
Shen Yue did not touch him.
She could not.
The world now believed Zhou had committed a massacre.
Wu An believed it too.
Only she knew the truth.
And that truth would destroy him if it ever came out.