Chapter 170: The First Crown Burns
The Empire Fractures
The empire had lost its crown, but its pieces did not kneel quietly. From every corner, banners rose — not for loyalty, not for vengeance, but for ambition. The throne had burned, and now every sect, noble house, and foreign king wanted to claim what was left of the ashes.
In the south, sect masters raised armies of disciples, declaring themselves "guardians of heaven’s order."In the west, noble houses fortified their estates, each carving their own petty kingdoms from the ruins.From across the sea, emissaries of foreign rulers sent gold, steel, and words — some offered allegiance, others whispered alliances, all trembling at the fire’s shadow.
The world was no longer united. It was a feast — and Hei Long was the fire devouring the table.
The Watchtower in Shadow
Inside the cracked tower, Hei Long’s women gathered closer than ever.
Qingxue sharpened her reforged sword, sparks flashing in the dim light. "They will all come for you," she said bluntly. "But before they reach you, they will face me."
Yexin smirked from her cushions, her illusions flickering across the stone. "Let them. The more rivals, the more fun. I want to see how long their crowns last before they crumble into smoke."
Yuran bowed her head, incense glowing faintly at her side. "It doesn’t matter how many come. I will bind us together until the last breath."
Hei Long stood in silence, his cloak brushing stone, the cord at his wrist swaying like a pendulum. His gaze swept the horizon, not on the empire, but beyond.
"They believe the throne was a crown," he said. "It was not. It was a chain. Now broken. And inevitability does not wear chains."
The Whisper of Fire
Messengers came to the watchtower — not soldiers, not assassins, but envoys bearing gifts.
A southern sect offered jade relics in exchange for his shadow over their disciples.
A western noble begged for protection, sending his daughters with silken letters.
A foreign emissary brought gold enough to bribe armies, kneeling until his forehead cracked against stone.
Hei Long accepted none. His women watched each envoy leave in silence, unease coiling in their hearts.
"Why refuse them?" Yexin asked at last. "Even foxes take scraps."
Hei Long’s eyes glimmered like embers. "Because fire does not beg. And inevitability does not bargain. They will come to me in ashes or in chains. Until then, I wait."
Sparks Between Them
The world fractured, but inside the tower, another storm brewed.
Qingxue polished her blade until sparks leapt. Yexin smirked sharper when Hei Long’s gaze lingered too long on the healer’s trembling devotion. Yuran’s prayers grew quieter, her heart heavier with every glance shared between the others.
Jealousy was not gone. It burned hotter than ever — not as rivalry, but as devotion sharpened into blades.
And Hei Long let it smolder, his silence binding them closer, his calm heavier than any crown.
Toward Inevitability
From the ashes of an empire, the world now looked to a broken tower.
Sect banners rose. Noble crowns gleamed. Foreign armies stirred. But whispers carried farther than soldiers: He is inevitable.
Hei Long stood at the center of it all, his cloak trailing, his women gathered at his side.
"The throne has fallen," he murmured. "Now the world waits. Then let us not wait. Let us move."
And fire spread.
The South Declares
It began in the southern provinces. A coalition of sect masters, emboldened by the throne’s fall, raised their banners and declared themselves "Guardians of Heaven’s Order." They called Hei Long a pretender, a flame that would gutter once the sects united. Their armies swelled with disciples clad in jade armor, their relics drawn from vaults sealed for centuries.
Envoys carried their decree north: "Kneel, or be extinguished."
The missives never reached the watchtower. They burned to ash mid-journey, devoured by shadows that lingered too long.
The Watchtower Decides
Hei Long gathered his women. The chamber flickered with the glow of Yuran’s incense, the scrape of Qingxue’s blade against whetstone, and the lazy flutter of Yexin’s fan.
"They crowned themselves already," Qingxue said coldly. "Then we cut the crown from their heads."
Yexin’s smirk widened. "Why march an army when a fox can topple a throne with a whisper? Send me first. By the time you arrive, they’ll already be choking on their own lies."
Yuran’s voice trembled, but her light did not. "Wherever you go, I will follow. If they bleed, I will bind you whole again. Even if it breaks me."
Hei Long stood in silence, cloak brushing the cracked floor. When he spoke, the air bent.
"They call themselves guardians. Then we will test what they guard. If it is power, I will burn it. If it is lies, I will break it. If it is nothing... they will kneel."
The March
The watchtower emptied. Hei Long walked first, his women at his side, their fire bound tighter than any army’s banners.
News of their movement spread like wildfire. Peasants whispered, sect elders trembled, and nobles locked their gates. But the southern coalition did not bend. They had declared themselves throne, and thrones do not kneel.
The plains would burn again.
And Hei Long’s inevitability marched to meet them.
The Gathering Armies
The southern coalition stretched across the plains like a tide of jade and steel. Sect disciples filled the horizon, their chants shaking the air, their relics glowing faintly with the weight of centuries. Behind them, sect masters stood proud, wrapped in robes embroidered with sacred symbols, each certain their claim to "heaven’s order" would endure.
At the center of their camp stood the throne they had forged — not jade, not gold, but a mass of relics welded together, pulsing with spirit light. A symbol, they thought, of legitimacy.
Hei Long arrived at dawn. No banners. No armies. Only his cloak, his women, and the inevitability that walked in his shadow.
The Sword Leads
Qingxue stepped forward first, her reforged blade gleaming. She leveled it at the throne of relics, her eyes cold, her pride burning.
"You call yourselves guardians. But you guard nothing."
The coalition’s vanguard surged, spears bristling, shields raised. Qingxue charged, her blade splitting their line in a single strike. Sparks screamed, steel bent, disciples crumbled before her defiance.
"I am his edge!" she shouted. "And you will break against me!"
The Fox Burns
Yexin’s laughter cut through the chaos. Her fan snapped open, and illusions poured across the battlefield. Dozens of Yexins darted between soldiers, foxfire dancing in their eyes. The sect masters cursed, their disciples stabbing at shadows, their formation unraveling with every misplaced strike.
"You wanted a throne?" Yexin mocked. "Then choke on your crown of lies."
Her illusions wrapped around the relic throne itself, twisting its light into smoke until even the masters doubted its reality.
The Healer Anchors
Amid flame and steel, Yuran knelt, her hands trembling but steady. Spirit light poured from her palms, anchoring Qingxue’s strikes, feeding Yexin’s illusions, stitching wounds before they could bleed.
"Even if the world crumbles," she whispered, her tears falling with every prayer, "I will hold us together."
Disciples staggered as her threads snared their ankles, pulling them down. Her quiet defiance crippled more than any blade.
Hei Long Moves
At last, Hei Long raised his hand. The cord at his wrist glowed, inevitability bending the battlefield.
The relic throne groaned, its light flickering. Sect masters cried out, channeling centuries of power into their creation. But Hei Long’s voice silenced them.
"You call yourselves guardians. You are carrion birds pecking at ash. Thrones do not guard. Thrones break."
His cloak flared. The relic throne split in two, shards scattering like stars across the plain.
The coalition broke. Sect disciples fled, sect masters fell to their knees, their crowns shattered.
Aftermath
The southern banners lay in ruin. No army. No throne. Only fire.
Hei Long stood among the wreckage, his cloak brushing the shattered relics, his women at his side.
"The first crown is ash," he said softly. "The next will burn."
And the empire, fractured and trembling, realized inevitability had not stopped with the throne. It had only begun.
After the Battle
The southern coalition was gone. Their throne of relics lay in shards across the plains, their disciples scattered like chaff in the wind. Hei Long stood at the center of the ruin, cloak rippling, his women at his side.
But when the battlefield stilled, the world outside their fire blurred. In the quiet that followed, the storm of war gave way to something sharper: rivalry that refused to die.
Sparks Between Swords and Fans
Qingxue sat with her reforged blade across her knees, her pride raw and sharpened. She had led the charge, cut through armies, broken the vanguard. She had been the edge of inevitability.
Yexin reclined nearby, her fan twirling lazily between her fingers, illusions flickering at the edges of the firelight. Her smirk was brittle, but her eyes burned. "All the steel in the world, and still they would have drowned you without me scattering their lines."
Qingxue’s jaw tightened. "Without your tricks, the throne still falls to a sword."
"And without my fire," Yexin answered, her laughter soft but sharp, "you would drown with it."
Yuran’s Anchor
Yuran knelt between them, her hands trembling as she laid herbs into a bowl, light glowing faintly at her fingertips. Her voice was quiet, fragile, but steady.
"Without me, neither of you would be standing. Broken swords do not cut, and foxes burn with their own fire."
Qingxue and Yexin turned toward her — one with pride, the other with a smirk — but her eyes did not waver.
"I am weak. But I remain. And that is enough."
Hei Long’s Silence
Hei Long watched them, cloak brushing the cracked stone, the cord at his wrist swaying. His silence pressed down heavier than any crown. When at last he spoke, it was not to soothe, but to bind.
"You are not sparks," he said. "Not rivals. You are fire. And fire burns brightest when bound together."
His gaze swept them — prideful sword, mocking fox, trembling healer. None spoke. None dared.
The throne was ash. The world fractured. But inside the ruin of crowns, three women and one man burned brighter than armies.
And inevitability spread.