Heavy Casualties

Ao Yue opened her mouth, as if to speak, but only three words came out: “Your subject understands.”

She looked down at the infant in her arms. A pair of rice-grain-sized dragon horns had just sprouted from the baby’s forehead, pink and tender like freshly shelled shrimp.

In his sleep, the infant sucked on his own fingers, a trace of milk stain at the corner of his mouth.

Ao Yue gently wiped away the milk stain with her fingertip. A single golden tear fell, landing on the baby’s cheek, and slid along the corner of his mouth into the swaddling cloth.

Wang Hao returned to Zhennan Pass at dusk.

He did not ride the dragon palanquin; he flew straight over from Nan’an City.

When he arrived, he had been followed by thirty elders of the Void-Treading Realm, but now not one remained behind him—all thirty had stayed in Nan’an City to assist with the city’s defense. When he appeared alone on the walls of Zhennan Pass, the garrison soldiers nearly mistook him for an enemy attack.

His black dragon robe fluttered in the wind, the five-clawed golden dragon embroidered on its hem scorched with several burn marks from the erosion of sinister power.

His face was three shades paler than usual, his lips faintly blue, but his stride remained steady. The Emperor’s Sword at his waist trembled slightly in its scabbard—he had flown too fast along the way, and the sword-spirit inside had gotten airsick.

“Your Majesty.” Wei Zhongxian appeared at his side, clutching a stack of documents, the wrinkles on his plump face deeper than usual. “Casualty reports from Zhennan Pass, the navy’s loss inventory, the dragon-clan resettlement proposal, the Ministry of Works’ rune stock report, and the Ministry of Revenue’s spirit-stone expenditure accounts—all here.”

Wang Hao took the documents but did not look at them. Instead, he asked first: “Where is He Lanyue?”

“On the watchtower. His left arm is badly wounded, but he refuses to rest.”

“And Han Shanyue?”

“At the harbor. He lost a leg and had an iron brace fitted, but he also refuses to rest.”

Wang Hao fell silent for a single breath. Then he stuffed the documents back into Wei Zhongxian’s hands and strode toward the watchtower.

On the watchtower, He Lanyue was using his remaining hand to mark defensive positions for each garrison on a map. Hearing footsteps, he turned his head, then hurriedly rose and knelt on one knee.

“Your servant—”

“Rise.” Wang Hao pressed down on his shoulder, glanced once at the left arm hanging in a sling around his neck, and once at the dark shadows under his eyes. “How long since you last slept?”

“Three days.”

“Go sleep.”

“Your Majesty—”

“I said, go sleep.” Wang Hao’s voice was not loud, but the tone carried an authority that allowed no argument. “This is an imperial decree.”

He Lanyue opened his mouth, but in the end he lowered his head. “Your servant obeys the decree.”

He rose to leave, but Wang Hao called him back. From his sleeve, Wang Hao produced a jade bottle and pressed it into his hand. The bottle was warm to the touch, with the words “Bone-Knitting Pill” carved into its surface.

“Take it. You fought the barbarians in the Northern Frontier for decades without losing an arm, but you lose one at my Zhennan Pass? If word of this gets out, I’ll lose face.”

He Lanyue’s fingers trembled slightly as he gripped the jade bottle. He opened his mouth, tried to say something, but in the end nothing came out. He only nodded firmly, then turned and strode away.

Wang Hao went to the harbor as well, personally dragging Han Shanyue down from the patrol vessel.

Even as he was shoved into a chair, the old general was still grumbling, “Your Majesty, this is unreasonable! Your old servant can still fight!”—only to be choked into silence by Wang Hao’s retort: “With your leg broken, what will you fight with? That mouth of yours?” Han Shanyue rolled his eyes, and finally limped off to his tent to rest.

After completing all of this, Wang Hao finally returned to his temporary lodgings at Zhennanguan Pass—a two-story building converted from a watchtower on the city wall, its stone base still scarred with cracks from the shockwave of some bizarre impact.

He didn't light any lamps. He sat alone in the darkness for a very long time.

Outside the window, sea winds carried the stench of blood from the South China Sea inland, and from afar came the intermittent groans of the wounded soldiers' camp and the sound of oars dipping into water as recovery crews rowed out to search for the dead.

After a long while, he took the Lamp of Ten Thousand Hearts from his sleeve.

The verdigris on the bronze lamp stand had been stained to a dark gold by his dried blood, and the wick still flickered with a faint golden flame. He could feel the presence of five million three hundred thousand faint breaths, like five million three hundred thousand threads binding his soul inextricably to that city. This connection had accelerated the recovery of his national-essence power by at least threefold and made his gathered prayers of the people more tangible than ever.

But it also made him feel, for the first time, deeply and acutely—what it truly meant to bear the responsibility of an emperor.

"Old Wei."

"Your servant is here." Wei Zhongxian's figure materialized soundlessly in the corner of the room.

"Read me the casualty report."

Wei Zhongxian opened the ledger and, relying on the eunuch's particular gift for memorization, recited from the darkness:

"Confirmed battle deaths: six thousand four hundred and thirty-one. Missing: eight thousand nine hundred and twenty. Seriously wounded: four thousand three hundred. Light wounds beyond count. The navy lost two hundred and thirty-seven warships. Forty-two generals at the Transcendent Realm fell. Thirty-three thousand elderly and young of the South Sea Dragon Clan were devoured by the aberrations."

Wang Hao listened, and was silent for a long time. Outside, the sea wind wailed, rattling the wooden shutters of the watchtower. Then he took the ledger from Wei Zhongxian's hands and flipped personally to the page listing the fallen.

The names were written densely, each followed by native place, age, and unit assignment. He saw "Zhang Erlang, from Dengzhou Prefecture, Northern Frontier Province, age nineteen," saw "Li Laosan, from Zhennanguan Pass, Southern Frontier Province, age thirty-seven," and saw so many, many more names.

Some of the names were familiar—faces he had encountered during inspections of the troops. More were strangers, but every single name made his fingertips tighten just a little more against the paper.

"Transmit my edicts." He rose to his feet, walked to the window, and pushed open the wooden shutters.

The sea wind rushed in, rustling the papers on the table.

"First edict—compensation for all fallen soldiers: increase the original standard by fifty percent. The missing will be treated as fallen. The seriously wounded receive double compensation. I don't care what the Ministry of Revenue says about lack of funds—if there's no money, use my own privy purse."

"Second edict—every soldier who took part in this battle at Zhennanguan Pass and Nan'an City, regardless of rank, is to be recorded with merit once and rewarded with a thousand spirit stones."

"Third edict—for the three hundred thirty thousand dead of the South Sea Dragon Clan, erect a monument at Zhennanguan Pass, and I myself shall write the inscription."

He paused, and his voice suddenly dropped low:

"Fourth edict—send word to every prefecture and county in the Southern Frontier Province: find the families of the fallen soldiers. Those with children: the state will support them to adulthood. Those with elderly parents: the state will pay monthly upkeep. Those with widows: if they wish to remain chaste, the state issues pensions; if they wish to remarry, the state will prepare their dowries—I'll say this plainly: any official who dares to tamper with this matter, I will personally cut off his head."

"The fifth decree—tomorrow at the hour of Chen, atop the town walls of Zhennan Pass, we hold a memorial for all the fallen soldiers. Every single person—generals, soldiers, the wounded, laborers, the Dragonfolk—anyone who can stand, by my order, is to climb up onto those battlements. Those who cannot stand are to be carried up, even if it takes six men to lift them."

Wei Zhongxian's brush paused for a moment, then continued writing.

He had served Wang Hao for three years, and rarely had he heard his imperial master speak in such a tone. Not that playful, scolding tone that hid cunning beneath the laughter. Not that reckless arrogance of one who knew the tiger was on the mountain yet still walked straight toward it. No—this was a heavy tone, one weighted with a gravity that could almost be touched.

"Your servant obeys the decree." Wei Zhongxian bowed and withdrew from the room.

Wang Hao stood alone before the window, gazing out at the lantern lights of Zhennan Pass.

The lights were sparse, for most of the spirit-stone reserves had been spent on the city's great protective formation, leaving only the most spirit-efficient oil lamps for the town. Scattered and few, the flames swayed in the night wind, casting the entire pass in a fitful dance of dim and flickering glow.