Grand Preceptor Sima Quan stood at the edge of the high marble terrace, waving his jagged soul-reaping dagger.
His face was flushed with ugly, desperate rage. Beside him, Emperor Ji Wudao remained seated upon his dragon throne, his knuckles white against the carved armrest. Around the throne, two hundred black-armored royal executioners stood with drawn broadswords, their iron blades gleaming with cold malice in the midday sun.
Down on the freezing flagstones of Supreme Harmony Plaza, three thousand palace servants knelt in trembling rows.
There were overworked palace maids in thin, faded linen tunics and elderly kitchen eunuchs with scarred, bandaged fingers. Royal court musicians held chipped flutes beside lower-rank palace guards whose meager wages had been withheld for a full decade. Each servant carried a heavy golden platter loaded with roasted meats, exotic fruits, and chilled wine.
Their bodies shook with exhaustion in the cold autumn wind. Tears rolled silently down the cheeks of young girls who had been beaten by Chief Eunuch Wei that very morning for spilling tea. For centuries, the imperial household had treated its servants like disposable cattle. They were chained with invisible debts, branded with tracking runes, and forced to smile while the court feasted.
