Only three weeks earlier, the royal throne rooms of the Central Mortal Plains had been filled with the clamor of war drums and ruthless realpolitik.
In the Great Qian Empire’s Dragon Throne Pavilion, Grand Marshal Zhao had unrolled maps detailing military strike plans against the neighboring Golden Sun Dynasty. Their plan was simple and savage. March four hundred thousand conscripted mortal soldiers across the border, seize the high mountain pool dams, and poison the leftover downstream tributaries to force the Golden Sun court into total surrender.
“Water is power!” the Grand Marshal had proclaimed, slamming his jeweled fist against the jade table. “In a drought, the emperor who holds the last well holds the mandate of Heaven! If five million peasants starve in the process, it’s a necessary price for royal greatness!”
Now, standing atop the grand palace watchtower of the Great Qian Capital, Emperor Zhao Shen gazed westward with a face drained of color.
The Grand Marshal’s war maps lay abandoned on the marble floor, trampled underfoot.
Below the palace walls, the grand canal that ran through the heart of the capital was brimming with sparkling, crystal-clear water. Dragon-prowed grain barges, which had sat stranded in the mud for two years, were sailing past the royal gates loaded with mountains of purple-veined sweet potatoes and crisp winter melons.
