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The junk had been sailing for three hours. The coastline was a thin green line on the eastern horizon. The twelve army boats had turned back an hour ago, their oars rising and falling as they rowed toward the harbor.
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Emperor Hongxi stood on the southern dock, still watching. Behind him, twelve hundred soldiers stood in disciplined silence. Before him, the sea stretched empty and blue.
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Tao Zhongwen stepped to his side. "Your Majesty. They are far enough."
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The emperor did not turn. "Are you certain?"
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"The fleet has withdrawn. No other ships are within sight. If we do it now, no one will see."
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The emperor nodded slowly. "Do it."
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Tao Zhongwen raised his staff.
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He held it with both hands, pointing the tip toward the sky. His eyes closed. His lips moved in a whisper – old words, older than the dynasty, older than the Forbidden City itself.
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The staff began to glow.
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Not green, as before. Not red.
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Purple.
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A deep, royal purple, the color of bruises and twilight. The light pulsed once, twice, three times. Then it steadied, burning like a tiny sun.
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"The soul‑seeking flame," General Li Wei murmured. "I thought that was a legend."
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"It is no legend," Tao said without opening his eyes. "In the golden age of magic, before the emperors banned the old arts, this flame was used to kill kings. It seeks the strongest soul in the vicinity. It will find Master Liang Wei, no matter how far he sails. And it will guide our arrows to his heart."
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The emperor smiled. "Then let us begin."
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Tao Zhongwen lowered his staff. The purple flame now burned steadily at its tip, casting strange shadows across the dock.
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General Li Wei turned to the archers.
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Fifty of them – the best in the imperial army. They had trained for years to hit moving targets from horseback, from ship decks, from the walls of besieged cities. Now they knelt in three rows, their bows already strung, their arrows already nocked.
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But not ordinary arrows. Each arrowhead had been dipped in pitch and wrapped in oiled cloth. And each arrow had been blessed – or cursed – by Tao Zhongwen himself.
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"The flame," Tao said. "Touch your arrows to the flame."
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One by one, the archers rose, stepped forward, and touched their arrowheads to the purple fire. The flames did not spread. They transferred – each arrowhead now burned with its own small purple light, hungry and eager.
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General Li Wei drew his own bow. His arrow was the first to be lit.
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He aimed at the horizon. The junk was still visible – a small dark speck, growing smaller.
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"On my command," the emperor said. "Three volleys. No more. The flame will do the rest."
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General Li Wei nodded. He raised his hand.
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"Loose."
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Fifty arrows flew.
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They rose in a graceful arc, their purple flames trailing like angry comets. Higher and higher they climbed, until they were mere pinpricks of light against the blue sky. Then they curved downward, aimed not at the junk's hull – but at its soul.
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The first volley flew.
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The archers notched new arrows, touched them to the purple flame, and drew.
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"Loose."
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Fifty more arrows. The second volley joined the first, spread out like a net of falling stars.
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"Loose."
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The third volley. One hundred and fifty arrows now streaked across the sky, all burning purple, all seeking the same target.
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The emperor watched, his heart pounding with excitement. "Even if he blocks them," he murmured, "he cannot block them all. And the fire will spread. The junk will burn. The crew will drown. And if he tries to save them, he will neglect himself."
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Tao Zhongwen nodded. "Foolproof."
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Behind them, the twelve army boats had formed a line across the harbor mouth. Their archers stood ready. If any survivors swam to shore, they would be met with a rain of steel.
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"Now," the emperor whispered, "we wait."
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***
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Aboard the junk, Liang Wei stood at the stern, watching the coastline disappear.
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He did not trust the emperor. He had never trusted the emperor. But he had no choice. Exile was exile, whether disguised as pilgrimage or not.
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He walked to the front of the ship, where the navigator – a grizzled old sailor named Master Chen – was studying a worn parchment map.
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"Master Liang Wei," Chen said without looking up. "We have a problem."
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"What kind of problem?"
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Chen spread the map across a wooden crate. "This route. It is outdated."
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Liang Wei bent over the map. His eyes traced the coastline of China, then the long curve of Southeast Asia, then the subcontinent of India.
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"The emperor's court gave us a route of three weeks," Chen continued. "They said we could sail past India through a narrow ocean strip that cuts through Asia into the Middle East." He tapped the map. "That strip does not exist, Master. I have sailed these waters for forty years. There is no passage. If we try to go through India, we will be met by warships. The empire and the Indian kingdoms are at loggerheads. They will see us as spies. We will be sunk before we can explain."
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Liang Wei straightened. "How long will the true route take?"
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Chen rubbed his beard. "Two months. Perhaps more, if the winds are bad."
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"Two months?" Liang Wei looked toward the cargo hold. "Do we have enough rations?"
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"The water we can stretch for a year. But food –" Chen shook his head. "The emperor gave us three weeks of dried rice and salted meat. Two months is impossible."
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Liang Wei was silent for a moment. Then he turned to General Feng Jian, who stood nearby. "General, what supplies did you bring?"
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Feng Jian stepped forward. "I brought my own rations for a month. But that is only for myself."
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"And my servants and guards brought their own stores," Liang Wei said. "Together, we might have enough for six weeks. Perhaps seven."
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"Still short," Chen said.
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Liang Wei thought. "We can fish. At night, when the ship is becalmed, we can lower nets. Dried fish can stretch our protein. Rice and millet will keep longer. We ration carefully – half portions for the first month, then increase if we find land."
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Chen nodded slowly. "It is possible. But the men will be hungry. Hungry men grow angry."
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"Then we keep them busy." Liang Wei turned to the crew. "From tomorrow, every man who is not sailing will train. Martial arts in the morning. Weapons drills in the afternoon. A tired man does not have time to be angry."
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General Feng Jian smiled. "You think of everything, Master."
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"I try."
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They were interrupted by a scream.
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It came from the rear of the ship – a woman's voice, high and terrified. One of Liang Wei's servants, a young woman in her twenties, was pointing at the sky.
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"The sky!" she shrieked. "Look at the sky!"
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Everyone looked.
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Purple lights were falling from the clouds.
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Dozens of them. No – hundreds. Small, burning, streaking toward the ship like angry stars.
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Liang Wei's eyes widened. He had seen many things in his long life, but never this.
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"Purple fire," General Feng Jian breathed. "Soul‑seeking flame. I have heard of this. It was used in the old wars to kill kings."
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Liang Wei did not wait. He grabbed the general's shoulder. "Everyone – inside the hold. Now."
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"But Master—"
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"Now!"
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The servants scrambled for the hatch. The guards pushed the crew toward the stairs. The navigator stumbled, fell, and was hauled to his feet by two soldiers.
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The first volley of arrows was still a hundred yards above them. They moved slowly in the air, almost lazy – but each one burned with that terrible purple light.
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Liang Wei stood alone on the deck, looking up.
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He had seconds to decide.
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Protect the ship? Protect the crew? Or protect himself?
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The arrows began to fall.
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☆.𓋼𓍊𓆏𓍊𓋼𓍊.☆
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This week is quite busy for me at work, I will however publish as many chapters as possible, you can subscribe to my patreon(link in bio) if you like the story and really wanna support me,Thank You for reading this far
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