Mu Yinzhu went rigid. Her own name. Below his. The ink on the scroll, once a mere tool for a warrant, now pulsed with a malignant prophecy. She stared at the faint, spectral characters, then up at Yan Zui, her face a mask of disbelief. “This… this is a fabrication,” she finally managed, her voice a rough whisper. “The Emperor upholds justice. He would never…” Yan Zui tilted his head, a faint, amused smile playing on his lips, oblivious to the tremor in her words. “Would he not? Justice, Commander Mu, is often a matter of perspective. And in the Obsidian Vein, it’s often written in blood, not ink. Especially when inconvenient scholars like myself, and apparently inconveniently perceptive Imperial Guards like yourself, uncover inconvenient truths.” He gestured to her bound wrists, the ink ribbon still holding fast. “My apologies for the current aesthetic, but it serves to illustrate a point.” Her eyes narrowed, flicking between the scroll and the carefree scholar. Her world, built on rigid tenets of loyalty and law, was cracking. “What truth is that?” “That the Obsidian Vein is not merely martial; it is *hungry*,” Yan Zui replied, his voice losing a sliver of its usual lightheartedness. “The leyline corruption I mentioned? It’s not just affecting the Imperial Capital. The Emperor is draining it, pulling the very life force from the land and its people, to fuel his own, ah, ‘enlightenment.’ Your warrants, Commander, are simply the most efficient method of identifying those with enough inner vitality to be worth harvesting.” He tapped the scroll again. “You and I, it seems, have excellent chi signatures.” Yinzhu gripped her sword belt. She looked at the black lines creeping up Yan Zui’s neck, then down at the brushstrokes spelling her name. “If this list is real, what comes next?” Yan Zui clapped his hands together, the sound light in the oppressive gloom of the Undercity. “Why, we survive, of course! And to do that, we need to mend this.” He gestured vaguely at the ceiling, where the shattered bridge above would have once stood. “A temporary array, at least. We’ll need materials. The Ink-Slums have everything, if one knows where to look. And who to bribe.” He unbound her wrists with another playful flick of ink, then rose, offering her a hand. Yinzhu hesitated, then took it, surprised by the warmth of his grip. His cheerfulness, she realized, was a shield, almost as impenetrable as her own armor. They moved deeper into the labyrinthine alleys of the Ink-Slums, the air thick with the scent of stagnant water, fermented spirits, and desperation. Makeshift stalls, fashioned from rusted metal and salvaged timbers, lined every passage. Whispers of illicit trade, flickering lanterns illuminating shadowed faces, the clink of illicit coin – it was a world far removed from the pristine courtyards of the Imperial Palace. Yan Zui, however, navigated it with the ease of a local, his bright robes a startling contrast to the grime. He haggled with a gnarled merchant over shards of crystallized leyline residue, his complaints about the poor craftsmanship echoing through the narrow lane. Yinzhu, meanwhile, kept a hand on the hilt of her sword, her eyes scanning for Imperial patrols. Every face was a potential threat, every shadow a hiding place for dangers unknown. Beneath her boots, the flagstones vibrated with a low, bone-deep hum. A collective gasp rippled through the market. The flickering lanterns seemed to dim as if swallowed by an immense shadow. Yinzhu looked up, her gaze piercing the gloom, and saw it. Through a split in the vaulted ceiling, a towering phantasm condensed. Teng Qionglin's face took shape in blinding white qi, dozens of yards across, his features hardened into regal disdain. The downward draft of compressed air pushed against the alleys, buckling the nearest timber stalls. A section of a nearby dwelling, home to a family Yinzhu had just seen, groaned, then collapsed with a sickening crunch. Dust and debris rained down, mingling with the screams of the unfortunate residents. “A purge,” a frightened voice whispered from the crowd. “He’s flushing us out.” Yinzhu braced her stance against the falling shale. This was her Emperor. The one she had sworn to protect, to serve. He was using his immense power to crush the innocent, simply to root out a few rebels. Her hand tightened on her sword, but the gesture felt futile, childish. Yan Zui, however, merely sighed. “Oh, dear. The composition is simply atrocious. No sense of scale, no respect for the viewer’s eye. And the sheer audacity to present such an unrefined manifestation. It insults the basic craft of atmospheric illusion.” He rummaged in his sleeve, pulling out a brush. It was frayed, its bristles worn thin, but he held it with the reverence of a grandmaster. Yinzhu stared at him. “What are you doing? We need to run!” “Run? And leave such an abomination of an image uncorrected?” Yan Zui scoffed, then coughed, a soft, wet sound. A thin trickle of black ink escaped the corner of his mouth, but he quickly wiped it away, his smile unwavering. He took a steadying breath, his gaze fixed on the Emperor’s colossal face. He dipped the frayed bristles into a small vial from his sash—pigment so dense it devoured the lamplight. Then, with a casual grace that defied the imminent destruction, he began to paint. He didn't move towards the projection, but rather, he painted *in the air* before him. Strokes of dark, vibrant ink appeared, floating, swirling, coalescing. The onlookers, a mix of terrified citizens and hardened rogue cultivators, watched in stunned silence. They carried notched sabers and broken iron blades, versed only in raw steel and violent thrusts. They understood the martial arts. They understood the power of the Emperor. But this… this was madness. Yan Zui made a single, elegant arc. Then another, a flourish that seemed insignificant against the backdrop of the towering Emperor. Yet, as his brush danced, a faint, almost imperceptible *ripple* spread across the Emperor’s holographic face. The arrogant scowl on the colossal image seemed to falter. The emperor's phantom was not a solid blade of force, but a woven net of circulating ley-currents. And Yan Zui, with those seemingly innocuous strokes, was subtly altering its structure. With a final, confident flick of his wrist, Yan Zui completed his work. And there it was. Sprouting from beneath the Emperor’s magnificent, stern nose, was a comical, twirly, utterly ridiculous black mustache. It was perfectly rendered, a masterpiece of absurd detail, sitting starkly on the tyrannical visage. The silent awe in the crowd broke into a ripple of bewildered gasps, then, inexplicably, a few nervous chuckles. The radiant phantom did not hold. As the ink set, the entire illusion shuddered. The carefully balanced chi flow, disrupted by this single, aesthetically offensive addition, began to unravel. The Emperor’s face contorted, not in anger, but as if struck by an unseen force. Fractures split across the towering visage, screaming with the whine of overtaxed qi conduits. A concussive pop tore the air as the likeness blew apart into drifting motes of white ash, leaving the alley coated in silence. Yan Zui swayed, his cheerful smile still fixed, but his eyes were glazed. The brush slipped from his fingers onto the cobbles. He coughed again, this time a violent, rattling expulsion. A gush of thick, viscous black ink poured from his mouth, staining his bright robes, forming a glistening pool at his feet. His knees buckled, and he collapsed, unconscious, into the foul-smelling grime. Yinzhu rushed to him, her rigid composure forgotten. The Ink-Rot. It had taken a terrible toll. But before she could even reach him, the heavy, rusted doors to the main access tunnel of the Ink-Slums exploded inward with a thunderous roar. Plumes of acrid dust billowed, revealing a phalanx of figures clad in crimson and black armor, their swords glinting in the gloom. The Emperor’s elite Blood-Iron Vanguard. And at their head, his face a mask of cold fury, was General Reng Shi, Yinzhu’s former mentor. He stepped over the threshold, his gaze sweeping the chaotic scene, before settling on Yinzhu, then on the unconscious, ink-stained scholar at her feet.

A Mustache on a Tyrant