The arrow came from the left.
No one saw it coming.
It slipped through the noise and chaos like a phantom. A single, silent shot, moving too fast to track.
Zhao Yan didn't even realize it was headed for him—until it was already too late.
He was still staring down at Pei Rong's fallen body. The weight of the empire felt like it was finally lifting from his shoulders. And then—
A soundless impact.
His body jerked.
His breath hitched, the air caught in his throat like a stone.
He looked down.
There, jutting out from his chest, was the black-fletched shaft of an arrow. Its iron tip buried deep, right over his heart. The white of his robes soaked instantly in red, the color spreading too quickly to be anything but bad.
For a second, everything else disappeared.
No sounds. No swords. No war cries. No crumbling chaos.
Just the hollow thump of his own heartbeat slipping away.
And pain. Slow. Sharp. Sinking.
His knees gave first. The world tilted. His vision wavered.
