Back in the frigid, windswept ravine in Sichuan, the psychological battle was over. Meng Tian had used the terrain and his own terrifying presence to shatter the discipline of the Silent Orchid assassins. Their coordinated attack had devolved into a panicked, disorganized scramble. They were trained for silent, stealthy killing, not for facing an unseen enemy who could command the very wind and rocks to do his bidding. Now, it was time for the physical confrontation. It was time for the harvest.
As the last of his phantom whispers died away, Meng Tian descended. He did not drop from the cliffs with a dramatic flourish. He simply emerged from the deepest shadows of the bamboo grove, a solid, menacing figure appearing where there was only emptiness a moment before.
The eight handlers, their nerves already frayed to the snapping point, reacted with a desperate, feral aggression. They charged him, a flurry of swords and daggers flashing in the dim light.
What followed was not a battle. It was a brutal, one-sided symphony of violence. Meng Tian moved among them like a reaper through a field of wheat. He was a blur of motion, his superhuman speed and strength a terrifying sight. He had been ordered to take them alive for interrogation, and his methods were precise and devastatingly effective.
He sidestepped a sword thrust from one assassin and, in the same motion, shattered the man's elbow with a sharp blow from his fist. He caught the wrist of a female agent who lunged at him with a dagger, and with a simple, effortless twist, dislocated her shoulder with an audible pop. Another came at him from behind, and without turning, Meng Tian delivered a powerful backward kick that broke the man's leg with a sickening crack.
The assassins, the pride of their school, were utterly outmatched. Their high-level martial arts were useless against a being whose physical abilities defied all logic. They were trying to fight a landslide with daggers. The fight was over in less than a minute. Eight elite, deadly agents were left groaning and broken on the ground, their weapons scattered, their bodies and their professional pride completely shattered. They were alive, but they were no longer a threat.
The leader of the handlers, the tall, scarred man, was the last one standing. He stared at Meng Tian, his face a mask of disbelief and horror, the bodies of his comrades littered around him. He let out a final, desperate war cry and charged, his sword held high.
Meng Tian met his charge. He didn't even bother to block the sword. He simply stepped inside the man's guard and struck him once in the chest with his open palm. The blow, while appearing soft, carried an immense concussive force. The leader's eyes rolled back in his head, the air driven from his lungs, and he collapsed into a boneless heap, unconscious but alive. The resistance was crushed.
The children, who had been huddled together, watching the swift, brutal violence with wide, terrified eyes, fell silent. The scary men who had been leading them were all gone, defeated by this single, even scarier man.
Meng Tian's entire demeanor now changed. The cold, lethal fury drained away, replaced by a gentle calm. He turned to face the small, huddled group of children. He slowly knelt down, making himself smaller, less intimidating. He held out his empty hands to show he meant them no harm.
"It is over," he said, his deep voice surprisingly soft. "You are safe. No one will hurt you now."
A small boy, braver than the rest, took a hesitant step forward. "Who… who are you?" he asked.
"I am a soldier," Meng Tian replied simply. "And I am here to take you home. Not to a school in the mountains. To a real home."
At that moment, a group of figures emerged from the forest at the edge of the ravine. They were men dressed in the simple saffron robes of Buddhist monks. Their faces were kind and peaceful. They were the party from the Yunnan monastery, arranged by Prince Gong's network, who had been waiting nearby. They came forward with blankets and small packages of food.
The liberation was complete. Meng Tian had succeeded in every aspect of his mission. He had trapped the enemy, neutralized them, and secured the objective.
The final scene cuts sharply from the cold mountains of Sichuan back to the warm, candlelit study of the Emperor in Beijing. Ying Zheng sat at his desk, two documents laid out before him. The first was the freshly deciphered report from Meng Tian, which had just arrived via a series of military couriers. It was a terse, factual account of the successful ambush and the liberation of the children. A cold, satisfied smile touched Ying Zheng's lips. His general had not failed him.
The second document was the newest edition of the Palace Gazette, delivered just an hour earlier. Shen Ke's work was proving to be just as effective as Meng Tian's. The front page was not filled with the usual dry announcements of court appointments or paeans to the regency's wisdom. Instead, it contained a long, detailed, and utterly scandalous account of the trial and conviction of Provincial Treasurer Ma of Henan. It listed his crimes in excruciating detail: the bribes, the embezzled funds, the lavish estate built with stolen money. It was a masterpiece of political character assassination, designed to be read by every official in every province.
But the article did not end there. After detailing the disgraced treasurer's crimes, it concluded with an announcement that was, in its own way, as revolutionary as the three great reforms.
The article was titled: "The Emperor's Mercy."
It declared that, by a special edict from the new regency, every single tael of silver seized from the corrupt Treasurer Ma would not be sent back to the capital's treasury. Instead, the entire fortune would be immediately redirected to Henan province to establish a special "Imperial Famine Relief and Infrastructure Fund." The fund would be administered not by the disgraced provincial government, but directly by the famously honest Imperial Censor Chen, who had overseen the trial. The money stolen from the people of Henan would be returned to them, to be used to build dikes, distribute grain, and repair roads.
Ying Zheng set the paper down. This was the final, crucial part of his strategy. He had not only ruthlessly crushed his political opposition, but he had immediately used the spoils of that victory to benefit the common people, wrapping his iron-fisted legalism in a velvet glove of benevolent populism. He was demonstrating to the entire empire that the new order was not just about centralizing power, but about delivering justice and prosperity. It was a masterful act of public relations, a powerful message that would win him the support of the populace and leave his conservative enemies looking like nothing more than selfish, greedy aristocrats. He was learning to rule not just as a tyrant, but as a savvy, modern sovereign, a monarch who understood that the true foundation of a throne was the will of the people.