8. Chapter 8

Zhao Yunlan has never hit his father before, despite all provocations. Now, however, they are locked in a fisticuffs battle up and down the hallway. It started as a shouting match, but then his father threw the first punch and it was on .

Every ounce of frustration Zhao Yunlan has felt for this man is boiling over, and he knows it’s the same for his father. They are too alike in crucial ways, both stubborn and arrogant; aspects he hates in himself and hates that they are what his father takes pride in. Hates that everything good about Zhao Xinci died with his wife. Hates that his own father sees him as nothing but a pawn.

He gives his old man credit: he’s a savvy, ruthless fighter, and it is a little disturbing to know exactly from where Zhao Yunlan got some of his more vicious moves.

But overall, he’s too enraged to care.

The hallway is not wide but very long, and anyone who tries to stop them has, so far, only ended up taking damage. Lord Guardian fight training is brutal and begins young, and both Zhao men have been steeped in the practice since they were children. Not a single security guard comes close to their combined lethality. He hopes that gentle peacemaker Shen Wei is still in the office, staying out of the way. Chu Shuzhi has apparently decided to not interfere, at least.

His father has the edge on experience, but Zhao Yunlan has the edge on youthful strength and stamina. He’s honestly not sure he would have held out this long if his father were 20 years younger, though, and they are both losing blood and possibly teeth.

He is mid punch and ignoring the twinge that might be a cracked rib when the lights go out. The temperature drops and a roaring like thunder rolls down the hallway. Zhao Yunlan has less than a second to register what might be happening when he and his father are hurled apart, slamming into opposite walls, the dark energy of Dixing curling like cold fire around him and then dissipating.

He’s crumbled on the ground, holding his rib cage tight and spitting blood when the lights come back on and, yes, there he is at last in all his glory: the Black Cloak Fucker, himself.

“You stay the hell out of this!” Zhao Yunlan shouts, pulling himself up off the floor.

“Your Highness, welcome back,” his father says, also spitting blood but of course doing so far more elegantly. He’s on his knees in what would be a formal prostration if not for the way one hand is against the wall, holding him steady. “We are always grateful for—”

“Be quiet, Lord Guardian Emeritus Zhao.”

His father’s mouth clacks shut, something Zhao Yunlan has never seen happen before and wishes he could enjoy more. The Black Cloak Envoy stands still, slowly looking both of them over, clearly not happy about what he’s seeing.

Zhao Yunlan had barely gotten a chance to see him the first time. Now, as he finds his feet and wipes his chin of the blood dripping down from his maybe-not-broken nose, he realizes that the Black Cloak Envoy is actually shorter than he is. Despite the intimidating regalia, he is not in any way physically imposing and it’s obvious that under his mask is a fairly average face. Zhao Yunlan is becoming less and less impressed by the second.

“You son of a bitch! Now you show up?”

“Yunlan!” His father barks.

The Envoy tips his head in what might be acquiescence. “Apparently two Lord Guardians attacking each other is considered an emergency by the Hallows, and allowed my presence.”

“Is it now? An emergency? As opposed to letting the treaty get annulled, which isn’t an emergency?” Zhao Yunlan snarls the questions as he rubs his wrists, which are stinging from the impacts they suffered.

The Envoy’s eyes follow the movement of his hands, track back up to his very bloody face. “You’re hurt.”

“Everywhere, thanks for asking. But! Not your problem, since we aren’t married or anything. And now my father and I aren’t even fighting! You can go.”

“Yunlan!” His father yells again and lurches to his feet.

The Envoy’s lips quirk, and a chill runs down Zhao Yunlan’s back. Power vibrates out from the Envoy like a dark sun, a deadly energy that is all encompassing and entirely dispassionate. The phrase “cold blooded” was invented just for this man, Zhao Yunlan thinks, his hind-brain sense of self-preservation finally kicking into gear. He takes a step backward and bows his head.

“My apologies for being so abrasive, Your Highness. We’re kinda running on high octane right now.”

“So I see.”

His father gives a short, formal bow. “Are you here to renegotiate, Your Highness?”

Straight to business, then, Zhao Yunlan thinks with a heavy sigh.

“I cannot. Unfortunately my word is law, even to me.”

“Ah, so the professor was right, then,” Zhao Yunlan says, tipping his head back, then forward again when he feels blood start to run down his throat.

The Envoy turns slowly to face Zhao Yunlan head on. “Marrying Sir Chu is so distasteful to you?” He waves a hand at the hallway and Chu Shuzhi, a move that is almost familiar.

“So you know about that, too? Does everyone but me know of these plans?”

“Looks like it,” Chu Shuzhi says from behind the Envoy, his expression as bland as ever.

“You? Shut up.” Zhao Yunlan wags a finger at him, then faces the Envoy again. “Yes. It is completely and utterly unacceptable. I will not marry him.” He glances back at Chu Shuzhi. “Nothing personal, bro.”

“No offense taken,” Chu Shuzhi says with a slight bow and what might be a smirk.

“However! I bring good tidings! According to valid translations of the treaty from ancient times, I don’t need to marry a self-righteous Dixing battle ax anyway.”

Zhao Yunlan is pretty sure that behind the mask, the Envoy’s eyebrows have gone up. But he nods.

“I can marry any Dixingren appointed as representative by the King, yes?”

The Envoy nods again.

“Then I know the Dixingren I wish to marry, we just need the King to sign him up!”

“I cannot believe you!” His father hisses at him, grabs his arm and yanks him backwards as hard as he can. “You cannot demand to marry anyone you want!”

Zhao Yunlan is so surprised by his vehemence that he is slack enough to let himself get shoved behind his father, who bows to the Envoy. “My son speaks out of turn, your highness. Please disregard—”

Zhao Yunlan shoves past his father and points at the Black Hearted Fucker. “You know I can save the treaty, so hear me out! I will marry one Dixingren and one Dixingren only, and that is none other than my dear and beloved Professor Shen Wei!”

The Envoy, unmoved, shakes his head. “I’m afraid that is not a possibility.”

“Why the hell not?” Zhao Yunlan shouts. “It’s a perfect solution!” He’s done. So very, very done with everyone telling him what he can’t have, and what he can’t do, and what he’s not worth. He’s done with the sorry lot of them — his father, the Envoy, bureaucrats, the king of Dixing, all of them. He plants his feet and stands tall and points directly at the Envoy as if he were holding a sword of his own.

“I’m sorry you can’t get your way, you unholy son of a bitch! I don’t know why you hate me but this is how it’s going to go! I’m going to marry the man I love and I’m going to be the Lord Guardian of Haixing and you can rot in hell! ”

The Envoy stares at him for a long time, and a deep, unnatural silence descends on the hallway. Then, slow as a glacier, he pulls back his hood to reveal glossy black, intricately braided tresses that fall free down to his knees, decorated with ornaments of silver and gold. He reaches up and it becomes clear to everyone there that the Black Cloak Envoy is going to remove his mask.

Such a thing has never happened in the entire history of Haixing. Never. He doesn’t have a face, and never has. In 10,000 years of peace, not once has the Black Cloak Envoy revealed himself to anyone for any reason. His entire mythos is founded on this one fact: he is unknown and unknowable, an alien power so vast that Haixing minds cannot comprehend it. If anyone has seen him without his mask, they have not lived long enough to tell the tale.

People are gasping in horror and terror, including Zhao Yunlan’s father . They are dropping to their knees, hiding their own faces in their hands, crawling backwards to get away. Chu Shuzhi has fallen to the floor in a full kowtow the likes of which Zhao Yunlan has never seen in person. But he, himself, is frozen in place, a yawning storm of suspicion and horror welling up inside him, threatening to choke the air out of his lungs.

The Envoy dips his head forward to undo the band, pulling the mask down and away. He takes a deep breath and straightens up again, his face a beautifully familiar, if blank, slate. “Hello, Ah-Lan.”

“...Shen Wei?”