“Today’s Debate: The Regicide Against District Borek Ata Was Justified.

  Featuring Debaters: Tzishan Tan & Ledan Mao.”

  Centurion Baoyan stepped through the wide double doors of the Forum, a grand hall on the 20th floor reserved for live debates. This space, sacred to the Kingmakers, was dedicated to the free exchange of ideas, no matter how controversial. Every menses-cycle, the Forum hosted a new topic for discussion, and within its walls, even the most divisive arguments were welcomed in the name of intellectual exploration.

  But today’s debate had stirred more excitement than usual. The topic touched on the catalyst of the District Rebellions, a catastrophic event that still divided Kowloon: The Royal Regicide of Borek Ata. Anticipation buzzed not only because of the topic but also because of the debaters.

  Legate Tzishan Tan, a staunch Kingmaker traditionalist, was known for his eloquence and unyielding support of Emperor Guangxu’s wartime decisions. A seasoned debater, his rhetorical prowess made him a formidable advocate for the Dynasty’s actions.

  On the opposing side was Tribune Ledan Mao, the highest-ranking Southerner in the tower and a rising star in the Forum. Fiercely patriotic to his Southern district of Feri Poyn, Mao was an outspoken critic of the Yaozhi Dynasty. His sharp, articulative, and unrelenting rebuttals often left his opponents floundering, earning him a reputation as a potential debate champion within the tower. However, today he faced his greatest challenge yet in Legate Tan, a rival whose argumentative skills could match his own.

  The circular dais dominated the massive room, a fixed centrepiece of polished stone surrounded by ascending tiers of seating. At its centre, two smaller platforms floated gracefully on superconductor pads, each holding a sleek podium where the debaters stood, illuminated by the soft glow of jade-shaded columns of the Tuscan order that encircled the stage’s edge. These pillars were etched with glowing Yue glyphs, spelling out the universal values of debate: Cognitive Harmony, Intellectual Integrity, Critical Thought, and more.

  The seats were arranged in concentric rings around the dais, rising in ascending tiers that ensured clear sight lines from every angle. Screens mounted on the walls provided close-up views of the debaters, ensuring even those in the farthest rows wouldn’t miss a moment. Near the top row, Baoyan observed the commotion with a mix of intrigue and unease.

  The Forum was chaotic; Kingmakers from their seats shouted at the centre stage below, hurling rebuttals against Mao’s recent claim. The 150-seat arena had filled to capacity long before the debate began, and now it felt as if the tension might spill over the edges of the carefully designed space. Baoyan noticed that public opinion was disproportionately skewed towards Tan, as expected. Mao, one of only eleven Southern Kingmakers, held the minority opinion, and his arguments were met with hostility from nearly every corner of the room.

  Above, the ceiling’s black dome sparkled with shimmering dots – Teras, Dong had called them, lanterns of God’s domain visible on the surface during certain times of day. The contrast between the serene overhead display and the chaos below was striking. Even with acoustics meticulously engineered to amplify the debaters’ voices, the crowd’s intensity tested the limits of the space.

  ‘Order, order, order!’ shouted the Praetor of the debate, struggling to mediate this tense argument.

  Baoyan made a mental note of the arguments made so far:

  Tan’s opening hit hard, laying out the legal justification for Emperor Guangxu’s regicide of the Warlord of Borek Ata. Lady Shangguan, he argued, had blatantly violated the Southern Truce Treatise. By aggressively reorganising her gangster militia, expanding ground forces, stockpiling incendiary weapons, and even stationing troops beyond her district’s borders, she signalled clear intentions of war – exactly the kind of unchecked aggression the treaty was designed to prevent.

  Mao’s rebuttal, however, went straight for the roots of Tan’s argument. He painted the Southern Truce Treatise as less about peace and more about control; a tool of subjugation. Written by Emperor Yongel seven centuries ago, it imposed a rigid zero-sum system on Southern districts. It set a strict, fixed limit on the total number of personnel all Southern districts could collectively maintain. Each district was allocated a percentage of that total, forcing smaller districts like Borek Ata to rely on their larger neighbours for protection. Lady Shangguan’s actions arose during a surge in raids and pillaging by barbarian forces from the Huang Wildlands.

  Legate Tan’s response came swiftly, his voice steady and composed. He dismissed the claim about the increased raids, pointing out that the evidence had already been brought before Emperor Guangxu’s court—and rejected. To Tan, the real truth was clear: the South was gearing up for war, starting by undermining the Southern Truce Treatise. When the Emperor had demanded the Warlord of Ho Man Ting appeal to mediate with Lady Shangguan, he was ignored entirely.

  And then came Mao’s most recent response, the one that had every Kingmaker shaking their fists while the Praetor struggled for order: ‘Let’s get real for a moment. The treaty Lady Shangguan broke? That was written seven-hundred cycles ago, back when the South was nothing but warring clans, and conquest was celebrated as part of our culture. It’s purpose was to make us docile, and after the treaty was signed, it disarmed much of the South, ended infighting, and ushered in a long era of southern unity. Then seven-hundred annui-cycles happened. Our culture shifted. We moved away from constant warfare and expansion.

  ‘So tell me this: if the treaty achieved its goals and our mindset has evolved, why did Emperor Guangxu assume that breaking its terms today must mean we hold the same war-hungry intentions as our ancestors from seven centuries ago?’ Mao was leaned up close to the microphone on the podium, his fist clutching its neck.

  A Kingmaker from the middle-tier seats shot to his feet, his voice slicing through the air: ‘Don’t act like you dangdexue have changed!’ The room erupted in chaos the moment those words landed.

  Baoyan’s fist tightened at the sound of the slur for Southerners. Dangdexue. His pulse quickened. How many times have I been called a dongfa’shu from right in front of me? It never stings any less, even when it’s a different insult hurled at someone else.

  But the moment to reflect vanished as ten tall and hulking Southern Kingmakers on the opposite end of the stands sprang to their feet. Their voices roared in unison, drowning out the room as they hurled profanities at the instigator with pointed fingers.

  The crowd retaliated almost instantly. Shouts and jeers erupted from all corners, colliding in a deafening cacophony. The audience fractured into factions, voices overlapping in a frenzied crescendo of anger, frustration, and indignation.

  ‘I’ll have order at once!’ shouted the Praetor once more.

  ‘You give your Southern brethren far too much credit, Tribune Mao,’ Tan declared, his booming voice cutting through the uproar like a blade. The audience fell silent, every eye fixed on him. They all knew what was coming – words that would resonate with the majority in the room.

  ‘While the rest of Kowloon honours its leaders as Lords, your people cling to the title of Warlord. While we celebrate civilised sports – zuche, banball, hugo – the South’s idea of entertainment remains drenched in blood. Boxing, wrestling, hunting, you name it. Look at the size of each of you, it’s in your DNA to excel at these things! You claim your war-loving nature has changed, but where’s the evidence? Unity within the South doesn’t prove passivity. If anything, it suggests you’re ready to turn your inward violence outward. That’s the logical conclusion Emperor Guangxu came to.’

  The screens displayed a close-up of Mao at the podium, his face unreadable as he calmly scribbled notes onto his pad. Baoyan’s gaze lingered on him, but Tan wasn’t done.

  ‘Do we really need more proof of the South’s unchanged brutality?’ Tan’s voice took on a sharper edge. ‘The Yau Bombings were orchestrated by Yangs from the South, weren’t they?’ he asked rhetorically.

  Mao shrugged, remaining composed. ‘Do you think Southerners are naturally violent people then?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Tan replied smoothly. ‘I think Southerners subscribe to a violent culture. Which, in a way, is worse. If it were in your blood, I’d say you have little choice in how you act. But culture? That’s a choice.’

  ‘Well, thank you,’ Mao responded, his voice calm but dripping with venom. ‘Because I don’t think Central Kowlooni’s have a violent culture. I think you’re an inherently violent people. The only ones who have consistently subjected every corner of Kowloon to violence throughout history – from the forging of the Unification Pact to the wholesale slaughter of Easterners during the rebellions.’

  The room bristled as Mao’s words cut deep, his tone signalling he was no longer here for a cordial exchange of perspectives.

  ‘That’s quite racist,’ Tan shot back, raising an eyebrow. ‘I get you guys are violent, but I didn’t peg you all for racists, too.’

  ‘Wow, fuck you,’ Mao shot back in disbelief. Baoyan saw movement in the audience; one of the ten Southern Kingmakers sprang to his feet, boot in hand. His face burned with rage as he shouted, ‘How’s this for a violent culture, you fucking dipshit!’

  With a fierce swing, he hurled the boot at Tan. But the Legate, quick and composed, caught it with both hands. A triumphant grin spread across Tan’s face as he raised the boot high for the audience to see. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced, his voice thick with mockery. ‘I present to you the shiniest trophy the South has to offer for my swift victory at the Forum!’

  The audience erupted into a mix of laughter, outrage, and incredulous murmurs, the tension boiling over as the debate threatened to spiral completely out of control. Mao, who had remained composed until now, slammed his fist onto the podium with a thunderous crack. ‘How fucking DARE you?!’ he roared, his voice projecting through the domed hall.

  Baoyan’s eyes darted to the ten Southern Kingmakers, now in a heated altercation with the nearby King audience members, shoving and yelling as tempers flared.

  Tan, unfazed, raised his hands mockingly at Mao. ‘Now, now, don’t you go unshoeing yourself too for my sake. I think we can still have a calm and rational—’

  A deafening slam silenced him as Mao struck the microphone with a sharp slap, causing the speakers to screech through the Forum. Baoyan winced at the noise as he watched Mao jump off his podium and storm up the stairs towards the exit, his stomps rigid with fury.

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  ‘See you next time, Mao!’ Tan mocked him, watching the Southern Tribune disappear through the door without a word.

  ‘Tzishan Tan wins by DQ!’ The Praetor announced. Baoyan felt disappointed, this was Ledan Mao’s first loss, and a bad one at that. He truly cared for Mao’s perspective, related to the struggles, even the history. The East was allied with the South during the rebellions, they were victims of Kingmaker cruelty all the same. With a sigh, he stood up and began trudging towards the door.

  Behind him, others rose and followed him to the exit. Before long, the hallway was flooded with the stunned audience members, discussing what just transpired. Among the shifting sea of trench coated Kingmakers, Baoyan found himself searching for one of the Southerners. He didn’t know exactly what he wanted to say, but he felt an urge to let them know he admired their refusal to let the insults slide.

  Weaving through the crowd, his eyes scanned for someone tall and broad-shouldered. On his tiptoes – Easterners weren’t exactly known for their height – he caught sight of a towering Kingmaker with a slight brown complexion.

  That’s got to be one of the Southern brothers!

  Baoyan quickened his pace, heading straight for him. Before he could reach his target, the Southerner turned, locking eyes with him. Without hesitation, he began walking toward Baoyan, his expression intent and purposeful.

  Is he coming to me? Baoyan’s pace faltered as the tall Kingmaker closed the distance between them. He recognised him now – a Centurion from Captain Aiguo’s cohort. Before Baoyan could say a word, the Southerner grabbed his wrist.

  ‘Baoyan? My name is Gek. Follow me!’ he said, his voice low but urgent.

  Baoyan nodded without hesitation, his heart racing as he was pulled along. He shoved past the lingering Kingmakers still milling about the hallway, following Gek down a quieter corridor. They stopped at one of the empty classrooms, and Gek opened the door, motioning for Baoyan to enter.

  Whoa.

  Inside, the atmosphere was tense. Baoyan’s gaze swept over the room, taking in the figures of several Southern Kingmakers. Some sat on desks, heads low and hands fidgeting, while others paced in tight circles, barely containing their fury. Their expressions ranged from grim determination to barely restrained rage, yet the room was eerily quiet, an unspoken storm brewing in the charged air.

  Baoyan did a quick headcount—three Southern Kingmakers already there, with Gek’s arrival bringing the total to four. What have I just stepped into? he wondered, his stomach knotting with a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

  ‘Did Ushi call back?’ Gek asked the room, shrugging off his trench coat and hanging it neatly on a long coat rack by the wall.

  ‘Not yet,’ replied one of the Kingmakers perched on the edge of a desk, his tone clipped. He tilted his head toward Baoyan. ‘Is this the one Ushi mentioned?’

  The attention shifted, and Gek faced Baoyan. ‘I never even confirmed, you’re Baoyan, right?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s me,’ Baoyan replied, his chest tightening with nerves. ‘Ushi mentioned me? What’s going on?’

  ‘We’re going to teach that fuck a lesson,’ came a voice from the side of the room. It belonged to a Kingmaker leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his cap hooding his features.

  ‘The others are out hunting,’ Gek explained, his voice calm but firm. ‘Once they give the signal, we all move.’

  What in the world are they talking about?

  ‘Ushi guaranteed us you’ll help,’ said the third Southern Kingmaker, pacing at the back of the room, with a single boot on. ‘Was he wrong?’

  Baoyan looked over his shoulder to the door. Then he looked at the Southerners in the room – determined to stand up for themselves.

  ‘No. He couldn’t have been more right.’

  The pacing Kingmaker froze mid-step as a sharp chime cut through the room. His holocommunicator was ringing. All eyes turned to him as he answered, placing it on speaker. The familiar voice of Ushi filled the room.

  ‘He’s entering the western stairwell. Set six.’

  ‘Understood,’ replied the answering King.

  Gek approached his trench coat hanging on the rack and looked through its inner pockets and pulled out five knitted red masks, their vivid red colour striking. The others moved quickly, snatching a mask each. One left his Kingmaker cap off, while two others wore their peaked caps over their mask. The masks were simple but ominous, with two large almond-shaped eyeholes that slanted upward away from each other and a wide opening for the mouth.

  ‘Quick, brother, we don’t have time!’ Gek urged, pressing a mask against Baoyan’s chest with a clenched fist. He grabbed it and stretched it’s face to look at it. His stomach was twisting from tension, If I wear this, there’s no turning back.

  The others were already rushing out the door. Gek yanked his own mask over his face and turned to Baoyan. ‘We’re going to hurt Tan real bad. But listen, we can’t be seen. If anyone recognises us, we’re fucking finished. Once we’ve done enough, we scatter and disappear. Got it?’

  Baoyan swallowed hard, pulling off his cap and slipping the mask over his head. The cool, tight-knit material enveloped his face, narrowing his vision to the mask’s eyeholes. His heartbeat pounded in his ears as his identity became one with the other crimson veiled Kingmakers.

  ‘Stay unseen, and you’ll be safe,’ Gek said before sprinting out of the room.

  Baoyan shook off his nerves and bolted after him, his breaths sharp and shallow. He could hear the thudding footsteps of the other three Southerners echoing ahead, all racing toward the western stairwell.

  As the five Kingmakers reached the stairwell door, they instinctively huddled together.

  One of them turned to Baoyan, his voice low but teasing. ‘You must’ve been from the South in a past life.’

  Another encouragingly pumped Baoyan’s chest with a grin. ‘Let’s show this guy what consequences look like.’

  With that, one of them wrenched the door open, and they filed into the stairwell one by one. The metallic clang of their boots echoed sharply as one of the group leaned over the railing, craning his neck to see below.

  ‘He’s two levels down!’ he shouted, his voice ricocheting through the stairwell.

  Without hesitation, they surged downward, their footsteps pounding against the metal stairs. Baoyan brought up the rear, struggling to match their breakneck pace.

  ‘Who’s that?!’ came a startled voice from below.

  ‘It’s your DADDY!’ one of the Kingmakers bellowed back, his taunt echoing down the tall stairwell.

  Suddenly, the Kingmaker in front of Baoyan stopped abruptly, his arm shooting out to grab his chest. ‘Climb down the railing and cut him off!’ he instructed.

  Baoyan nodded sharply, gripping the railing as he swung himself over its edge. Planting his feet on the bars of the rail, he felt a rush of cold air sweeping down from above, shifting his cap. Without hesitation, he released his grip, letting gravity pull him down a level. His hands shot out, catching the next railing with a jarring force. He released his grip again – this time aiming to grab the edge of the stairs below. His fingers found their mark, and with a swift, fluid motion, he swung himself into the stairwell. His boots connected solidly with Tzishan Tan’s chest, sending the Legate crashing into the wall with a thud that echoed through the confined space.

  The Legate staggered but quickly regained his footing, but Baoyan was unforgiving, relentless. He punched Tan once in the jaw, then followed up with a brutal strike to his side, right where the kidneys were. He gasped out as Baoyan continued, hearing his Southern brothers approach fast. ‘He’s got him!’ their shouts echoed from above. ‘The Easterner’s fucking him up!’

  Baoyan vaulted off the railing for kick at the Legate, but Tan reacted swiftly, raising his arms to block the strike. As Baoyan came in for a second attack, Tan countered with a brutal punch to his midsection.

  The blow landed like a sledgehammer, sending Baoyan hurtling backward. He crashed down the stairs, his body slamming onto a lower landing with a resounding thud. But before Tan could leap down the stairs to apprehend him, one of the masked Kingmakers rounded the corner in a blur and pounced onto Tan’s back. The sudden weight knocked the Legate off balance, sending them both stumbling forward, crashing towards Baoyan. But before they landed on him, he rolled off to the descending stairs to his left.

  The southerner and Tan resumed their fight, with Tan ducking and punching after every strike. Another masked Kingmaker rushed onto the landing and joined the fray. Despite the mounting assault, Tan held his ground, his superior training on full display. He ducked and weaved through their strikes, countering with sharp blows that sent his attackers reeling.

  The third and fourth Kingmaker arrived, their presence shifting the odds against Tan. The cramped space on the landing left little room for manoeuvring, forcing one of them to jump onto the railing to get some kicks in on the Legate.

  Baoyan sprang to his feet just in time to see Tan deliver a powerful kick to the Kingmaker balancing on the railing. The masked figure wobbled precariously, leaning dangerously backward, his footing all but lost. He tipped back and fell. Without hesitation, Baoyan lunged over the railing, grabbing the Kingmaker’s hand with both arms.

  ‘You’re okay, brother!’ Baoyan called out, his grip firm despite the weight pulling at him, while the two other masked Kings continued fighting the Legate behind him.

  ‘Fuck! Swing me below!’ shouted the hanging Kingmaker.

  Using all his strength, Baoyan began a slow, deliberate pendulum swing, each motion gathering more momentum. With perfect timing, the Southerner used the final swing to propel himself into the stairwell below. Landing with a thud, Baoyan heard him rushing back up.

  As Baoyan turned back to the chaos, Tan shoved one of the Southerners aside and looked at him; Baoyan was his next target. Tan lunged at the centurion. Instinct kicked in. Baoyan sidestepped swiftly, catching Tan’s waist from the side in a firm grapple. With a sharp pivot, he rotated behind Tan and kicked his knees forward, sending them both tumbling down the steps to the next landing below.

  The hard impact left Baoyan on his back and Tan on his belly, but the young Centurion quickly realised he had the advantage; the Legate’s arm was in his grip. He quickly wrapped his legs around the back of Tan’s shoulder, planting his heel into the armpit. Then, straining from the socket, Baoyan twisted and pulled, sending the Legate into pained shouts.

  The sound of pounding footsteps echoed from both directions. A masked Kingmaker appeared from the stairs below, while three more descended rapidly from above, all stopping in their tracks to see Tan’s arm helplessly caught in Baoyan’s merciless hold.

  Baoyan glanced up at his masked brethren, searching their expressions for directions. Their answer was chilling, unwavering.

  ‘Break his fucking arm!’

  He twisted and pulled. He could feel a series of small cracking while Tan screeched and cried, locked in place. Baoyan allowed his rage to take over, all the torment he had to endure for merely existing. His rage propelled him to twist harder, feeling tendons and fibres ripping one by one. The screaming became more desperate, more gut-wrenching, yet Baoyan pulled… feeling the tension about to give in, and then a brutal SNAP.

  Baoyan felt the bone separate from the shoulder socket, the sudden release of resistance causing him to lurch backward. Tan howled, clutching his disjointed shoulder with his other hand as he writhed on the ground, his anguished cries filling the stairwell like a haunting melody of defeat. All Kingmakers stared in silence at the Legate, one of the highest ranking Kingmakers, crying tears of pain which echoed up and down the stairwell.

  It was pitiful.

  Baoyan’s ears pricked at the sound of pounding footsteps. Everyone turned toward the source, just a level below them, the stairwell door burst open with a sharp clang.

  ‘What’s going on here?!’

  It was Captain Shen.

  ‘RUN!’ one of the masked Kingmakers barked.

  ‘Who the hell are you?! Get back here!’ Shen roared, sprinting after them.

  The group scattered, darting up the stairs in a flurry of footsteps. They split up, each Kingmaker bolting through the nearest door they could find. Baoyan, his heart pounding in his chest, shouldered through a door and found himself in an empty corridor.

  But his luck ran out. Shen had chosen to follow him.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Baoyan saw the Captain after him and ran faster. He was closing the gap fast. ‘Stop right there!’ Shen’s commanding voice boomed.

  Baoyan rounded a corner, desperation driving his legs faster. Up ahead, he spotted a way out – a lift at the end of the hallway. The doors were slowly sliding shut, but someone inside had just exited. This was his chance.

  Don’t slow down. Don’t think.

  Closing his eyes, Baoyan lunged, throwing himself through the narrowing gap. He stumbled inside, spinning around just in time to see Shen barely a few metres away. Having passed through the closing doors, they started opening again – Baoyan repeatedly slammed the button to close the doors. They started closing awfully slow.

  Fuck.

  Fighting against every instinct screaming at him to not even dare lay a hand on his teacher, Baoyan stepped back and delivered a powerful kick through the door to Shen’s chest. The impact sent the Captain flying backward, crashing to the floor. The door started opening, Baoyan kicked the close button with the same leg.

  But Shen was quick. He kipped up with a fluid motion and lunged toward the lift, his hand outstretched for the final crack.

  In that fleeting moment, their eyes locked.

  The Captain froze in horrifying recognition of those pupils, his lips parting, barely mouthing as the doors sealed shut:

  ‘Baoyan?’