The Palace Gates eclipse the noon sun, as regal and imposing as Weimin remembers.

“6 months, it has been, since my soul has been at peace,” he thinks.

Before, the auras of a thousand scheming politicians had drowned him in an ocean of ambition, but now….

“I see now how weak I was before,” he says, startling a pair of guards who hadn’t yet detected his presence.

“Pr- Prince Weimin,” sputters one of the guards.

The Prince stands motionlessly, awaiting proper procedure. Even as the king’s progeny, he follows tradition. As his father had explained it, the nobility had a responsibility to set an example for the common people.

“...Prince?” finishes the guard.

Weimin dispels his thoughts, focusing on the matter at hand.

Bowing, the guard recites the instructions once more. “A message from the Voice of the King. Prince Hong Weimin, upon completion of your training, you will be reinstated as a Contender for the throne of the Hong Kingdom.

The prince snorts in exasperation. He thought he’d escaped the clutches of the scheming nobility, but he’d unwittingly played perfectly into their plans. He glances at the guards, and then at the enormous palace gates.

“I suppose my goals align with my father’s,” he decides. “For now….”

Weimin takes his time traversing the cavernous palace interior, lost in memories of another life.

His thoughts gently trickle as his mind floats through a stream of consciousness, and it is in this contemplative state that the prince arrives at his destination. He stands before an unassuming wall of ruby red, complete with golden inscriptions and embroidery.

"Either I’m at the wrong place, or the entryway is hidden,” he murmurs aloud.

He is here not as a Prince, nor as a noble, but as a Contender for the throne.

“If not for the weakness of my so-called family, I wouldn’t need to be here,” he laments, snorting at the necessity of his duty.

As he struggles to deduce the path forward, something within the walls beckons to him, telling him to touch them, trace them, put his hands upon them. At first, he resists. His Will stands like a boulder in the sea, beaten and battered by the waves of desire emanating from the palace itself. But just as time weathers all things, neither can his will withstand the palace of his ancestors.

He traces his fingers across the side of the enchanted hallway. He hadn’t sensed it before, but the palace is… alive. Qi pulses through the corridors like blood, powering artifacts, arrays, and all sorts of magical devices. At first, the energy flares at his touch, regal and defiant, before receding as if recognizing his bloodline. But Weimin doesn’t relent. He sends his qi through the wall, strands of energy splitting like hairs, searching for an answer.

And then he finds it, at the origin of his search.

“How didn’t I find this sooner,” he thinks, scoffing at its simplicity. Of course the code would be related to his ancestral crest. “Father always loved that stupid bird….”

He walks the hidden pathway through the wall and is immediately transported into another room.

Every pair of eyes in the room immediately focuses on the prince, and a low chuckle rings out, entwined with malice.

“And so the runt of the litter comes crawling, begging for scraps,” says the antagonistic voice, its owner a frequenter of his dreams.

“Welcome back, brother.”

The Prime Contender is stunning to behold. Her midnight hair contrasts her pale, soft features, causing many a noble to lust, pine, and be smitten by her. And yet, the seemingly demure First Princess is as talented as she is beautiful, a mid-stage Core cultivator despite fewer than 30 cycles to her name.

She is everything Hong Xia wants to be.

The sounds of combat fill the viewing box, where Xia and her half-sister Hong Xifeng watch the Prime Contender spar with her guard detail, but Xia’s mind is in the past. When their royal father had announced his impending ascension, the Fifth Princess sided with the favorite of the contest, the Prime Contender Hong Shufen. In exchange for signing a cultivation-binding contract, she’d be spared when her elder sister inevitably triumphed.

The First Prince, Hong Bao, had been the opposition’s only chance at victory. Those hopes perished with the prince, accompanying his body to the grave. And yet, only now, after their greatest threat is dead and gone, does Hong Xia feel uneasy.

Hong Xifeng interrupts the Contender’s anxious thoughts, placing reassuring hands on Xia’s bare shoulders.

“Relax, sister. You’re safe here,” soothes the Second Princess. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Xia shakes her head forcefully in response. “That isn’t it.”

“Ah haha, young one. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” responds the carefree Xifeng, smiling widely. But Xia’s concerned expression makes her smile wilt. “What is it that bothers my lovely sister so?”

“Everything is all wrong,” sighs Hong Xia exhaustedly. “Bao was strong. I simply can’t believe he died in a ‘hunting accident’. Besides, doesn’t it concern you that his guard detail was immediately sentenced to execution? We haven’t even heard their account of events!”

Xifeng’s mouth hangs open in shock for a moment, before she bursts out in uncontrollable laughter.

“What,” asks Xia, her brows furrowed in confusion.

“Ah haha, oh you’re so adorable when you’re worried,” patronizes Xifeng. “You’ll be just fine. If the circumstances of our dear brother,” she begins, voice dripping with venom, “and his untimely demise were engineered by anyone, our father certainly played a part in it.”

Xifeng paused, and Xia caught a glimpse of longing and weariness in the bottomless abyss of wisdom-filled irises.

“It wouldn’t be the first time that-”

“Sisters,” exclaims Shufen, severing Xifeng’s reflective train of thought.

To Xia, she is as brilliant as ever. Even as drops of blood evaporate from the cloth of her sparring robes, her outfit is stainless.

“Have you come to spar with me? My regular opponents would enjoy the break,” invites the Prime, her breathing steady just moments after training.

The Prime had addressed both sisters, but it’s clear to Xia who she’s speaking to.

“Har har,” exclaims Xifeng mirthfully, her ornamental dress fluttering like feathers in the wind. “We would pose no more challenge than your esteemed guards.”

Doubly so for my pitiful mid-Foundation stage cultivation, thinks Xia.

“Very well,” replies Shufen, her wide smile transforming into a slight frown. “Regardless, ensure you are prepared for the trials on the morrow,” she begins, her words trailing off dramatically. “It shan’t be easy.”

Weimin’s eyes traverse the room slowly, judging its occupants. They are seated at a simple round table, speechless as they register his presence. A glance is enough to identify his siblings, even as he assesses their strength with his Energy Vision.

Xiurong, ever sickly in appearance. If she is surprised, her face hides it well, and her peak-Foundation aura gives nothing away. Her alluring figure is in full view beneath a form-fitting ebony dress that matches her hair.

The twins, Xiaodan and Xiaofan are seated adjacently, as close in cultivation as they are in temperament. Though the latter has the edge at the mid-Foundation stage, Weimin can sense that Xiaodan is on the cusp of a similar breakthrough. Yet this is all that differentiates the androgynous twins, their traditional robes and makeup matching.

And lastly, Yingjie. Pale faced and beautiful, he takes after the king, though their father would never flaunt his wealth so obnoxiously. Broad shoulders laid bare, his seated figure nearly matching Weimin’s stature. Gold and other precious metals pierce his body from head to toe, snaking through slits in his maroon combat robes. Predictably, he’d failed to progress since their last meeting, compensating for his lack of talent with his family’s wealth.

It is Yingjie who breaks the silence.

“Welcome back, brother. How unfortunate, that you failed to perish. I suppose failure is to be expected.” His raspy voice barely fills the room, so unlike what Weimin remembers.

Weimin had never liked the third prince. His childhood had been filled with endless studying, only interrupted by the occasional torment from his towering Senior. Then, he’d been helpless to rectify those injustices, but now….

His body shakes with anger, the qi from his dantian seeping through the seals placed there by the Void Sect. Scorching qi tears through his meridians as he cycles, burning brightly even as it is consumed, transformed into Void Qi by his own body. And Weimin disappears.

The technique catches the arrogant prince off guard, and his mouth hangs open, trying to speak. His lips move and his mouth opens and closes, but his tongue is gone. When blood fountains from the open wound, Yingjie’s mind catches up to reality.

“Impossible… less than half a cycle past, he was stuck at the peak of Qi Condensation. How-”

“How could he have surpassed you so quickly,” booms a voice from the shadows. “It’s simple, really,” starts the voice as it walks into the light. Shadows slough from the figure, screaming in pain to reveal Hong Chinglin in his full devilish glory, ochre wings of sin emerging from his back. “You have become complacent, stagnant in your cultivation even as the Contender’s Tragedy begins. You are the only disappointment here.”

Weimin fails to conceal his shock at the sudden appearance. Chinglin’s frigid aura fills the cramped room, as domineering and imperious as his father’s. His heart racing, he fails to notice Yingjie’s severed tongue slip from his fingers, impacting the floor with a squelch.

A moment later, Yingjie disappears, the telltale qi-disruption of an artifact filling the space.

Chinglin laughs mirthlessly, his dark eyes betraying only a hint of the cruelty within.

“And then there were six.”