The Monster King

Far to the north, where the mountains wore crowns of snow and the wind howled like wolves at dusk, a kingdom stood carved in stone and shadow.

At its center, a great fortress loomed. Black-tiled roofs. Iron gates. Torches lit even in daylight, for the sky here never quite brightened the same way it did in the southern lands.

And in the war hall, beneath the heavy banners and cold silence, stood King Zhao Rui .

“Prepare the envoy,” he said, voice quiet and final.

The councilmen at the table bowed, hesitating only a second too long. Even now, years into his rule, some of them still flinched when he spoke.

The king turned his face toward them—a face partly obscured by a smooth, black mask covering the right side of his jaw, his cheek, up to just beneath his eye. The exposed half showed a strong brow, pale skin, and a mouth set in a permanent frown.

One of the older ministers cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, if I may ask… are you truly certain about this union? A marriage with the Southern Kingdom—especially with the Emperor’s sister—might be seen as an... unusual choice.”

Zhao Rui’s gaze slid to him.

Unblinking. Icy.

The man swallowed and bowed again, deeper this time. “Of course, Your Majesty’s wisdom is beyond question.”

Zhao Rui didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped away from the table, his heavy boots echoing against stone.

In his chambers, alone, he reached for a small, carefully wrapped box inside a locked chest.

Inside lay a faded peach blossom—preserved in resin, still delicate, still pink.

He remembered the day as if it had been burned into his soul.

He had been a child then. Ten, maybe eleven. Covered in bruises. His half-brothers had locked him in a dog’s cage behind the stables. His throat had ached from thirst, his stomach empty for days.

And then— she appeared.

She had stumbled through the gardens of the Northern Palace, laughing, chasing a butterfly she had no business catching. A girl in royal silks, with wide brown eyes that sparkled like sunlit tea.

She had found him in that cage. Unafraid. Unbothered by his ragged appearance.

“You look angry,” she’d said.

He hadn’t replied.

“Want a peach?” she asked. “I stole two.”

She offered one through the bars, then knelt beside him as if he weren’t something broken. She didn't ask his name. Didn't flinch when he growled.

And before she left, she’d whispered with the soft confidence only a child could have:

> “Don’t die. Monsters don’t get to win. Heroes do.”

He had held onto that single sentence through every lash, every betrayal, every war that followed.

The peach had rotted. The blossom she left in his hair hadn’t.

She was gone before he could ask her name.

But years later, when he saw the Emperor’s sister briefly mentioned in a peace negotiation, her name struck like thunder.

Lian.