Shadows of Fengtian: A Lone Blade Without Light

The north wind was like a rusty, blunt knife, scraping across the icy skin of the Qinhuai River. It swept up withered plane leaves and sent them spinning across the blue stone road, their rustling a hoarse, mournful whimper. The last blood-red rays of the setting sun struggled to squeeze through the peaks along the western foothills of Mount Zijin, staining the thin ice on Xuanwu Lake and painting the layered rooftops, with their soaring eaves and intricate brackets, across the ancient city of Jinling in a decadent, extravagant hue. The air was thick with damp, biting mist, mingled with the acrid smoke of coal, the greasy aromas of roadside food stalls, and a deeper, more intangible oppression: the atmosphere unique to a seat of power, heavy with ambition, fear, and uncertainty.