Chapter 2: The Fallen Lady of the City

The endless dark shrouded the land, a vast and silent expanse where only faint starlight and the scattered glow of fireflies in the jungle offered any trace of light.

Night draped the city like a gauzy veil—gray-white stone towers swallowed by mist, their outlines blurred as if drawn in smoke. At the heart of it all stood a statue: slender, elegant, almost ethereal. Anyone stepping into the city couldn’t help but glance up. There she was—her form bathed in an otherworldly moonlight, pale and pure, her face serene and flawless, so breathtaking that even the bravest soul would catch their breath at first sight.

She looked like a goddess of night herself—cloaked in a gown woven from moonlight and mist, her figure tantalizingly hidden beneath the haze, more alluring for its mystery than its revelation. Yet no one dared to look too long, or too boldly. She wasn’t a symbol of hope, or peace, or freedom. No—she was the Valkyrie. A conqueror. In just one year, she had tamed this wild, lawless land, forged order from chaos, and brought the city and its surrounding territories under iron rule.

And now, the guards patrolled with lazy indifference. They ignored everyone who entered—the beggars, the ragged wanderers, the starving masses streaming through the gates like ants after a storm.

Zhu Minglang lingered at the gate for a long while, then slipped into the crowd of beggars without hesitation. He made it inside—into Yongcheng.

These beggars came from nowhere anyone could name. Their language was gibberish to him. When they saw the statue, though, they froze. For several seconds, they stood motionless, staring up at the towering figure, before slowly turning away, shoulders slumped, eyes hollow.

They were once part of the Pine Forest Clan—a proud people with their own five-tribe stronghold. Not rich, not vast—but powerful enough to hold their own in this brutal land. Then, a year ago, their city fell. Their leaders’ bodies were laid out in neat rows on the main street. With no protection left, half became slaves, the other half homeless refugees. After wandering through half a dozen cities, they’d ended up here—on the doorstep of the very woman who destroyed them.

Funny, really. One year. That’s all it took. The dreams of revenge, of restoration—they’d been crushed by hunger, exhaustion, and the relentless grind of survival. Now all they wanted was a wall to keep beasts at bay, a filthy alleyway to curl up in, a scrap of life. Even if the walls were built by the same hand that wiped out their home. Even if the streets belonged to the Valkyrie herself.

“Soup’s being handed out—back alley,” said a lanky soldier with buck teeth, his voice cold as stone. “Move along.”

“I’m from Sangzhen,” Zhu Minglang stepped forward politely. “I was delivering mulberry silk to the city lord’s mansion when bandits attacked. All my money, all my goods—gone. I’ve got nothing left. Could you please send word to Uncle Wang in Sangzhen? He’ll come get me.”

The soldier didn’t even blink. “What? What did you say? Get back, you stinking rat. If you die of hunger, don’t drag your corpse near my stretch of street. The Lady Commander sees filth like that, I lose my head.”

Zhu Minglang sighed and stepped aside. Soon, the others heard the call and surged toward the back alley like moths to flame. He was nearly carried off his feet.

The back alley was a ruin. Compared to the grand boulevard, it was a wasteland of crumbling wood and mud-brick huts, most of them half-collapsed. It looked like the world had forgotten this place. Smoke hung low, thick with decay. The air smelled of rot and despair.

But the soup wasn’t a lie. At the far end of the alley, in a small wooden courtyard, a maid in a sky-blue dress passed out bowls. Her smile was gentle. She didn’t flinch when filthy hands brushed against her arms, even when her delicate fingers turned grimy. She kept handing out bowls—one after another.

Hungry and desperate, Zhu Minglang accepted what he could. He wasn’t above taking charity.

Then—*thud, thud, thud…*

One by one, the beggars dropped. Some fell backward, heads cracking against the ground. Others collapsed forward, stiff as boards.

Those still conscious screamed and tried to run—but barely took three steps before convulsing, mouths foaming white.

Zhu Minglang froze.

No way.

He’d heard stories—of cruel lords who fed the poor poisoned gruel to keep the city looking clean. Kill the homeless, dump the bodies beyond the walls. Like rats in a sewer.

And now *he* was one of them?

His heart sank. Not just because he was dying—but because little one, his silkworms, needed feeding every day. How would they survive without him?

*Thud. Thud. Thud.*

More bodies fell. Eyes wide, filled with rage and disbelief. But this land had always been cruel. A ruler could seize a city over a single insult. Why not take lives just to keep the streets tidy?

A man without a home was no different than a rat on the pavement. Even if he crawled through filth, sacrificed dignity, fought for scraps—his fate was still the same.

Zhu Minglang’s vision blurred. His head spun.

He wasn’t some criminal. He was a real citizen. A hardworking mulberry farmer. A honest silk trader. Paid his taxes. Delivered tribute on time.

If these beggars were rats, then yes—rat poison kills. But he was a loyal ox, not a vermin. He’d accidentally eaten poison from his own yard. *Please… let me live.*

Before he could speak, before he could prove himself, figures emerged from the shadows—soldiers in gray uniforms, carrying burlap sacks, swords at their hips—cold moon blades glinting in the dim light.

He tried to stay awake. Tried to fight it.

But the poison won.

As darkness swallowed him, the last thing he saw was a pair of perfect feet—dainty, bare, stepping gracefully through the courtyard, each step like a whisper across silk.

He strained to see who wore them.

But then—nothing.

In the fog of his final thoughts, the feet merged with the statue in the city center. The image fused—moonlight and mist, flesh and spirit—until the goddess herself stood before him, alive, breathing, her body swaying toward him like a dream.

…

A rare dream, indeed. The gods hadn’t abandoned him entirely. Just before death, they gave him a vision so beautiful, so vivid, that even dying felt bearable.

He dreamed the statue had come to life. Under the flicker of oil lamps, she climbed down from her pedestal, slow and deliberate, her face lifted in quiet grace. The curve of her cheek, the tilt of her chin—perfection. And then, the rest… well, it made the thought of death seem almost peaceful.

…

“Ah… I’m going to die.”

Zhu Minglang gasped aloud, convinced it was just a final hallucination.

But then—echoes.

“Dying… dying… dying…”

His voice bounced back at him from the stone walls.

He blinked.

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

He was in a dungeon.

The oil lamp swayed slightly—real heat radiating from it. He reached out. Felt the warmth.

He wasn’t dead?

That wasn’t rat poison?

Oh God.

If he was still alive… they’d sell him off to the mines. To the quarries. To the black pits beneath the mountains.

To be a slave in a cave, buried in silence and stone?

Better to have died.

“Hmm?”

A soft, melodic sigh came from beside him.

Zhu Minglang turned.

There, lying next to him—naked, unashamed—was a woman.

Her hair was black as tea-stained silk. Her cheeks still flushed with lingering passion. She was stunning—so beautiful it hurt to look at her. His heart stopped. Then exploded into frantic beats.

What… what was happening?

Had he not been dreaming?

Why was he in a dungeon?

Why was he sharing a cell with *her*?

Her face—there was no mistake. It was the same as the statue in the city center. The Valkyrie. The goddess of serenity, the empress of bloodshed.

“Awake already, sister?” a sly, fox-like voice called from high above the iron window. “You’re glowing. Must’ve had a good night with that little street rat.”

The woman stirred, dazed, as if still drunk.

“Oh, imagine the hearts breaking when they hear about the radiant sister and a beggar boy sleeping together,” the voice continued, dripping with mockery. “Don’t worry—I’ll make sure everyone knows. It’ll be the talk of the town for weeks.”

The laughter echoed through the cold stone, sharp and cruel, fading slowly into silence.

Zhu Minglang stared at the woman beside him.

This was the city’s ruler. The Valkyrie. Her beauty was unmistakable—even without clothes.

So… from that voice…

“You’ve been overthrown?” he finally broke the silence.

The land had always been chaotic. Wars never ended. Rulers changed faster than seasons.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she pulled her long hair across her body, trying to hide. But her curves defied concealment—her waist thin, her hips full, her breasts heavy. The hair covered nothing.

And yet, she remained silent.