Unifying the goblin tribes of the Moon-Bathing Crags hadn't been an act of statesmanship. It had been an act of pest control.

  Jian remembered the smell of the tunnels—the sour, wet-dog stench of the Blood-Toof and the metallic tang of the Iron-Ear's forges. He walked through their warrens like a draft of cold air. Every time a Great Chieftain or High Shaman stepped forward to scream a challenge, Jian simply removed the part of them that did the screaming. He left a trail of decapitated leaders and shattered totems from the base of the mountain to the peak. By the time he reached the Lunar-Frost Orchid, the remaining goblins weren't fighting each other anymore. They huddled in the dark, united by the singular hope that he wouldn't look in their direction next.

  Kiri, the ninja goblin now crouching in the rafters of the Royal Pavilion, was the only one smart enough to realize that the shadow cast by a god was the safest place for a monster to hide. She followed him with a silent, obsessive devotion, her yellow eyes never leaving the back of his head.

  Jian leaned against a marble pillar in the Pavilion with his arms crossed. The Trade Summit was in full swing, a tedious display of puffed chests and hidden daggers. The King of Onyxport sat on a throne of polished basalt, flanked by his advisors and a very recovered-looking young Prince. Opposite him stood the Imperial Envoy, Lord Vaxus, whose robes were so heavily embroidered with gold they looked like armor.

  Zelari stood among a group of displaced citizens near the back, though Jian could see her hand hovering near the concealed dagger at her thigh. She was part of the rebel network now, waiting for a strike she didn't realize was a setup.

  "The Empire’s protection is not a suggestion, Majesty," Vaxus said with a smooth, oily purr. "Without our legions, Onyxport is a fruit ripe for the picking by these... rebel elements."

  The stained-glass windows of the Pavilion shattered.

  Two dozen men in grey rags and mismatched leather swung in on ropes with blades drawn. They didn't go for the guards; they lunged straight for the King’s advisors, screaming slogans about freedom that sounded rehearsed and hollow.

  The Imperial Envoy gasped with mock horror. "Guards! Protect the—"

  Jian didn't move. He didn't draw his sword. He looked at Zelari, who had frozen as she realized the rebels attacking weren't from her cell.

  "Zelari," Jian rasped. His voice cut through the screams and the clash of steel like a serrated blade.

  She turned to him, face pale. "Jian! We have to do something! They're—"

  "The spice," Jian interrupted. His eyes looked bored and hungry. "You mentioned the pork rub your sister uses. The one with the dried peppers from the southern coast. What was the third ingredient? The one that gives it that faint, numbing heat?"

  Zelari stared at him, jaw dropping. An assassin lunged at Jian from behind, aiming a short-sword at the base of his skull. Without looking, Jian reached back, caught the man’s wrist, and snapped it. The bone broke like a dry branch. He pulled the screaming man forward, slammed a palm into his chest—collapsing the ribcage into the lungs—and tossed the dying heap aside as if it were a bag of trash.

  "Jian, people are dying!" Zelari shouted, ducking as a stray arrow thudded into the pillar next to her.

  "They’re puppets, Zelari. They’re always dying," Jian said. "The spice. Was it Szechuan peppercorn or ground ginger-root?"

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  The Imperial Envoy, Vaxus, watched in stunned silence as Jian dismantled three more attackers without taking his eyes off the village woman. One man was kicked through a marble balustrade; another had his head twisted one hundred and eighty degrees with a casual flick of Jian’s wrist.

  "I... I won't tell you," Zelari breathed, defiance flickering back to life. "That recipe stays with me. If I die here, the flavor dies too. My sister doesn't even know the proportions."

  Jian frowned, a genuine look of disappointment crossing his gaunt face. "That would be a waste of a good hog."

  "I have an even better one," Zelari hissed, eyes darting to another group of assassins closing in on the King. "A Royal Reserve rub. Used by the high lords of the central plains. But you have to get me the ingredients. Rare stuff. Sun-dried Dragon-Tail chilies and oil from First-Press olives."

  Jian’s aura shifted. It hardened and expanded, a crushing wave of negative pressure that made the air in the Pavilion feel heavy and cold. "Speak," he commanded. "Tell me the list."

  "You... you madman!" Lord Vaxus screamed, drawing a rapier that glowed with faint holy light. "Stop this farce! You’re interfering with an Imperial—"

  Jian moved.

  He flickered from the pillar to the center of the rebel formation. He didn't use a weapon. He used his hands. He tore through the Imperial stooges with gratuitous precision. He didn't just kill them; he deconstructed them. Arms were ripped from sockets, jaws shattered into wet splinters, and one man was punched so hard his upper body erupted in a spray of red mist.

  Vaxus stumbled back, his rapier shaking. "You... you’re just a beggar! A common—"

  "High King," the King of Onyxport whispered, looking at Zelari. "Who is this man? Saphra said he was... gifted. But this..."

  The King turned to the Imperial Envoy. "Lord Vaxus, your rebels seem to have been very poorly trained. Or perhaps they were just wearing the wrong uniforms?"

  Vaxus went purple, pride warring with terror. "This is an insult! We did not deploy our true skills! If our Silver-Wing Legion were here—"

  "They were," Zelari interrupted. She looked directly at Vaxus with eyes hard as flint. "The Silver-Wing Legion’s forward guard met him on the road to Oakhaven. They deployed their skills. They used their formations." She gestured to the bloody mess Jian had made of the floor. "They failed. He defeated the entire legion himself."

  The Pavilion went dead silent. Vaxus looked at Jian—at the hollow eyes that seemed to look far beyond the city walls. He looked at the way the light seemed to die around him.

  "A... a legion?" Vaxus stammered. He didn't scoff. The evidence was painted on the walls in Imperial blood. He turned on his heel, face a mask of humiliated rage. "We will... reconsider our position. Onyxport is clearly... well-defended."

  The Envoy fled, his guards scurrying after him.

  The King let out a long breath. He looked at Jian, then at the Prince staring with wide-eyed awe. He looked at Saphra, the Royal Alchemist standing nearby with her arms crossed, watching Jian with calculating curiosity.

  "Saphra," the King said softly.

  "Yes, Majesty?"

  "Your task with the Prince is complete. His soul is stabilized, and the corrosion is gone." The King stood and met Jian’s gaze. "Your contract with the Crown is hereby expired. You are a free agent."

  Saphra blinked, then a slow, knowing smile touched her lips. She understood. The King was letting her go—placing her in the orbit of the only man who could protect her from the Empire, and the only man who could provide ingredients that didn't exist in textbooks.

  Jian walked back to Zelari, ignoring the dead. He reached into a tattered pocket and pulled out a handful of glowing red peppers—Dragon-Tail chilies he had acquired from the goblin shaman’s private larder.

  "I got the ingredients," Jian rasped, dropping the peppers into Zelari’s surprised hand. "Can you do something about the pork now? I’m still hungry."

  Zelari looked at the peppers, then at the Alchemist packing her bags, then at the goblin dropping from the ceiling to sniff a dead assassin.

  "I think," Zelari said, her voice trembling with fear and excitement. "I think I can manage that."

  The Calamity had a cook, a chemist, and a goblin scout. Heaven didn't know it yet, but the bill for ten million years was about to get expensive.