Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 120336 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120336 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
What the fuck? Stay here and fight.
But, I had the edge, and he knew it.
His feet landed on the other side with an echoing thud.
His jacket whipped around him in a dramatic flourish.
“Smart, son.” He slung the blade to the ground. It clattered. He gave me a half bow. “You got in my head. I’ll admit that.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“You won’t do that again.”
I froze for a moment, watching as my father pulled his formal jacket off and tossed it carelessly to the ground.
Then he yanked off his dress shirt in one fluid motion, revealing the body that had once seemed larger than life to me as a child.
Muscle corded his bare arms and chest. Every inch of him was a true display of violence and survival. A map of scars and bullet wounds, pale lines and ragged dots crisscrossing his bronze skin.
But it was the tattoo that held my attention.
The massive blue dragon, inked in bold strokes of sapphire and midnight, snaked along his chest and curled over his shoulder.
The head rested just above his heart, jaws open in a silent roar, eyes gleaming with a ferocity that mirrored the man who wore it.
To my shock, a strange pang hit my chest—an ache that wasn’t entirely hatred.
I swallowed.
As a boy, I’d been in awe of that tattoo. I’d wait for the rare moments when my father would pass out on the couch after a long night of Four Aces business. When he wasn’t yelling, wasn’t commanding—just lying there, still and human.
I’d sneak over to him and trail my little finger along the scales, marveling at the artistry; the way the tattooed dragon seemed to ripple and come alive with my father’s snoring.
Back then, I thought it was the coolest thing I’d ever seen.
It made him seem even more invincible.
I remembered how I’d wanted a dragon of my own, had begged my mother to let me get one.
She’d laughed softly, running her fingers through my hair and said, “One day, Lei. But not yet.”
Now here we were, years later, that same dragon staring back at me, not as a symbol of admiration but as a challenge.
I clenched my jaw, forcing the memories back.
He wasn’t that man anymore.
No, that’s not right.
He’d always been this man—a tyrant, a killer.
I’d just been too young, too naive, to see it.
Now, all I saw was the monster.
My father shifted his stance.
The dragon moved with him, and its jaws snapped as his muscles flexed. He rolled his shoulders and then cracked his neck. “I had a singer planned for tonight.”
“I’m sure you did.”
He went to his chair, leaned over and reached for something under it. “I spent three weeks thinking of what song she would sing.”
My father pulled out a sword—a blade so famous, so drenched in legend, that my blood chilled at the sight of it.
Fuck. The Imperial Lament.
The blade’s curved, gleaming surface wasn’t just a weapon—it was a relic of death, named for the emperor who used it to kill his own corrupted son centuries ago.
That act of betrayal had marked the sword with an infamy that bled into every story told of it.
I did my best to not appear terrified. “And what song did you decide on?”
He raised the sword in front of him and studied the blade. “I settled on an old tune, something from the time of Emperor Qin.”
The sword hummed in the air, catching the moonlight.
I clenched my jaw.
Shit just got even more real.
I dropped the shard of glass still in my hand and shrugged off my jacket and shirt, tossing them to the floor.
There was no room for hesitation now.
Slowly, he twisted Imperial Lament around. “The song is called The Blossoms and the Blade. It’s a tale of love and victory, of loyalty and betrayal.”
I went over to my side of the table, grabbed Soaring Precious, and unsheathed it.
The sword came alive in my hand.
“I thought that song would be perfect.” My father gazed at the sword in my hand. “Don’t you think?”
“I’m surprised you didn’t pick something from Tupac’s discography.”
My father let out a dark chuckle. "Oh, believe me, son, Tupac crossed my mind. His words cut deep but they don't carry the weight of legacy.”
Everyone began spreading out to give us more space, while others headed away.
My father continued. “You see, Tupac rapped about the streets—about loyalty and betrayal—but his story ended too soon.”
He put his view back on Imperial Lament. “He didn’t have the time to etch his name into the kind of eternity my chosen song carries."
He turned the blade slightly, letting the moonlight ripple down its edge. "But The Blossoms and the Blade. That’s a story of triumph and ruin, of blood spilled not because it had to be but because it was destiny."
“Too bad I don’t have time to listen to the song. I only have time to kill you.”