The Witch in the Woods: The Transmigration of Hazel-Anne Davis

The pavilion emptied slowly after Mingyu's final command, but the silence left behind lingered like smoke after a fire. The guards didn't look at one another. The ministers didn't murmur as they left. Even the Emperor's oldest advisors walked like men who knew their time had ended—like stones dislodged from a crumbling cliff, too proud to scream as they fell.

Outside, the wind howled through the bare trees. The scent of pine and old blood mingled on the cold breeze. The head of the Third Prince still lay behind them in the tent, forgotten by all but the flies.

Zhu Mingyu didn't stop walking until they reached the edge of the encampment. Only then did he slow, turning his head slightly toward the figure beside him.

"You didn't need to follow me."

"I know," Zhao Xinying replied. Her voice was quiet, but not soft. "But I wanted to see what you'd do next."

He let out a breath, one hand tightening around the rolled scroll in his grip. The paper was stained with blood, even though he'd wrapped it again in silk. That didn't stop the scent from leaking through.

"Deming is waiting in the strategy tent," he said at last. "He wants to go over names before we burn this list."

"I hope he brought a long brush," she murmured, eyes scanning the horizon. "There are a lot of names to write in red."

The two of them reached the outer command post as another gust of wind swept the camp, stirring ash from last night's fires. Shadow Guards moved silently through the rows of tents. Red Demon officers tightened patrols. Soldiers who had once dismissed Xinying as a discarded consort now turned their gazes downward as she passed.

Inside the command tent, Zhu Deming looked up from the map table. He didn't bow. He didn't speak. He simply held out a hand for the scroll.

Mingyu gave it to him.

Sun Longzi and Sun Yizhen were already there—Yizhen lounging in a chair with his fan closed for once, Longzi standing at the window flap like a silent sentinel.

"She was on the list," Deming said as he unrolled the parchment. "The one who served you wine before the banquet. So was the man who supplied the cages. Ten generals. Fourteen merchants. Two ministers currently stationed in the capital."

Mingyu sat. "How many can we take out before they realize we've already begun?"

Deming considered the map. "If we move carefully—quietly—we can thin the outer ranks. Target supply chains. Communications. Anyone who dares send a message to Baiguang."

Yizhen grinned, sharp and amused. "And what of those in the palace?"

"Leave them to the Empress," Mingyu said. "She received my letter last night. She knows what to do."

A beat of silence passed before Longzi spoke. "And what of the Emperor?"

"I warned him." Mingyu's voice didn't rise, didn't waver. "He'll stay silent unless he's suicidal."

Zhao Xinying leaned over the table, one finger drifting across the edge of the map. "So this is the beginning."

"It's no longer about beginnings," Deming replied. "It's about survival. We kill those who pose a threat, and we consolidate power until no one can even think of touching what is ours again."

No one argued.

Because all of them knew the truth. This was no longer a matter of policy or law.

This was war born from love—and fear.

A knock at the side of the tent interrupted them.

Yaozu slipped inside, bowing only slightly. "It's begun," he said. "Two of the merchants on the list tried to leave camp after curfew. They were taken."

"Quietly?" Mingyu asked.

"As you ordered," Yaozu confirmed. "They won't be found."

"Good." Mingyu reached for his tea. It had gone cold. "Then let's begin phase two."

Xinying's eyes glinted with something dangerous. "What's phase two?"

Deming's voice was flat. "Purge."

------

That evening, campfires burned lower than usual. The air thickened with anticipation, and the stars overhead blinked with indifference as the Red Demon Army moved like a shadow stretching across the camp.

The executions were not loud.

There was no screaming.

No gallows.

No theatre.

Just silent blades, quiet screams buried in the earth, and the scent of blood that no fire could mask.

Yaozu handled the merchants.

Sun Longzi took command of the military targets, slipping into tents like a wraith and emerging only once the deed was done.

Even Yizhen moved, lips curled in amusement as he handled the political spies with his usual flair—whispering final secrets to their ears before the knife slid in.

And Mingyu?

He watched.

Not from a throne, not from afar—but from the camp itself, walking through the lines like a ghost with Xinying at his side. Neither of them needed to speak. The soldiers who met their eyes didn't dare ask questions.

Not anymore.

------

By the next morning, the camp was quieter than it had been in weeks.

Clean.

Cold.

Orderly.

A new list had been made—this one smaller, filled only with names too powerful to strike without drawing fire.

Deming passed it to Mingyu with a single word: "Later."

Mingyu didn't disagree.

He turned to Xinying as the wind stirred the edge of her sleeves. Her wounds were healing quickly, though her wrists still bore the faint bruises from the man she'd killed.

"You should rest," he said softly.

She shook her head. "I will when you do."

He smiled faintly. "So never, then."

Her lips curled. "Exactly."

They stood there like that, side by side, looking out over a camp that had finally begun to bend to their will.

----

That night, Sun Longzi remained standing just outside the edge of the southern tents, his armor still caked with dried blood from the battlefield purges. In the moonlight, his eyes gleamed with the quiet violence he kept barely restrained beneath his polished surface.

"Are you sure she's sleeping?" Zhu Deming asked from where he stood, sharpening his blade by the fire.

Longzi didn't answer right away. He watched the guards shift near the center tent—the one where Zhao Xinying had retired hours ago, her expression unreadable. "She doesn't sleep," he murmured. "She rests. But sleep?" His jaw tensed. "Not after something like this."

Deming nodded slowly.

Shi Yaozu emerged from the shadows near the trees, brushing blood off his gloves. "She left her hair down tonight," he said. "Didn't braid it. That usually means she's trying to forget the day."

"She won't forget," Deming muttered. "None of us will."

The fire cracked.

Longzi turned to look at the other two. "And yet… I still can't decide whether she terrifies me more when she's smiling or when she's silent."

"Both," Yaozu said. "She terrifies all of us. That's what keeps us alive."

Deming exhaled through his nose, lips curling just slightly.

"She terrifies the world," he said. "And she's ours."

None of the men added anything more. There was nothing to say. The wind howled low across the southern plain, pulling at their cloaks and whispering of storms to come.

But inside the tent, where Zhao Xinying lay still with her eyes closed and her hand resting on her sword, there was only silence.

And in that silence, the empire shifted.