Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4-7 2019 | Page 244

*
Despite all that has happened so far, Li is unprepared for what happens next. Someone comes upon
him – a young warrior, around his age, with freckled cheeks and determined, terrified eyes – and a dagger
appears, aiming for his throat.
Adrenaline courses through his veins, yet Li’s sabre remains uselessly limp at his side.
However, from the corner of his eye, Li sees the lieutenant rush over, sword raised. He hears the
blade crush the boy’s bones, and sees the blood stain the pristine steel. In an instant, the youthful soldier
slumps to the ground, face alarmingly pale. His hands flutter uselessly, like a trapped butterfly’s wings –
once, twice, before stilling forever.
“Why?” Li stutters in shock. “Why did you do that?”
The second-in-command remains curt as he leads Li forward, alert. “We are in the middle of a
battle zone. Death happens.”
“But why are we doing this?” Li needs an answer – a proper answer. “Are we not heroes? Why do
we need to kill?”
The lieutenant pauses for a moment. “For progress,” he says slowly, gripping the hilt of his sword.
“For development and trade. For after this, we will have a new trading partner and expand our country’s
territory.”
“Progress,” Li thinks aloud. “For the Emperor. For the citizens. For progress.” So this is what a
hero fights for. This is what people die for.
Somehow, though, these reasons aren’t reassuring at all – especially not when Li glances at the
young soldier’s rapidly cooling corpse.
“Do you want to be here, boy?” His friend’s question catches Li off-guard. The tough lieutenant
looks uncharacteristically tender. “You could go back to the ship if this is all too much.”
Li wavers, but he thinks of all those days spent onboard clutching to his dreams, and clenches his
first. “No. I’ll stay.”
The veteran nods. He keeps a wary eye on Li as they fight their way through the devastated palace,
through the maelstrom of battle, towards the throne room.
*
The old man sitting on the throne stares back at them grimly, almost expectantly. His gnarled
hands grip the sides of his wooden throne, but the Sultan resolutely does not move. His wizened face,
however, flickers with alarm when he glimpses the remnants of the slaughter beyond the doors.
Li feels a flash of pity, but he pushes the thoughts from his head. Imposter , he reminds himself.
Imposter . He keeps this word in his head as he watches intently from the side.
“You,” the Sultan says tiredly, pointing at the one who has come to take his throne.
Ratu bows mockingly. “Hello again, old man.”