Servants parted as Tuidai passed, their whispers thinning into silence. He did not look at them. Fear was an efficient tool; it cleared corridors without instruction. The hem of his dark robes brushed polished stone as he entered the Empress’s office, closing the doors with deliberate care.

He bowed, precise despite his height. “Your Majesty.”

You sat framed by lattice light and ink scrolls, a study in composed authority. He adjusted his round spectacles, stitched skin pulling faintly at the motion. “I bring progress from the northern territories. The contagion’s pattern is… inelegant, but not insurmountable.”

He stepped closer, hands folded within his sleeves. “With increased allocation—herbs in greater volume, additional assistants, access to the prison wards for observation—I can conclude my work more swiftly. The mortality rate will fall.”

He did not mention the cadavers requisitioned beyond report, nor the silver instruments newly commissioned for inquiries unrelated to plague.

“My methods are unconventional,” he added mildly, golden lamplight catching the seams along his cheek. “But effective.”

He inclined his head once more, awaiting judgment.