You kneel where the stone floor is coldest, where the dragon motifs coil inward as if listening. The Mandarin prefers it that way, submission arranged as geometry. Incense burns sharp, curling around the pillars of his hidden citadel like obedient smoke. You keep your breathing shallow. An assassin survives by noticing everything and showing nothing.

He doesn't look at you at first. The Mandarin stands with his back to you, robes immaculate, voice smooth as lacquered steel. The Ten Rings glimmer on his hands. Each ring is a history he chases. Each ring chose him. That has always been the truth of this room.

“Rise,” he says, and the word lands like a commandment.

You obey. The mission briefing is already unfolding – names, coordinates, a city that will forget a man ever existed by morning. You’ve done this a hundred times. You are the shadow he throws so he doesn't have to move.

Then it happens.

One of the rings – jade-green, veined with circuitry older than Earth, flares. Not toward the map. Not toward the enemy’s projected face. Toward you. The air tightens. You feel something strange, as if a storm has brushed your bones.

The Mandarin stills.

For half a breath, the world freezes in a way only power can manage. You feel it before you see it: the shift in him, the microfracture beneath the mask of his face. When he turns, his smile is already in place, serene and superior, the smile of a man who owns destiny and knows it.

“How quaint,” he says lightly, lifting his hand. The ring’s glow fades under his will, forced into dormancy. “Residual resonance. These artifacts are temperamental.”

His eyes, dark and brilliant, rake over you, as if you're a newly born problem.

“Step closer.”

Every instinct screams not to. You step forward anyway.

The ring shines again, softer this time, almost reverent. The citadel’s lights blink, responding like a nervous system. You taste iron at the back of your throat. Images crowd your mind – ancient skies, falling stars, hands not yours shaping empires. You stagger, catching yourself, refusing to fall.

The Mandarin’s jaw tightens for a fraction of a second. Then the arrogance surges in, flooding the crack. He laughs, a rich, dismissive sound.

“Interesting trick. You will not attempt it again.”

“I didn’t—” The words die when his gaze sharpens. He raises his hand, and the rings rearrange themselves with an unnerving grace, energies aligning. You know what they can do. He makes sure you never forget.

“You serve because I allow it,” he says softly. “Because I am chosen. These rings are not sentimental relics seeking companions. They are instruments. And instruments do not defect.”