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The sickly-sweet scent of plum blossom incense hangs heavy in the Emperor's private gardens, masking the tang of iron. Yao, Ling, and Chien Po anticipate spilling. Draped in stolen silks – Yao's straining seams threatening betrayal, Ling’s headdress perpetually askew, Chien Po combining improbable grace with sheer bulk – they flutter painted fans, batting eyelashes with exaggerated coyness at the cluster of Hun warriors guarding the balcony entrance. The ruse works; the Huns roar with laughter, lowering spears, minds clouded by liquor and lustful assumptions. Their last mistake. Fan handles snap—hidden daggers flash. Yao’s fist connects with a jawbone crunch, Ling’s leg sweeps a guard off his feet, and Chien Po envelops two men simultaneously like a landslide.
Within three ragged breaths, the passage is clear, slick with spilled wine and darker fluids. Shang nods once, slipping through the chaos towards the throne room, a silent wraith. Ping emerges from behind a trembling ornamental maple, sword drawn, eyes scanning the carnage, nodding grim approval. His brothers-in-arms shed concubine veils beside him. Above, on the moon-washed balcony overlooking the burning city, Shan Yu, a predator carved from shadow, looms over the frail Emperor.
"Bow!" he snarls, voice echoing off marble pillars.
The Emperor merely lifts his chin, serene as a mountain lake under moonlight. "The dragon does not bow to locusts."
Fury contorts Shan Yu’s face. He lunges, scimitar a silver arc aimed at the Emperor’s neck. Shang erupts onto the balcony, blade clashing against Shan Yu’s in a shower of sparks, shielding the Emperor with his body.
"Go!" Shang bellows.
Chien Po materializes, scooping the Emperor up with startling gentleness, vanishing back inside faster than a startled pheasant, Yao and Ling forming a bristling rearguard. The heavy doors slam shut, echoing like a tomb. Shan Yu roars, pure animal rage, turning his fury on Shang. The Captain staggers under a brutal blow, his sword knocked spinning into the darkness below. Shan Yu raises his scimitar for the killing stroke.
A guttural cry: "NO!" Ping tackles Shang aside, sending them both sprawling. Recognition flares in Shan Yu’s yellow eyes. "You! The warrior from the mountain pass! The ghost who slew hundreds!"
Vengeance replaces contempt. Ping scrambles up, deliberately stumbling towards the ornate rooftop tiles.
"Come and get me!" he taunts, sprinting upwards.
Shan Yu snarls, abandoning Shang, giving chase like a tiger after prey. The uneven tiles sing beneath Ping’s practiced feet. He whirls as Shan Yu heaves onto the peak, sword raised. Ping ducks the whistling blade, kicks hard at the Hun’s wrist. Shan Yu howls as his scimitar clatters down the slope. Ping lunges, pinning the struggling Hun against the curved spine of the roof with the fallen sword’s tip at his throat. Shan Yu’s eyes burn with hate, pinned but writhing. Ping glances skyward, a desperate prayer forming on his lips.
On cue, Mushu’s triumphant squeal pierces the night. "TASTE THE RAINBOW, SUCKER!"
A deafening roar follows. A giant firework rocket, streaking like a falling star, slams directly into Shan Yu’s chest. The impact lifts him bodily, hurling him backwards off the roof. He arcs, screaming, over the palace wall, crashing headlong into the ceremonial pyre – a towering stack of unlit rockets and firecrackers prepared for the thwarted victory celebration. A world-ending explosion rips the night apart. A blinding sheet of crimson, gold, and white erupts, shaking the palace foundations. Fragments of wood, paper, and worse rain down.
The concussive wave lifts Ping like a leaf, tossing him backwards off the roof in a tangle of limbs. He lands hard in the soft earth of a chrysanthemum bed below, the air knocked from his lungs. Yao, Ling, and Chien Po barrel through smoldering debris, frantic. They find him sprawled, face bloody, groaning softly, struggling for breath. Relief wars with terror on their faces.
"Ping! Stay with us!" Yao barks, voice cracking.
Dropping beside him, Yao cups Ping’s battered face, pressing frantic, peppered kisses across his forehead, temple, cheekbone– rough, desperate affirmations. Ling joins, kissing Ping’s knuckles where they clutch his ribs.
"Alive, you stubborn bastard! You're alive!" Ling murmurs between kisses.
Chien Po scoops Ping gently, cradling him. "Hospital," he rumbles urgently.
Ping’s moan, pained but distinct, is the sweetest sound they’ve heard all night. They move fast, leaving the fireworks' acrid stench and Shan Yu's ashes swirling behind.