CHAPTER 210: THE NEXT RULER OF THE CELESTIAL EMPIRE

The capital was too quiet.

Even in the earliest hours of the morning, the palace usually hummed with the distant sound of servants hurrying about, of brooms against stone, of low conversations drifting down corridors. But today, the air was still. Tense. Heavy. The silence wrapped itself around the golden roofs like a shroud, as if the very stones of the imperial palace had chosen to hold their breath.

It was coronation day.

The dead emperor had yet to be buried yet the ones being coronated did not seem to care.

Everything had to be perfect, they said

The entire palace was drenched in purple. From the silken banners cascading from the balconies to the lotus petals scattered in shallow bronze basins, everything had been dyed in the royal shade of ascension. Purple—the color of power, of legitimacy, of divine mandate. But today, it looked less like royalty and more like mourning.

Palace officials rushed through the halls, their footsteps hurried, voices kept just below panic. Every mosaic tile was scrubbed until it glowed, and every lantern was lit with fresh oil. Dust was banished from every corner. A new red carpet, lined with golden dragon thread, had been rolled down the steps of the great coronation hall.

But no amount of polish could wash away the bloodstains beneath.

In the women’s quarters, the First Consort was being dressed.

She looked like she was one step from the grave.

Her face was pale, lips drawn tight as maids tied layer after layer of gold-trimmed robes around her fragile frame. Her eyes were sunken. The color in her cheeks had not returned since the poisoning, and her movements were slow, robotic. The phoenix crown placed upon her head wobbled slightly, forcing a servant to steady it with trembling hands.

"Hold still," the royal stylist whispered. "You must not show weakness today."

She said nothing. She couldn’t bear to meet her own reflection in the polished bronze mirror before her. What stared back was a ghost draped in silk.

Just two rooms away, a very different figure was being adorned in equal finery—the Empress.

Dragged back from the Cold Palace, the place where disgraced women were meant to rot, she now sat before a gilded mirror, her smile bright as a summer festival.

Her robes were pristine. Her nails polished. Her expression so warm it was as if she’d never plotted the downfall of the emperor or spent years hidden away in shame.

There was no guilt in her eyes. No regret.

Only victory.

She was radiant. Restored.

She was Zhao Ling Xu’s mother.

A woman who had lain with Pei Rong behind the emperor’s back and birthed his bastard son under the guise of royal legitimacy.

And now she was being returned to splendor, to the dais beside the throne.

The same throne her lover had orchestrated a hundred deaths to steal.

Outside, in the main courtyard, a formation of imperial guards stood at attention, silent and unmoving, clad in ceremonial armor with black and crimson sashes. The grand hall was already being filled with flowers from the imperial gardens—magnolias, plum blossoms, and lilies of the valley—white and pale violet blooms that somehow made the tension worse. Their beauty was suffocating.

The incense was thick.

It drifted like ghostly fingers through the marble columns, threading the air with coils of sandalwood and death.

Every corridor was too polished. Every corner too clean.

Palace officials in full ceremonial dress moved stiffly, like marionettes in a cursed play. Each robe was a shade of imperial purple, trimmed in black, and each face wore the same expression: dread hidden behind duty.

The Master of Rites paced nervously at the steps of the coronation hall, a long scroll in his hands, his eyes darting every few seconds toward the gates.

Noble families began to arrive.

Carriages creaked to a halt beneath the palace archways, their wooden wheels wrapped in silk to muffle the sound. Lords and ministers emerged in layers of embroidered silk, their expressions stone-cold. The heads of the Eastern and Western Houses offered polite bows and stilted pleasantries. No one smiled.

They were all walking into a new world—one no one had voted for.

Inside the western antechamber, Pei Rong stood still while his robe was adjusted for the last time.

It was a dark ensemble: layered plum silk with a storm-gray underlayer. Regal. Reserved. Terrifying.

Zhao Ling Xu stood beside him, draped in a robe the color of iron. The silver embroidery of a five-clawed dragon glittered across his chest, far too heavy for a boy whose soul had already begun to fray.

His eyes were blank.

Pei Rong stepped forward, adjusting the collar himself.

"Remember what I told you. Speak only when addressed. Step forward when the bell tolls the third time. Kneel. Do not hesitate."

Zhao Ling Xu gave a small, slow nod.

Pei Rong’s hand lingered on his son’s shoulder. "Do you understand?"

There was no answer. Just silence.

The drums began.

A low, ancient rhythm rolled through the palace like thunder.

One by one, the banners were raised. The gates opened. The musicians took their places.

And then it came.

The imperial bell.

A single, deep note that echoed across every courtyard and chamber like the knell of history itself.

Ding.

The procession began.

Attendants in ivory robes took their place on the red carpet. The eunuchs flanked the entrance to the throne hall, holding golden scrolls and incense trays.

The Master of Rites stepped forward, voice strong now as he read from the ceremonial decree.

"In accordance with the heavens and by the will of the stars, we gather on this day to crown the next ruler of the Celestial Empire..."

Inside the hall, the throne waited.

Gold. Untouched. Waiting for a body. Waiting for a name.

The incense rose higher.

The air thickened.

And as the second toll of the bell rang out— ding— every soul in the palace stilled.

It was almost midday, and the thing most people dreaded was already here.

Just as the people were waiting,

The bell of the coronation dinged thrice...