CHAPTER 211: DID THEY SURVIVE

The bell rang again.

Thrice now.

The coronation bell.

It echoed through the palace grounds like a sound that didn’t belong in the morning air. Loud and heavy. And a little too slow. As if even the bell didn’t want to ring for what was about to happen.

All over the imperial palace, people moved in a blur. Eunuchs and court ladies ran back and forth with scrolls, fabric, trays of incense, baskets of ceremonial food. No one dared walk. Everyone moved like something was chasing them. Because something was—fear.

And the entire palace was drenched in purple.

Purple banners. Purple drapes. Purple robes.

It should’ve looked noble. Royal. A celebration. But instead it looked like a funeral hiding under a mask.

It was too quiet for a coronation.

Too cold.

Even the wind didn’t want to be here.

In the outer palace gates, soldiers lined up in rows—except they weren’t palace guards. Not the ones loyal to the imperial family. These were Pei Rong’s men. Big men. Harsh eyes. Swords sheathed in red-strapped belts. Bandits in everything but name. Only their armour looked official.

They stood in clusters, eyes scanning the crowd like they were waiting for someone to make the wrong move just so they could have an excuse to strike.

Citizens had started gathering early. Everyone had been told this day would mark a new Chapter. A new emperor would rise. But no one smiled. No one clapped.

They stood outside the gates, silent, packed shoulder to shoulder, eyes wide and stiff.

So many of them had loved the late emperor.

And so many had loved the prince who was supposed to take the throne.

But he was gone now.

Presumed dead.

And all that was left was the man who had climbed into power like a snake climbing a tree.

Pei Rong.

The people knew what was happening. They weren’t stupid. The coronation wasn’t for a new emperor. It was just a mask for the prime minister to take the throne through his son. Zhao Ling Xu would just be a puppet—an easy-to-control figurehead with no real voice. Everyone knew. But no one could say it.

Not when Pei Rong’s men were watching every single person in the crowd.

So the people waited.

Holding their breath.

Praying for someone—anyone—to stop what was coming.

Inside the palace walls, the air was worse.

The great ceremonial hall had been cleaned from corner to corner. Not a single speck of dust left. The floor was so shiny it reflected the candles. Purple silk lined the pillars. Gold cups and long trays sat on polished platforms.

And at the end of the hall was the throne.

Not the imperial throne. That one was still deep inside the ancestral chamber.

No—this one was temporary. Just for the ceremony. But still high. Still looming. And cold.

Sitting there would mark someone as the ruler of the entire empire.

And everyone was pretending that it was normal.

Maids walked quickly with their heads bowed, delivering robes and headpieces. Court musicians sat in a line with their instruments already tuned. High ministers whispered among themselves, their eyes twitching every time someone passed behind them.

The First Consort was sitting in one of the outer side rooms, completely dressed but unmoving.

She was pale.

Her skin looked almost gray.

Even with makeup, her face looked sick. Her lips were dry, her eyes dim. She sat like a statue—still, quiet, distant. Her hand, still wrapped in thick bandages, twitched every few minutes.

She’d been poisoned.

Hua Jing had done it.

And even though she’d survived... she hadn’t recovered.

She was supposed to be made Empress today. The one to stand beside the throne. But right now she looked like she belonged more in a coffin than in silk robes.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t even blink.

She just stared ahead, like she wasn’t even here.

Not far away, the Empress from the Cold Palace—Zhao Ling Xu’s mother—was laughing.

She was being pampered like royalty again, after all these years of disgrace. She wore bright golden robes threaded with purple. Her hair was tied up in a grand phoenix crown, jeweled and glittering. Her lips were red. Her eyes glowed with triumph.

She looked like she had never been banished.

Like she had never committed treason.

Like she had never given birth to the Prime Minister’s son in secret.

Now, she was being restored. Being allowed back into the light after crawling through the dark for so long. She walked through the halls like nothing had happened. No guilt. No shame. Just pride.

It made some of the older court members sick.

But they didn’t dare say anything.

Because she was back in power now.

And Pei Rong was behind her.

In the east wing of the palace, inside a grand chamber overlooking the ceremonial grounds, Zhao Ling Xu stood alone.

He was fully dressed. His hair was done. His ceremonial robe hung heavy on his shoulders. Everything had been laid out for him perfectly. From the jade belt to the golden boots.

He didn’t move.

Just stood by the window, staring outside.

The throne.

The banners.

The people.

The pressure.

It all sat on him like a mountain.

He had never wanted this.

He had never asked for it.

And now the whole empire was being handed to him on a platter—only so it could be taken and used by the man who had raised him with chains instead of love.

Pei Rong wasn’t giving him power.

He was putting him in a cage.

Zhao Ling Xu sighed softly, watching the slow movement of the clouds outside. The world looked far away from here. He couldn’t even hear the people anymore.

Everything felt muted.

Quiet.

And wrong.

He whispered under his breath, "If you’re coming... come now."

Because if no one stopped it...

Then in just a short while...

He would have to walk out there and take the throne.

Even if he didn’t want to.

Even if it crushed him.

He closed his eyes.

The bell had already rung twice.

The air was thick.

The time was now.

And then—

The door to his chamber creaked softly.