CHAPTER 212: YOU ARE STIL VERY USEFUL

The door opened slowly.

Not with a creak, not with a slam—but with a deliberate, measured hush. As though the person on the other side didn’t want to be loud. As though they knew silence could hurt more.

Zhao Ling Xu didn’t turn.

He could already feel who it was.

The air in the chamber shifted. The scent of incense wafted in—too strong, too sweet, almost choking. The rustle of heavy silk followed, slow and smooth. He turned his head slightly.

And there he was.

Pei Rong.

The Prime Minister stepped into the room like he owned it. His robe was a deep, rich imperial red—the kind reserved for emperors, the kind no one else was allowed to wear on coronation day.

And yet he wore it anyway.

It wasn’t the phoenix robe, no—it lacked the grand embroidery, the traditional golden bird whose wings stretched from shoulder to shoulder. But it didn’t matter. The message was already written in the color alone.

He was not the one being crowned.

And yet... he might as well be.

Pei Rong’s lips curved into a soft, almost amused smile as his gaze swept across the room and landed on his son.

Zhao Ling Xu stood by the window, dressed in the true heir’s robe. The phoenix robe.

The long, violet garment shimmered slightly in the dim light, its gold-stitched phoenix spreading proudly across the back. The sleeves were lined with cloud and flame motifs, and a pale jade coronet was already resting in his hair. He looked every part the future emperor—at least, on the outside.

Inside?

He felt like he might throw up.

"You look quite good," Pei Rong said, his voice light. "The phoenix suits you."

Zhao Ling Xu said nothing.

He didn’t move. He didn’t nod. He simply stood there, fingers clenched at his sides, staring out the window where the muted sun pressed down on a kingdom holding its breath.

Pei Rong took another step inside, his red robe trailing softly behind him.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

Zhao Ling Xu turned slightly. He met his father’s eyes, though his own were empty.

"Your plans are finally going to be successful," he said, voice flat. "Are you happy now?"

Pei Rong’s smile widened.

"Very," he said simply. "You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this day."

His tone was calm. A little too calm.

Zhao Ling Xu turned back to the window. "You always said patience was your greatest strength."

Pei Rong chuckled softly. "And now you see why."

The room fell quiet.

From outside, distant voices echoed faintly—courtiers gathering, bells being prepared, final instructions whispered between trembling officials. Everything was being lined up, second by second, for the moment Zhao Ling Xu would walk out and take the throne.

And still, he didn’t feel like it belonged to him.

Pei Rong stepped closer.

"You always looked the part," he said. "Refined. Gentle. The people believe in that kind of thing."

He placed a hand on his son’s shoulder.

Zhao Ling Xu didn’t move.

"That’s why you shouldn’t mess it up," Pei Rong added softly.

Zhao Ling Xu narrowed his eyes, staring at the horizon. The city beyond the palace walls was strangely still. Like it was waiting too.

And then—

Pei Rong’s voice changed.

"By the way," he said casually. "I know what you did."

Zhao Ling Xu blinked.

He turned just enough to glance at his father.

"...What?"

Pei Rong’s hand dropped.

He smoothed the sleeve of his red robe. "Last night. A number of my men were killed. In the lower dungeon. Quite a scene, apparently."

Zhao Ling Xu’s breath caught.

Pei Rong didn’t stop.

"One of them had his ribs shattered. Another was nearly beheaded. Sloppy work in some parts, but someone got the job done."

He looked at his son again, and the smile he wore now... it wasn’t real. It didn’t even pretend to be.

"That wouldn’t have been you, would it?"

Zhao Ling Xu stayed still.

Too still.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," he said quietly.

Pei Rong gave a soft laugh.

"You’ve always been a terrible liar."

He walked slowly around the room now, hands clasped behind his back, voice dropping to a near whisper.

"You let someone go. Or helped them. Or looked the other way. Doesn’t matter which. I know it was you."

He turned back to face Zhao Ling Xu.

"And I’ve been generous. Very generous. You don’t want this throne—I know that. But you’re still useful to me. A tool. A symbol. People will follow you, which means they’ll follow me. But that only works," he paused, eyes darkening, "if you obey."

He had no ounce of shame saying these kind of words to his son.

Zhao Ling Xu’s jaw tightened.

Pei Rong walked right up to him now.

"You’ve always been soft," he said. "Your heart gets in the way. You still believe in things like love, loyalty, mercy."

He smiled.

"I don’t."

There was a moment.

It stretched like string pulled too tight.

Then the Prime Minister leaned in close, and his voice dropped to a whisper just for the two of them.

"If this coronation does not go as planned," he said slowly, "if anything happens—anything at all..."

His hand lifted, finger gently tapping Zhao Ling Xu’s chest.

"...it’s your head I will have first."

Zhao Ling Xu didn’t flinch.

But something in him... cracked.

Pei Rong stepped back and straightened his robe.

"Just smile, son," he said lightly. "Smile and sit on the throne."

He added softly, "I will handle the rest."

And with that, he turned and walked out—red robe flowing behind him like blood spilled across marble.

Zhao Ling Xu was alone again. He thought about what that man he shared some traces of resemblance ha just said.

The words alone made him recoil and he still could not believe he was that man’s son.

They were too different

He stood there for a long moment, unable to move, his fingers twitching at his side.

Outside, the silence thickened.

And then—

The third bell began to ring...