CHAPTER 213: THE CORONATION OF THE CENTURY

The Grand Hall of the Eastern Palace had never been more opulent.

Everything glistened. Everything gleamed. Everything was meant to dazzle.

Purple silk draped from every high beam, so long it rippled against the polished floor like waves on still water. Gold tassels hung from tall lanterns. Red paper fans marked with calligraphy of blessings had been fastened to every open column. The hall smelled of fine incense, sweet wine, and something sharper beneath it—nerves. Power. And fear.

Today was the day Pei Rong’s long-laid plans bore fruit.

And he had spared no expense.

Dignitaries from all over the empire were being ushered into the hall. The grand staircase leading to the ceremonial seats had been freshly waxed. Every step reflected candlelight. Courtiers wore their most lavish robes—brocade, satin, layers upon layers of fabric stitched with the finest threads of silver and blue.

The atmosphere buzzed with fake reverence.

Every movement was rehearsed.

Every smile stretched too wide.

Pei Rong’s allies were already assembled near the high dais, surrounding the throne like a sea of red and gold. They moved in tight little groups, congratulating each other with soft claps and quiet laughter. Hands were shaken, wine cups exchanged.

"Minister Lou," one of the governors said, bowing slightly. "I see your gamble has paid off."

Minister Lou, a narrow-faced man with calculating eyes, smiled without showing his teeth. "It’s not a gamble if the deck was stacked from the start."

There was soft laughter.

"Did you see the banner on the west wing?" another chimed in. "His Excellency had it woven with real gold thread. Real gold!"

"He deserves it," came another voice. "He built this empire again with his bare hands."

"It’s the coronation of the century!"

"Long live Prime Minister Pei!"

"Long live the new Emperor!"

They toasted. Quietly, of course. Publicly, they would all swear loyalty to the crown. But everyone here knew who had really won. And they weren’t shy about enjoying it.

Behind their polished manners, behind the clink of wine goblets, there was smugness. They had waited. Watched. Aligned themselves just right—and now they reaped the reward.

All the old nobles, the previous royal family’s lingering loyalists, had been pushed to the side.

Their seats were lower.

Their robes—still noble—looked suddenly dull next to all the grandeur.

The Dowager Princess sat silently, her fan unmoving in her lap. Her eyes were sharp, trained not on the throne but on Pei Rong’s every movement. Next to her sat her cousin, Lord An, once a close advisor to the late emperor. His fists were clenched the entire time, lips pale.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t blink.

They only stared.

As if glaring could stop history from being rewritten.

The Prime Minister, meanwhile, moved like a man made of victory.

Pei Rong stood near the steps of the dais, hands clasped casually behind his back, speaking with a select few.

He wore a version of court attire too similar to the emperor’s—imperial red, silk robes with flame-stitch detailing and a high collar that made his shoulders look broader than they were. Not the official phoenix robe, no. But close enough that it made every old traditionalist in the room shift uncomfortably.

He didn’t care.

Every inch of him radiated confidence. His face wore a calm smile, but his eyes burned with something sharper—triumph.

He accepted praise with soft nods, always modest, always quiet.

"It was only possible with your loyal support," he told a merchant lord from the southern coasts, offering a shallow bow.

"You made this empire stable again," the merchant replied. "No one else could have done it."

"Let us hope it stays that way," Pei Rong said, voice silk-smooth.

People kept coming in.

Envoys from the border provinces, military heads, ministers from the Treasury, the Bureau of Rites, the Imperial Academy. Even foreign observers were placed near the back, seated with great care—tokens of diplomacy in a day meant to show power, not share it.

Musicians took their places along the perimeter of the hall. Their instruments had already been tuned. Pipás, guzhengs, and long flutes rested ready. The drumline, stationed at the back, waited for their cue.

From a side corridor, dancers in ivory robes entered in rows. Each of them veiled, each step slow, controlled, their arms outstretched like wings. They began their ceremonial dance—a spiral motion of turns and bows, each one symbolizing a prayer for the longevity of the new emperor.

Petals rained down from above.

Servants atop the balconies scattered them from long baskets—white plum blossoms cut fresh that morning. They fluttered like snow against the purple backdrop.

A eunuch near the main stage cleared his throat.

"The Emperor’s procession is beginning."

The music rose.

The drumline began to beat, low and slow.

Doom... doom... doom.

Each strike echoed like a heartbeat across the hall.

Doom... doom... doom.

The dancers circled once more and then knelt in perfect symmetry, heads bowed.

The hall stilled.

Everyone turned.

And then—

The doors at the far end opened.

And Zhao Ling Xu entered.

He walked alone, robe trailing behind him. The phoenix across his shoulders shimmered gold, wings outstretched in mid-flight. His posture was perfect. Chin high. Gaze steady.

But if anyone looked closely, they’d see the tightness in his jaw. The small tremble in his fingertips. The weight behind his eyes.

He was dressed like an emperor.

But he walked like a man heading to the edge of something.

The music swelled as he passed between the kneeling dancers. Flute harmonies rose into the rafters.

The Prime Minister watched from the dais, smiling.

Everyone rose as he approached.

Everyone bowed.

Some with joy.

Some with silent rage.

Some with dread.

Zhao Ling Xu reached the first step.

And began to climb.

One step at a time.

The throne was within sight. He should have been happy this moment was here yet when he looked at his mother’s smile all he felt was disgusting.

Her mother had always been scheming to get the throne for him yet he had never been interested.

Right now, all that was left was for the others to hurry up.

The beads danced before his eyes as he reached the dais.

A hand held out towards him, "Stand here,"