CHAPTER 219: THE FINAL HUNT BEGINS

"Do you know who I am?" the Empress spat, her voice icy, her chin lifted in defiance.

The soldier holding her at swordpoint didn’t even flinch. His eyes—dark, steady—flicked over her elaborate hairpins, the rubies glinting in the lamplight, the red silk clinging to her trembling frame.

"I know exactly who you are," he said, his voice flat, hard as the blade at her throat. "And I don’t care."

The Empress’s lips parted in shock. For a heartbeat, her pride faltered, swallowed by something that tasted too much like fear.

The soldier didn’t give her another glance. He shoved her to her knees, his sword never wavering. "Stay down," he ordered, already turning his head to scan the corridor for threats.

Outside, the battle raged like a living beast.

The clash of steel and the cries of the dying filled the night air. The grand halls of the palace, once echoes of poetry and silk, had become a blood-soaked maze of death.

Inside the ceremonial hall, the chaos was just as vicious.

Zhao Yan’s blade was a blur, cutting through the press of bodies with unerring precision. His breathing was steady, every movement measured and lethal. But the Prime Minister had found fresh strength—five of his elite bodyguards now shielded him, each a mountain of muscle and steel.

Zhao Yan forced one back with a savage slice across the chest, but the others pressed in. Their blades caught the lamplight, their movements practiced and deadly.

Pei Rong used the moment to slip away, ducking behind the living wall of his guards.

"Coward!" Zhao Yan’s voice cut through the din, low and furious.

Pei Rong didn’t even look back. His red robes were streaked with blood—some his, some not—and his eyes were wild with the feral gleam of a cornered animal.

"Kill them all!" he roared to his men as he fled, his voice cracking with both rage and fear.

The five guards closed ranks again, blades up, faces grim. They lunged as one, forcing Zhao Yan back step by step.

But he was not alone.

Deng Mi appeared at his side, his twin blades dancing with deadly grace. "Your Highness," he said, his voice calm even as he parried a blow that would have taken Zhao Yan’s head. "We’re with you."

A heartbeat later, Wei Ling was there too, his heavy saber biting deep into the shoulder of a guard who’d tried to flank them. Blood fountained and the man crumpled, but another took his place.

The three of them moved like a single beast, blades flashing, feet sliding through the pools of blood that slicked the marble floors.

The clang of steel was deafening. Sparks flew with every strike. The hall shuddered with the fury of it, the banners of the old empire fluttering like ghosts above their heads.

Not far away, Hua Jing fought her own war.

A cluster of Pei Rong’s men surged towards her, their faces twisted with the desperation of men who knew they were losing. She spun to meet them, the blade she’d stolen from the bandit in her hand flashing like lightning.

The first man fell with a clean slice to his throat. She pivoted, catching the next on her blade, forcing him back with a snarl. Her breath came in sharp gasps, sweat slicking her skin beneath her red robes, but her eyes burned with cold fury.

Another came at her, axe raised high. She stepped in close, too close for the axe to swing, and drove her blade up under his arm. He screamed, the sound cut short as she yanked the blade free.

She could see Pei Rong slipping through a side door, his red silk vanishing into the shadows.

I won’t let you escape, she thought, teeth bared in a snarl.

She cut down another soldier who tried to block her way, her movements graceful and lethal. But there were too many. Three more took the fallen man’s place, blades slashing towards her from every angle.

She twisted, one blade skimming across her arm, drawing a thin line of blood. She ignored it, parrying another strike, but they kept coming.

She had no time to reach Pei Rong.

"Out of my way!" she hissed, but they didn’t hear—didn’t care. Their orders were clear: kill her.

One lunged, his blade aimed for her gut. She stepped back, the sword grazing her ribs, pain flashing bright and sharp. Her foot slipped on the blood-slick floor, and she dropped to one knee. But before he could strike again, she surged up, blade flashing up in a savage arc that split his throat wide open.

The others hesitated—but only for a moment.

I can’t stop them all, she thought, fury burning in her chest. She could see Pei Rong disappearing deeper into the palace, slipping through the chaos like a serpent.

A snarl of frustration ripped from her throat as she turned her blade on the next man.

Meanwhile, outside the palace walls, the battle had spread to the outer courtyards. Zhao Yan’s soldiers pushed forward relentlessly, their war cries echoing off the ancient stone. The bandits who had sworn loyalty to Pei Rong fought back like cornered wolves, but they were being driven back, step by bloody step.

The moonlight glimmered on swords and spilled blood alike.

In the royal gardens, once a place of poetry and soft music, nobles ran for their lives, slipping on the dewy grass, their fine silks torn and stained. Some fell to the blades of bandits who cared nothing for titles. Others slipped away into the night, desperate to vanish into the shadows and leave this nightmare behind.

A noblewoman in a jade-green robe screamed as she fell, a sword at her back, her hair fanned around her face like a halo of black silk. Her last breath was a shuddering gasp that vanished into the wind.

The air smelled of crushed flowers and blood.

Inside the palace, the battle’s fury reached a fever pitch.

Deng Mi and Wei Ling fought side by side with Zhao Yan, blades flashing in the dim light. A guard lunged at Deng Mi, but Wei Ling was there, his saber cutting the man down in a single brutal stroke.

Zhao Yan pushed forward, his sword a blur, forcing one of the guards back step by step. The man’s eyes widened in fear as Zhao Yan’s blade pierced his shoulder, and he fell with a strangled cry.

The last two guards hesitated, seeing the feral fire in Zhao Yan’s eyes.

"Yield,"