CHAPTER 226: THE FINAL SHOWDOWN (PART 4)

Zhao Yan stepped forward, his voice steady and resolute, his words cutting through the tense air like the edge of his blade. "Even the heavens do not want you as the ruler. Everything you have worked hard for was all for nothing!"

Pei Rong’s eyes widened, the madness in his gaze flickering and then solidifying into something sharper, darker. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one pulling at the ragged edges of his pride. His fingers twitched around the hilt of his sword, white-knuckled with rage.

"You—!" he spat, his voice raw with fury. "You dare speak to me of fate? I am the rightful ruler! I have the Jade Token—no... I had it... and I will have it again! Over my dead body will I let you take this from me!"

The crack in the Jade Token at his feet glowed faintly, almost pulsing like a heartbeat, as if the soul of the empire itself was mourning what it had been forced to endure. But Pei Rong ignored it, his entire focus locked on Zhao Yan, his expression contorting into a snarl.

"Kill them!" he roared, his voice breaking the momentary hush. "Kill them all! My reign will not end here!"

His men, those who had fought so fiercely and so long for him, hesitated for the briefest instant—caught between the crackling energy of the heavens’ disapproval and the weight of their loyalty. But loyalty won out. With renewed cries, they surged forward, weapons raised high.

Zhao Yan didn’t flinch. He raised his own sword, his eyes bright and cold in the shifting light of the torches. Deng Mi and Wei Ling fell into formation beside him, the three of them moving as one, unyielding.

Steel met steel with a scream of fury and desperation. The air seemed to thrum with the violence of it—each clash of blades sending sparks flying, each breath a gasp of life snatched from the edge of death.

Pei Rong himself threw himself into the fray, his red robes swirling around him like the fires of hell. His blade was a blur, each strike savage, each step driving him forward with the ferocity of a man who would not—could not—accept defeat.

"You will not take this from me!" he howled, his sword flashing down at Zhao Yan with enough force to jar his arms to the bone. "This is my destiny—mine alone!"

Zhao Yan met each strike head-on, his breath ragged, his focus narrowed to the man before him. He could feel the raw force of Pei Rong’s rage in every blow, the Prime Minister’s disbelief and fury channeled into each savage swing.

"Your destiny," Zhao Yan snarled back, parrying a vicious slash and stepping into Pei Rong’s guard, "was sealed the moment you defied the heavens. You have no claim here—no soul worthy of the empire!"

Pei Rong’s scream was wordless, a sound of pure, blind rage. He swung again, his blade scraping along Zhao Yan’s shoulder and drawing a hot line of blood. Pain flared, but Zhao Yan didn’t falter—he twisted, his own blade slamming into Pei Rong’s side, the force of the blow knocking the older man back a step.

But Pei Rong didn’t fall. His eyes were wild, his teeth bared in a snarl. "I will not be denied!"

Around them, the fighting surged. Pei Rong’s men and Zhao Yan’s loyal guards clashed in a whirl of blood and steel. Bodies fell, the marble floors slick with crimson. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood, the cries of the wounded, the low rumble of distant thunder still echoing through the sky.

Hua Jing and Zhao Ling Xu fought at the edges of the fray, their blades weaving deadly patterns as they cut down those who dared come too close. Blood streaked their clothes, but they moved with the calm purpose of those who had already faced death and chosen to defy it.

Wei Ling took a cut to his leg, the wound deep, but he roared in defiance, slamming his saber into the chest of the man who had wounded him. Deng Mi fought with the cold focus of a man who had nothing left to lose, his twin blades a blur of death.

Zhao Yan and Pei Rong fought at the center of it all, their blades ringing out with every clash. The Jade House loomed behind them, its ancient walls reflecting the battle like a thousand silent witnesses.

Pei Rong’s face was a mask of fury, his breath coming in harsh gasps. "You think you can steal this from me? You think you can take my empire? I will see you burn before I let that happen!"

Zhao Yan’s blade met Pei Rong’s again, the clash echoing like thunder. "It was never yours to claim," he said, his voice low, steady. "You betrayed the empire. You betrayed your own soul."

For a heartbeat, their blades locked, the two men eye to eye. And in Pei Rong’s gaze, Zhao Yan saw it at last—not the conviction of a ruler, but the desperate greed of a man who could not bear to see his dreams slip away.

With a roar, Pei Rong broke the lock, his blade swinging again and again, each strike more frantic than the last. Zhao Yan gave ground, turning each blow aside by inches, his own breath coming in ragged gasps.

The world narrowed to the ring of steel and the pounding of his heart. Every instinct screamed at him to finish it—to end the madness here and now.

Pei Rong lunged, his blade arcing towards Zhao Yan’s throat. But Zhao Yan was faster—he twisted, his blade coming up in a brutal slash that caught Pei Rong across the chest.

Blood sprayed, bright and hot, across the marble floor.

For a single, frozen moment, the world went silent.

Pei Rong staggered back, his mouth opening in a gasp of shock. His eyes dropped to the wound that bloomed red across his chest, and for the first time, there was something like fear in his gaze.

Zhao Yan stood tall, his blade steady, his breath harsh in the quiet. Around them, the battle stilled, every eye turning to the Prime Minister as he swayed on his feet.

Blood dripped down Pei Rong’s red robes, staining the marble beneath his feet.