CHAPTER 227: YOUR HIGHNESS!

The silence after the final stroke was profound. Pei Rong’s eyes widened, the manic fury in them fading into something hollow and lost. He staggered, the red of his blood bright and garish against the white marble steps of the Jade House.

He reached out, his fingers trembling, as if to clutch at the power slipping through them. But there was nothing left to hold. His knees buckled, and he sank slowly to the ground. The Prime Minister’s breath came in wet, rattling gasps, each one weaker than the last.

Zhao Yan stood over him, his sword lowered but ready, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath. His own blood dripped down his arm from a shallow cut, but he paid it no mind. His eyes were locked on Pei Rong—watching, waiting.

Pei Rong looked up, his lips twitching into a twisted smile. "You... you think this means you’ve won?" His voice was thin and ragged, but there was still a flicker of defiance in his eyes. "You... you’ll never hold this empire... never."

Zhao Yan said nothing. He simply watched as the final spark of defiance guttered in Pei Rong’s eyes, replaced by the dull glaze of death.

The Prime Minister’s head slumped forward, his blood pooling around him in a slow, creeping tide that spread across the marble like an offering. For a moment, the only sound was the faint drip of blood echoing in the hushed courtyard.

Then, as if the entire empire had been holding its breath, a cheer rose from the onlookers.

It started as a single voice—trembling, disbelieving. Then another, stronger, until the courtyard erupted into a roar of triumph. Soldiers pounded their shields in celebration. Servants wept openly, relief and hope flooding their faces. The bloodied remnants of Zhao Yan’s loyal guards raised their swords high, voices hoarse with victory.

Zhao Yan stood still in the center of it all, his eyes on Pei Rong’s lifeless form. His shoulders were taut, his expression unreadable beneath the flickering torchlight. Victory tasted bitter on his tongue—because he knew this was only the beginning.

Beside him, Deng Mi wiped his blade on the hem of his tattered cloak, his face pale but resolute. "It’s over," he said, his voice husky. "Pei Rong is dead. We’ve won, Your Highness."

Wei Ling gave a short, tired laugh. "The empire can finally breathe again."

But Zhao Yan didn’t smile. His eyes shifted, sweeping the courtyard and the people in it. He saw the confusion and fear still lingering in their eyes, the uncertainty that came after every war. And he saw Zhao Ling Xu, standing just beyond the edge of the crowd.

Zhao Ling Xu’s face was calm, but there was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes—a shadow of something Zhao Yan couldn’t name. The younger man’s gaze lingered on Pei Rong’s body, the blood painting the pristine marble steps in deep, vivid crimson.

For a fleeting moment, Zhao Yan thought he saw a glimmer of regret, or maybe something colder—something final. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by the same distant composure.

Zhao Ling Xu met Zhao Yan’s eyes and gave the faintest of nods—a silent acknowledgment, and perhaps, an understanding that went unspoken. This was the end of one man’s reign of terror... but the true work of healing the empire had only just begun.

The cheers rose higher, echoing off the jade walls, but Zhao Yan couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that prickled along his spine. He turned away from Pei Rong’s corpse, raising his voice to be heard over the tumult.

"Enough!" he called, his voice strong and commanding. The noise died down at once, the people turning to him, their eyes wide with hope and fear. "Pei Rong is dead," Zhao Yan continued, his tone measured. "But we must not forget the cost of this day. We must honor the lives lost, and rebuild what he sought to destroy."

The crowd murmured in agreement, heads bowing, the weight of his words sinking in.

A sudden wind swept through the courtyard, rustling the banners that hung limply from the balconies above. The air smelled of blood and smoke, the night sky above roiling with clouds that glowed faintly with distant lightning.

Zhao Yan lifted his gaze to the sky, feeling the chill of that wind against his skin. The heavens had rejected Pei Rong, but would they accept him? That question loomed in his mind, heavy as the sword in his hand.

He took a slow breath, turning back to face his men. "We will see justice done," he said quietly. "For every soul lost, for every tear shed—this I swear."

Deng Mi clasped a hand on his shoulder, his grip firm. "We’re with you, Your Highness. To the end."

Wei Ling gave a small, grim smile. "To the end."

The moment of quiet resolve stretched on, heavy with all that had been lost and all that would come.

But then, in the midst of that fragile stillness, something shifted.

A whisper of movement—too swift to see, but felt in the sudden tension in the air. A faint whistle that cut through the hush.

Zhao Yan’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing.

An arrow, black as midnight, flew from the shadowed heights of the courtyard walls.

Time seemed to slow. He saw the glint of the arrowhead, the way it cut through the air with lethal precision. A single breath, a single heartbeat—

Then pain exploded in his chest.

The arrow struck true, slamming into his armor with enough force to drive him back a step. He gasped, the breath knocked from his lungs, his sword slipping from his fingers to clatter against the marble floor.

Around him, there was a collective gasp—shock, fear, disbelief.

Deng Mi caught him before he could fall, his face gone pale. "Your Highness!"

Wei Ling’s eyes widened in horror. "Zhao Yan!"

The cheer that had filled the courtyard died in an instant, replaced by a hush so deep it felt as though the world itself had stopped breathing.

Zhao Yan’s fingers scrabbled at the shaft of the arrow, blood already soaking through his tunic in a bright, vivid bloom. His breath was ragged, each inhale a struggle, each exhale tinged with copper.

He lifted his gaze, dazed, and met the wide, terrified eyes of the crowd.

Beyond them, Zhao Ling Xu and Hua Jing stood frozen, their faces pale in the flickering torchlight. Zhao Ling Xu’s mouth opened in a silent cry, Hua Jing’s hands clenching at her sides.

The world seemed to tilt around him, the jade walls shimmering like ghosts in the corners of his vision.

Zhao Yan’s lips parted, a single word slipping out in a broken whisper.

"Hua Jing..."