CHAPTER 230: LET THEM TRY, LET THEM COME

He hesitated, watching her with something like pity. "But... a few of them are still out there. They’re trying to regroup—trying to start another fight."

Hua Jing didn’t respond at first. Her mind was a hollow echo, her gaze locked on the empty space where Zhao Yan had been.

Then slowly, she turned to meet Wei Ling’s eyes.

Her lips twitched, a ghost of a smile flickering across her blood-smeared face. But it was not a smile of relief or peace. It was a cold, fierce thing—a promise written in the curve of her lips and the icy gleam of her eyes.

"Let them come," she said, her voice low and steady. "Let them try."

She straightened her shoulders, her chin lifting as she took a deep breath. The weight of grief was still there, but beneath it burned something else—a hard, relentless fire.

"I will go to war myself," she said softly, her voice almost a whisper. "And I will end it."

Wei Ling froze, stunned by Hua Jing’s declaration. She—whose grief still bordered on collapse—had just vowed to go to war herself... and he had expected words of defeat, not defiance. Her steel‑edged promise rang louder than swords.

He took a steadying breath and slowly nodded. In that small gesture, he offered more than agreement—he gave her permission to keep standing, to stay in the fight. He had served Zhao Yan from the day the prince was old enough to grip a sword. His loyalty ran deeper than blood, and seeing his friend and master dying at his feet tore at him. Yet he couldn’t let grief win now—not when Kaya’s resolve burned brightest at her hardest moment.

They stood in shaky silence on the cool marble floor, broken only by distant murmurs and the rhythm of hurried footsteps beyond the courtyards and walls. The palace physicians had hauled Zhao Yan deeper into a private chamber. Through the papered lattice screens and dim glow of lanterns, they glimpsed heroic battle of life vs. death—hands pressed to chests, veins pulsing, beads of sweat clinging to brows. Yet here, in this narrow corridor, only echoes carried.

A soft footstep—nearly silent—pulled their gaze to the doorway.

Zhao Ling Xu appeared, garbed in faded crimson and powdered with soot and blood. The lines around his eyes spoke of a grief deeper than any he’d allowed himself to feel. Pei Rong—his father—was dead. The empress mother... rumors said she’d bled out in disgrace. The world he’d once known lay in ruin.

Now, he came to inquire after the brother he’d been raised to supplant.

Hua Jing’s robes brushed the ground as she turned toward him, wiping sweat‑and‑tear from her face. A faint sheen of resolve still clung to her. "Your Highness," she said quietly.

Zhao Ling Xu nodded but didn’t speak. His gaze flickered to Wei Ling, then to the prince’s closed chamber. His heart pounded at the ghost of his own ambition—the vacant throne that could have been his. Regret and guilt warred in his silent stare.

Eventually, he cracked the silence. "How—how is he?" His voice caught on the final word, as though even naming Zhao Yan might steal his breath.

Hua Jing swallowed. "The physicians—" She swallowed again. "They say he still lives. Blood loss is massive, but they’re keeping him stable."

Wei Ling answered for her: "It won’t be easy. We need time—and safety. The wound... the arrow pierced much deeper than anyone saw."

Zhao Ling Xu looked down, poster‑quiet. "I... I’m sorry." Guilt broke free. "I—I joked about the throne. I didn’t expect he’d—"

Hua Jing raised a finger to calm him. "None of this is your fault." Her voice trembled, but she kept it steady. "Your brother gave his life—and possibly more—to save our empire. To save us."

He blinked rapidly. "But I—I wanted to stop all of this. I—

Wei Ling watched him intently. "Those men you thought might be free... rumors now say part of Pei Rong’s loyalists are regrouping outside. They’re gathering in the north tower. They’re not finished." He turned to Hua Jing. "She means to go. With your permission—"

Zhao Ling Xu’s eyes snapped to Hua Jing. She gave a brief nod. He looked back to Wei Ling, then to the closed chamber door.

"I want to help," he said, voice steadying. "Zhao Yan is my brother too. If they think this empire is theirs to destroy, they will have to go through me first."

Hua Jing brushed the hair from Zhao Ling Xu’s forehead. "Good." She looked to Wei Ling. "He may not have a title, but we accept his sword."

In a gesture that felt like absolution, Zhao Ling Xu bent forward—hand lightly placed over Zhao Yan’s chamber. "Brother... hold on. We’ll end this."

Tears welled, unbidden. Hua Jing placed her hand over his, too. Their palms pressed together, a silent vow.

Outside the chamber, steps approached in measured rhythm. Another physician emerged. This one, older and more seasoned, met their eyes.

"He remains unconscious. If he wakes... it may be tomorrow, midday." His tone was factual, devoid of hope or fear. He carried both. "Right now, he is breathing. That is all we have."

Zhao Ling Xu inhaled slowly, nodding. "Then we keep guard."

Hua Jing stood tall despite the weight of worries threatening to crush her. "Yes. We keep watch, and we end what Pei Rong started."

The faint sound of rain tapping against distant windows could be heard, heavy and persistent. The empire had cleared Pei Rong’s rule... but the fallout—icy daggers of betrayal—would pay no mind to sunlight.

Zhao Ling Xu stepped back. "I... will organize the men." From his sleeve, he produced a small jade token — the cracked half of the original Jade Token. "When he wakes... we’ll present this together."

Hua Jing and Wei Ling exchanged a glance: where once it symbolized power, now it symbolized shared responsibility—and forgiveness.

Zhao Ling Xu looked at Hua Jing. "Thank you—for not giving up on him.... And for not giving up on me."

She offered a kind smile, though her eyes still held loss. "We’re all family. We will see him through—together."

He straightened. "Come take your rest. We will meet in two hours at the north tower. Lady Hua Jing—"

She responded with a nod. "At the north tower."

He paused, then bowed his head to both his brother’s wife and his brother’s loyal guard. He took a quiet step back, slowly slipping into the shadows lined with columns and lanterns.

The courtyard remained still, save for the soft pattering of rain.

The three—Hua Jing, Wei Ling and the departing Zhao Ling Xu—stood by the silent chamber door. Each carried a burden of grief, defeat, and unsaid words. Yet in their stead, a fragile spark of resolve burned, shared and renewed.

Hua Jing laid a hand against the lacquered wood. "Zhao Yan," she whispered, "We’re not done yet!"