Chapter 156

On the twenty-eighth day of the twelfth month, the rebel forces breached the city walls. Within the capital of Yu, fear gripped every household. The long streets were eerily silent. Only the sound of iron-shod hooves and the steady march of soldiers echoed through the cold air.

By the twenty-ninth, when the first rays of sunlight broke through the clouds and spilled over the centuries-old city, the streets lay blanketed in undisturbed snow. No trace remained of last night’s bloodshed, no glint of drawn blades. There was only a chilling, unnatural stillness, as if the terror had been nothing more than a shared, unspeakable nightmare.

The palace gates were shut fast. Before the Gate of Supreme Harmony, a mass of officials stood gathered, cloaked in the pale, misty light of dawn. Not a word passed between them. Each kept their silence, their thoughts carefully concealed.

Su Huaijing stood with head bowed, gazing at the white marble tiles beneath his feet. His own shadow, cast faintly in the morning light, lay stretched across the stone.

After a moment, another shadow appeared beside it.

Sheng Chengli had come to stand at his side. Gone was the ever-present, unsettling smile. His brow was furrowed, his expression caught between mockery and reproach, more accusatory than amused. His voice, cold and biting, broke the silence: “Excellency Su’s methods are, I must say, deeply impressive.”

Su Huaijing took a measured half-step back. He bowed flawlessly, without hesitation, and replied evenly,

“Your Highness flatters me. May I ask what prompts such praise?”

Sheng Chengli’s gaze was dark. “Do you mean to say you truly don’t know?”

“I would be grateful if Your Highness could enlighten me.”

There were too many eyes and ears about. Everyone was waiting, silent and complicit, for news from within the palace walls. If a confrontation were to break out at the gates now, it would be nothing short of a spectacle, and enough to draw the attention of even the most exalted. But neither man was willing to play the part of a court jester.

Sheng Chengli fixed Su Huaijing with a long, seething stare before letting out a sharp snort and sweeping away without another word. Su Huaijing watched him go for a moment, then calmly lowered his gaze. His expression remained unchanged throughout—unperturbed, composed.

At last, full daylight broke. The palace gates swung open, and the Chief Eunuch’s voice rang out, soft and effeminate, summoning all officials to court. His clouded eyes passed slowly over each man in turn as they entered, one by one, each burdened with his own secrets.

Inside the palace, the scene stood in stark contrast to the peace outside. Blood, vivid and thick, stained the white jade floor, flowing down the great crimson steps in rivulets, pooling into a dark, river-like channel at the foot of the terrace.

Some of the more timid officials collapsed on the spot, legs giving way beneath them. Su Huaijing frowned, the iron scent in the air turning his stomach. Pressing his lips together, he composed himself and followed the tide of courtiers forward.

In the open square before the Hall of Supreme Harmony, bodies lay scattered in disarray, all clad in the black robes of the rebel army. Each had met a grisly end.

The officials trembled inwardly, their steps faltering with dread and disbelief. Within the grand hall, three figures knelt at the centre of the room: Third Prince Sheng Chengxing, Sixth Prince Sheng Chengyun, and Marshal Xia Jingyi, a man who had commanded armies and wielded power for a lifetime. Now, all three looked haggard and deathly pale.

Atop the dragon throne sat the Emperor. He’d been long absent from public view due to illness. Now, he was dressed in his imperial yellow robes, eyes dark with suppressed fury as he surveyed the hall.

None dared delay. Each found his place and knelt.

A few sharp-eyed officials noted that the commander standing beside the Emperor was a new face.

Su Huaijing had glanced at him only once upon entering, then quickly looked away, expression unreadable. He kept precisely to protocol, respectful and composed.

There was more blood in the hall, both dried and fresh. Whether it had been left due to haste or by the Emperor’s design as a warning, no one could say.

Emperor Renshou spoke at last, voice low and weighty. “My loyal subjects.”

The gathered officials cried in unison, “Long live His Majesty, long live, long live—”

The Emperor gave a cold, derisive snort. “Long live? Some of you, I suspect, can hardly wait for me to die.”

The wrath of a sovereign could soak the palace in blood. The courtiers trembled.

He rose from his throne and descended the steps, pacing slowly among them, his expression thunderous, his voice gravelled with rage. “Tell me, do you recognise the three kneeling before you?”

No one moved. No one replied. Better to remain silent than risk saying the wrong thing.

“One is my son,” the Emperor said. “One is my father-in-law. And one…”he paused “—is the child fated from birth to be showered with heaven’s blessings and the love of an entire empire.”

The vast hall, usually solemn and still during court, now held a suffocating silence.

Though the Spring Festival drew near, the very air felt deathly still. The Emperor paced like a predator among prey. It seemed like he was of striking at any moment.

“All of them are imperial kin,” he continued. “All, pillars of this nation. All, men spoken of as future emperors, future ministers…”

He stopped before Sheng Chengxing, regarding him in silence for a long, heavy moment. Then his voice dropped, low and menacing: “What now? Can’t wait for me to die, is that it? So eager to rebel, to force me into abdication?”

With that, the Emperor raised his foot and kicked Sheng Chengxing to the ground.

The court erupted in alarm. Officials bowed low, their voices pleading: “Your Majesty, please restrain your anger! Take care of your sacred health—”

The Emperor’s gaze swept toward them, his voice rising. “And as for the rest of you—”

“You think me blind? You’ve spent years forming cliques and factions, scheming in secret, throwing your weight behind one prince or another. All for the sake of that throne beneath me!”

Sheng Xuyan gave a sharp, bitter laugh. “What now? Since I’ve stepped down from power, who among you dares to climb up there in front of me? Go on then. Save yourselves the trouble of grooming another puppet, eh?”

His voice rang out, biting and cold. No one answered.

He paced a few more steps, knocking over a few trembling ministers as if scattering dust, venting his rage. Only then did he return to the dragon throne and take his seat. A eunuch stepped forward to read the imperial edict aloud:

“Xia Jingyi, harbouring treacherous intent, has conspired against the throne. His crime is grave. His entire clan shall be executed.

“Sheng Chengxing, third prince of the realm. Though born to imperial favour and raised by heaven’s grace, he has failed to honour his debt of gratitude. Arrogant and reckless, he plotted rebellion, defied his father, and disrespected his ancestors. According to the laws of the land, he should be put to death. However, though a son be unfilial, a father must not be unkind. The death sentence shall be commuted. He shall be confined to the Sky Prison for life, never to be released save by death.”

“Though not directly involved in this act of rebellion, the Sixth Prince, Sheng Chengyun had failed in his duty to admonish and restrain his elder brother, and never once counselled him towards virtue. As such, he shall be punished with the forfeiture of one year’s salary, six months’ confinement, and a further six months guarding the imperial mausoleum, there to reflect upon his faults.”

…

When the eunuch who proclaimed the decree closed the imperial edict, no one in the hall dared so much as breathe.

In a single night, those who had once held the highest honours in the empire of Dayu were scattered like startled monkeys from a tree. Only yesterday they had feasted in lofty pavilions; today they knelt before the court as condemned men awaiting execution.

Who would dare speak another word? Who did not fear setting himself aflame?

When the emperor at last pronounced the death sentences, he rose and stood towering and immovable upon the golden throne, like a mountain no mortal could ever climb.

The mountain moved; the courtiers bowed low. The emperor’s heavy robes swept across the white marble floor as he turned to leave. But at that moment, one of the kneeling men suddenly lifted his head and revealed thin mocking smile to him.

Sheng Chengxing said, “Sons of the royal line, blessed by Heaven? Cruel and wanton, plotting rebellion? Unfilial to their father, disrespectful to their ancestors? Condemned to death by law?”

He had just endured the most chaotic night of his life, and had been kicked so hard by Emperor Renshou that he spat blood. Still, he staggered to his feet and looked straight up at the sovereign who ruled over millions. With a cold and cutting tone, he asked, “Imperial Father, have you sat upon that throne for so long, heard so many songs of praise, read so many hollow eulogies, that you’ve forgotten how you came by it in the first place?”

He went on, “If we speak of cruelty, of defying our forebears, of harbouring treacherous intent. Tell me, among this court of ministers and kinsmen, who could rival you?”

“Do not forget!” Sheng Chengxing’s eyes were bloodshot, blazing with hatred so fierce it seemed he would drag the whole world down to hell with him. “When my uncle was still alive, was not like this! Look at these courtiers. How many truly serve you from the heart? How many would see you crowned for eternity?

“At least back then, it was only you and your cronies who sought to overthrow the late emperor. Only you who conspired with foreign powers, who drew our borders into war, who cost the life of the late crown prince, of General Wei, and of countless soldiers and civilians on the frontier!”

“Compared to you, at least I never opened the city gates to welcome the enemy in—”

“Pfft—”

A sickening sound cut through the air. Sheng Chengxing’s words froze in his throat. Warm blood splattered across the heads of those standing closest.

“Shameless bastard,” the Emperor’s voice boomed, filled with grim authority. “Delirious with madness. He deserves to die.”

Someone dared to lift their head. What they saw froze them to the core. A sword was buried in Sheng Chengxing’s chest, the hilt still clutched in Emperor Renshou’s hand. A new imperial guard stood silently behind him, an empty scabbard swinging from his waist.

It had happened in a flash.

Emperor Renshou flung the sword aside, his face unreadable as he swept his gaze across the cowering court. He did not explain. Did not rage. Did not so much as breathe heavily. He merely said, with chilling calm:

“Go home. Celebrate the New Year.”

As though he hadn’t just murdered his own son in the very heart of the Golden Throne Hall. As though he hadn’t moments before threatened to slaughter them all.

With a flick of his sleeve, he dismissed the court, retaining only the Fifth and Sixth princes. Xia Jingyi was led away by the inner court guards.

Su Huaijing, as he turned to leave, caught one final glimpse behind him.

Inside the hall, Shen Feiyi drew the blade from Sheng Chengxing’s chest. Blood surged from the wound. He wiped the sword clean, sheathed it once more at his waist, and returned to stand behind the emperor—motionless, wordless, like a statue carved from stone.

The sun had fully risen. Its rays reflected blindingly off the snow piled on either side of the path, golden and white, dazzling to the eyes.

The usual clusters of gossiping civil officials were utterly silent. Heads bowed, they quickened their pace toward the palace gates, each fearful that the slightest delay might cost them their lives.

Su Huaijing looked up and saw a familiar figure, dazed and pale.

His gaze softened. He stepped forward. “Excellency Lu.”

Lu Jiaxi turned, stunned. It took a long moment before he seemed to recognise the voice. Slowly, he whispered, “Excellency Su.”

Su Huaijing nodded. “Would you care to join us for a meal? Tangtang mentioned the other day that he hadn’t seen you in some time.”

With Ke Hongxue and Mu Jingxu down south, and unrest rising in the capital, Su Huaijing had been busy. Rong Tang, rarely one to venture out, had indeed not seen Lu Jiaxi in a while.

Young Lu paused. Then, after a moment’s thought, he gave a faint nod. “If it’s not too much trouble, might I borrow a set of plain clothes? My sisters are easily startled, I’d rather not frighten them like this.”

His robes, shoes, and even his hair were streaked with blood… some dried, some fresh. Some from the throne room floor. Some newly spilled from Sheng Chengxing’s dying body.

They climbed into the carriage. Su Huaijing poured him a cup of tea.

Lu Jiaxi accepted the porcelain cup but didn’t drink. He merely held it, unmoving.

Su Huaijing glanced at him. “What are you thinking?”

Young Excellency Lu looked up, eyes dazed, unable to answer straightaway.

What was he thinking?

Too much. Of how royal grudges could end entire bloodlines. Of how what his mentor once called “The Will of Heaven” had now become, in Sheng Chengxing’s voice, a bloody betrayal. Of how a man could say that a father must show compassion, and then murder his own son moments later in cold blood.

He didn’t know how to answer. After a long silence, his voice emerged at last, low and hoarse, barely more than a whisper: “There’ll be no more flower-picking festivals now, will there…”