"Your Majesty—"
Shen Yue merely blinked lightly, glancing at the imperial decree in Shen Yaojin's hand before shifting her gaze to his face.
Shen Yaojin lowered his eyes slightly, not meeting her gaze, his demeanor as calm as the eye of a storm.
A cold wind blew, stirring the tips of her hair.
A host of court officials rushed into the Hall of Mental Cultivation, kneeling en masse, their cries of grief echoing.
As the funeral bell chimed, the common folk lit their lamps.
Amidst the throng's laments, an old minister stepped forward, wiping tears from his eyes, "Your Highness, the Seventh Prince, what did the Emperor say to you before he departed?"
Shen Yaojin raised the imperial decree, the emperor's yellow silk, and handed it to Eunuch Li, the emperor's confidant. His narrow eyes remained unruffled, deep and indifferent.
Eunuch Li, holding the decree, his sharp voice imbued with the distinctive tone of a eunuch.
"By the Mandate of Heaven, we decree: Now that we have a seventh son, possessed of outstanding intelligence and celestial protection, we pass the throne to him. We hope he will be a wise ruler who loves his people. Thus is the decree."
The officials bowed deeply to Shen Yaojin, their voices thundering, "Long live His Majesty, long live, long live His Majesty!"
Within the grand hall, only Shen Yue stood tall.
She wore unusually light colors today, a moon-white Guangling python robe, cinched at the waist with a moon-white belt of geometric patterns.
Her ink-thick hair was half-tied up, revealing a section of her neck, like a soft, warm piece of white jade.
Their eyes met, and Shen Yue suddenly laughed, her soft chuckles all the clearer in the silent hall.
Her quiet words shocked everyone.
"This imperial decree is fake. Shen Yaojin, you usurped the throne and murdered your father. You dared to alter the decree. For this, you shall be executed."
As the words fell, the doors were kicked open, and countless guards in armor rushed in, surrounding everyone.
The ministers understood what was happening, though it was within their expectations, yet they were still terrified of being wrongly executed.
Shen Yaojin showed no panic. He looked at Shen Yue and said calmly, "Are you rebelling?"
The doors of the Hall of Mental Cultivation were wide open, outside, heavy snow fell like catkins, and the wind howled.
Huo Dao, leading his soldiers, had just emerged from a fierce battle, seemingly unstoppable. Blood spattered his face, and he gripped his long sword.
Blood flowed down the steps, thick and viscous, staining the snow a crimson hue.
Shen Yue walked step by step towards Shen Yaojin, casually taking a sword from a guard. The sword still bore traces of blood, reflecting a cold, sharp glint.
Cheng Qian Gong stood behind Shen Yaojin. As Shen Yue closed to within a meter, Cheng Qian Gong called out her name in a low voice.
"Shen Yue."
Shen Yue paused, her dark eyes still calm, her gaze shifting slightly to Cheng Qian Gong.
Cheng Qian Gong's expression was complex, his handsome face shrouded in gloom. He said deeply, "You will regret this."
Shen Yue's expression remained unchanged, her face as fair as jade, with a hint of a smile.
She approached Shen Yaojin with the sword in hand. He did not evade, standing firm, watching Shen Yue draw near like a vengeful ghost.
She raised the sword, the cold light reflecting on her face, adding a touch of iciness.
The sharp blade pressed against his chest. A slight exertion of force, a forward thrust, and it could have pierced his flesh, his heart.
She had no intention of truly stabbing him, but in the eyes of others, it seemed Shen Yue would strike in the next moment.
Her wrist was seized by someone from behind, held tightly. The person's grip was strong, their skin rough, their palm calloused, the abrasive touch making her bones creak.
Unbeknownst to Shen Yue, a tall figure pressed against her back. The breath exhaled near her neck was scorching hot, carrying a wild, suppressed impulse, as if to bite through her throat.
The strong scent of blood was overwhelming, making her chest feel tight.
Shen Yue's expression finally changed.
She turned her head and saw the man's sharp, well-defined jawline, his cold, silver armor hard and unyielding.
It was Huo Dao.
Shen Yue looked around and realized that the guards in the hall had, at some point, lowered their swords.
Fu An had long since been apprehended by two men, forced to kneel on the ground, his mouth gagged.
Shen Yue clenched the sword in her hand, her lips pressed tightly together.
"Let go."
The man behind her seemed to obey docilely, releasing her hand.
The bright red marks on her wrist were vivid and stinging.
Shen Yue understood everything. With an unexpected calmness, she turned and looked at Huo Dao.
She asked calmly, "Why?"
She had treated Huo Dao well.
Without her, where would the current Huo Dao be? She had watched Huo Dao grow, feeling a sense of pride and comfort.
In times of danger, Huo Dao was always the first to stand up, shielding her from all harm. He spoke little, his actions speaking volumes.
She believed Huo Dao would never betray her.
Huo Dao's brow furrowed slightly. He paused, then said indifferently in a low voice, "Your Highness, you cannot."
The man had always been a man of few words, yet Shen Yue understood his meaning from those few syllables.
Like everyone else, Huo Dao knew Shen Yue was not a wise ruler. If she ascended the throne, the empire would fall into chaos.
Shen Yue remained very calm, so calm it was almost unnatural.
Cheng Qian Gong spoke softly, "Your Highness, do not be misguided. If you surrender, I promise your life will not be harmed. You will remain the carefree Fourth Prince."
Throughout it all, Shen Yaojin had remained silent, offering no rebuttal to Cheng Qian Gong, as if silently agreeing.
She looked up at Fu An, slowly revealing a smile. The smile was faint, gentle, and shallow, contained within her eyes.
It was a pure, gentle smile.
Fu An looked at her, shaking his head tearfully, his fair face streaked with tears.
Fu An had followed her for so many years, and suffered so much.
In fact, Shen Yue had not been without a plan. She could have torn through the defenses alone and escaped, living a life of freedom and leisure.
But Shen Yue did not choose that path. Turning to look at Shen Yaojin, the smile on her face faded. "Let Fu An go, and I will submit to whatever you decide."
Shen Yaojin's eyes were cold, devoid of emotion. He agreed with surprising speed, as if he had been waiting for those very words.
"Very well."
Fu An was roughly pulled up by the men. Somehow, he found the strength to break free from their grasp. Then, before everyone's surprised eyes, he exerted all his might and slammed himself against a pillar.
*Bang—*
A dull thud. Fu An collapsed to the ground, blood gushing from his forehead. His eyes remained open, fixed in Shen Yue's direction, a faint smile on his face.
It seemed to silently convey, "Your Highness, it does not hurt."
Shen Yue stared blankly, her blood seeming to freeze instantly. She gritted her teeth, her lips, her gaze, her entire body trembling.
Stumbling, she walked over, Shen Yue knelt on the ground, her hands frozen in mid-air, afraid to touch him.
This scene felt as if it had been replayed in her dreams countless times.
"Fu An…"
She was so overcome with grief that she could only force out those two words, then biting her lip, she began to cry. Tears fell like a string of pearls, dropping down her cheeks.
Even her pale face was flushed by the falling tears.
Her heart felt as though it would shatter, the overwhelming sorrow and despair crushing her, stealing her breath.
She wanted to touch him, yet dared not.
"Fu An, don't leave me…"
"Don't…"
Cheng Qian Gong's heart sank, his face paling.
No one had expected such a turn of events.
Shen Yue knelt alone, helpless, her slender shoulders trembling slightly.
Cheng Qian Gong felt an urge to approach, but then Shen Yue suddenly stood up. Her white robe was stained with blood, a vivid crimson. She held the sword, its tip still bearing faint traces of blood.
For some reason, seeing this scene, Cheng Qian Gong's hair stood on end.
"Shen Yue!"
Shen Yue paused and turned, looking at them.
Cheng Qian Gong's heart was pounding, cold sweat trickling down his spine. His throat felt dry, yet he feigned composure. "Shen Yue, come here. Come to my side."
His gentle tone seemed to indicate he was afraid of frightening her.
Shen Yue's eyes flickered, tears instantly filling her eyes. She said nothing, her expression not overtly dramatic, yet it allowed anyone to feel her grievance and despair as if it were their own.
She seemed dazed, as if her nerves had been severely damaged, her entire demeanor appearing somewhat abnormal.
Her voice was small, but it reached their ears clearly.
"If I die, will you be happy?"
Cheng Qian Gong's pupils constricted sharply, his eyes widening. His flesh and blood felt as if they were drying up. A vague sense of unease plunged him into boundless panic.
In the next moment, his fear was confirmed.
Shen Yue placed the sword against her neck, closed her eyes, and a smile bloomed on her face. It was as clean as if washed by water, serene and enduring.
It was not death, but liberation.
Or with a strong grip on the sword hilt, blood erupted, like a vibrant shower of crimson.
As she fell to the ground, Shen Yue's vision blurred and darkened. Vaguely, she thought she saw someone scrambling towards her.
Who was it?
…It didn't seem to matter.
Shen Yue smiled, her dimples shallow.