Zhu Mingyu entered the throne room without armor.
He didn't need it anymore.
The palace hall was quieter than usual—no drum fanfare, no echo of ceremonial bells. The ministers had already gathered, lining the edges of the room like wilted banners. The guards stood at attention, silent and still. At the center of it all, seated on the golden dais like a carcass left too long in the sun, was the Emperor.
His father.
Zhu Wengang looked smaller than Mingyu remembered.
Not older—he had always been old—but shrunken. Thinner. His robes didn't fit right. His hands trembled even before the inkstone was brought forward.
"Is this a joke?" the Emperor muttered, looking around as if someone was going to stand up for him.
But no one did.
Mingyu stepped up onto the platform and bowed—not deeply. Not like a son. Just enough to satisfy tradition.
"You said you wanted peace," Mingyu said evenly. "This is what peace looks like."
