The Min Imperial Palace, still reeling from Min Yulin's bloody declaration, found itself teetering on a precarious edge. The echoes of his raw warning still hung in the air, a chilling reminder of the Crown Prince's volatile power. Empress Han Zhenlan, though outwardly composed, was a viper coiled, nursing her wounded pride and her son Min Chengyou's disfigurement. Her faction, once brazen in their disdain, now moved with a calculated stealth, their whispers like insidious tendrils reaching into every corner of the court. They subtly fanned the flames of discontent, portraying Yulin not as a decisive leader, but as a dangerous madman, unfit to rule. His "attachment" to the "Shen Omega," Shen Zhiyu, became their primary weapon, painting Zhiyu as a dark influence, a sorcerer who had bewitched their Crown Prince.
Zhiyu, confined to the elegant, yet isolating, chambers of the late Empress, felt the subtle pressure. He could almost taste the animosity through the guarded silence of the servants, the wary glances of the occasional visiting official. He was an outsider, a prince of a fallen kingdom, and now, he was also the perceived cause of the palace's unrest. He spent his days in quiet contemplation, rereading ancient texts, and, most importantly, doting on Min Haotian. The baby, now accustomed to Zhiyu's presence, was a constant source of innocent joy, his laughter a sweet antidote to the palace's bitterness. Haotian continued to call Zhiyu "Mama," a word that resonated deeply within Zhiyu's soul, forging a bond far stronger than any political alliance.
Yulin, during his nightly visits, seemed to shed some of his hardened exterior in the presence of Zhiyu and Haotian. He would watch them, his intense gaze softening as Haotian giggled at Zhiyu's gentle ministrations. Sometimes, he would allow a small, almost imperceptible smile to grace his lips. Zhiyu, in turn, found himself drawn to Yulin's quiet strength, to the fierce protectiveness that, despite its brutality, ensured their safety. He saw the loneliness in Yulin's eyes, a reflection of his own isolation. Their conversations remained largely practical, discussing Haotian's needs or the latest political developments, but beneath the surface, an unspoken understanding grew, a profound empathy born from shared trauma. There was no need for grand declarations; their connection was a quiet, unfolding landscape of mutual reliance and protective instincts.
However, the internal conflicts, though fierce, were suddenly overshadowed by a much larger, more imminent threat. News began to filter in from the northern borders, whispers carried on the wind, then official reports from desperate garrisons. Barbarian tribes, emboldened by the perceived internal strife within the Min Empire, were stirring. These were the fierce, nomadic warriors of the Ryn Steppes, known for their brutal raids and insatiable hunger for conquest. For generations, the Min Empire's formidable northern defenses and the fragile peace treaty with the Shen Kingdom (which had acted as a buffer) had kept them at bay. But now, with the Shen Empire fallen and the Min court in disarray, the barbarians sensed weakness. They were like wolves circling wounded prey.
Reports became increasingly alarming: skirmishes on the outer garrisons, raids on border villages, the terrifying sight of their cavalry banners, emblazoned with the roaring bear, advancing further south than ever before. The Min Empire, weakened by the Emperor's growing detachment and Empress Han's relentless power plays, was dangerously vulnerable. The crumbling walls of the palace were symbolic of the crumbling unity within the empire.
In the Imperial Grand Hall, usually a place of solemn governance, the atmosphere was chaotic. Ministers squabbled, factions accused each other, and Emperor Min Tianyou, increasingly gaunt and distracted, seemed incapable of making a decisive move. He was still reeling from Yulin's public defiance and the disfigurement of Chengyou, his favored son. His grief and anger at Yulin had made him withdraw further, allowing Empress Han to exert even greater influence.
It was Empress Han who, with cunning manipulation, seized the opportunity. She saw the barbarian threat not as a national crisis, but as a chance to eliminate Min Yulin and solidify her own power. With Yulin away at war, the path would be clear for Min Cheng'an, her remaining Alpha son, to secure the succession.
Her arguments were subtle at first, voiced through her most trusted allies during court debates. "The Crown Prince is our most skilled warrior," her uncle, the minister who had lost his tongue, communicated through elaborate hand gestures and a trusted interpreter. "His ferocity is unmatched. He is the only one who can quell this barbarian threat." This was met with nods of agreement from courtiers who, while fearing Yulin, also acknowledged his martial prowess.
Then came the insidious suggestions: "His recent... display of force... shows his unwavering resolve. He is clearly ready to lead." "Perhaps this conflict is a perfect opportunity for the Crown Prince to prove his loyalty and return to his duties fully." They painted Yulin as rash, violent, and unsuited for the delicate art of governance, but ideal for the brutal reality of war.
Emperor Min, influenced by Empress Han's persistent urging and his own desire to distance Yulin from the court, finally issued the edict. It was formal, grand, and devastatingly clear: Crown Prince Min Yulin was commanded to lead the imperial army to the northern borders, to repel the barbarian invasion, and to restore peace to the empire.
The news reached Zhiyu in his quiet chambers like a thunderclap. He was with Haotian, teaching the baby the names of the constellations, when a loyal eunuch, his face pale, delivered the scroll. Zhiyu unfolded it, his hands trembling as he read the imperial seal and the cold, formal decree. His breath caught in his throat.
Yulin was to leave. To war.
A cold dread seeped into Zhiyu's bones, colder than any fear he had felt in his prison cell. This wasn't just a physical separation; it felt like someone was tearing a piece of his own breath from him. Yulin was their shield, their protector, the fierce, silent anchor in their turbulent new life. Without him, Zhiyu knew they would be utterly vulnerable to Empress Han's machinations. The subtle contempt of the court would no doubt escalate into open aggression.
That evening, when Yulin arrived for his nightly visit, the air between them was heavy with unspoken words. Zhiyu didn't need to say anything; Yulin knew. His eyes, usually unreadable, held a grim determination, tinged with a weariness Zhiyu hadn't seen before.
Yulin sat beside Zhiyu, reaching out to gently trace Haotian's sleeping cheek. "The edict," he stated, his voice low. "It's final. I am to leave at dawn."
Zhiyu felt a sharp pain in his chest. "Why?" he managed, his voice barely a whisper. "They want you gone. They want us to be vulnerable."
Yulin gave a humorless laugh, a harsh sound in the quiet room. "Of course. It's Han Zhenlan's doing. She wants me out of the way. She thinks she can control the Emperor, then solidify her power." He looked at Zhiyu, his gaze intense. "But it is also my duty. The barbarians are a real threat. And I will not allow this empire, my empire, to fall because of internal squabbling. It would be a shame on me if I let my empire fall" His voice held a quiet, fierce conviction. The war was a means to an end, a proving ground, and a way to purge the rot within the empire.
Haotian stirred, whimpering in his sleep, sensing the tension in the room. Zhiyu immediately gathered him close, rocking him gently, murmuring soft words of comfort. Yulin watched the interaction, a profound sadness entering his eyes. He reached out, hesitantly, and placed his hand over Zhiyu's, his fingers brushing against Haotian's tiny form. It was not a romantic gesture or it was who knows maybe the gesture meant more than that as intelligent and powerful as they are they were just kids after all, but a shared moment of profound vulnerability, a silent acknowledgment of the fragile family unit they had formed.
"I... I don't want you to go," Zhiyu finally confessed, the words escaping him despite his resolve for stoicism. He looked at Yulin, his eyes wide and vulnerable. It was not a declaration of affection, but a raw plea born of fear for their safety, for Haotian's future. "What will happen to us?"
Yulin's gaze deepened, meeting Zhiyu's with an intensity that held both a silent promise and a deep-seated pain. He squeezed Zhiyu's hand gently, and slowly reassuringly, almost possessively bringing him closer to his chest hugging him tightly with haotian still in zhiyus arm. He whispered in zhiyus ear "They will not touch you," he stated, his voice low but firm and resolute. "Nor will they touch Haotian. I will make sure of it." He looked at the baby, then back at Zhiyu. "You are my family. You are the only ones I have left." His words were heavy, laden with the weight of his mother's memory, his unaddressed grief, and the bond he now held for the two people in his arms. He wasn't explicitly stating affection not yet, but rather the foundational nature of their connection, the only people who held his genuine loyalty.
He spent the rest of the night speaking, something Zhiyu had rarely witnessed. He again started to speak of his resentment towards the Emperor, of his mother's suffering, of the decade of bitterness he had carried but went into more detail this time. He outlined his strategies for keeping Zhiyu and Haotian safe, giving Zhiyu quiet instructions, empowering him with knowledge and a sense of shared responsibility. He tugged the blanket tighter around Haotian, adjusting the baby's position in Zhiyu's arms, a tender, almost parental gesture. It was a shared intimacy born of impending separation and deep, complex emotion.
As the first hint of dawn began to paint the sky outside their window, Yulin rose. He looked at Zhiyu, his expression returning to its cold, determined mask, yet his eyes held a fleeting softness. He placed a hand, briefly, on Zhiyu's shoulder, pulling him in a hug again a silent farewell.
Letting zhiyu pull away from his arm he said, "I need to say some final words to the Emperor and Empress," he stated, his voice devoid of his earlier warmth. "And then I leave."
Yulin slipped away from the chambers, his footsteps quiet but resolute. Zhiyu watched him go, a profound sense of emptiness opening up within him. He was leaving them, going to war, facing death, and they were left alone, vulnerable to the very snakes Yulin had just warned them about. As Yulin walked through the silent palace corridors, his mind set on his final confrontation before war, he stopped calling the Emperor "father" the day his mother died, and he was about to deliver a final message to the Emperor and Empress, what will be the final message?