The air inside the Imperial Palace was thick with the scent of ceremonial incense and something darker—unease. Moonlight bled through high arched windows, casting narrow streaks of silver upon the jade floor of the Inner Court. The Emperor's private chambers, normally a sanctuary of authority and ancient elegance, had become a quiet tomb.
Dongfang Tianyi sat slouched upon his throne, eyes half-lidded, skin pale. The golden seal of the Empire weighed heavily in his lap. A single porcelain teacup had tipped beside him, its contents spilled across a scroll of military edicts.
A ripple of urgency passed through the Shadow Wardens. The palace was on lockdown.
"The north tower is sealed. Seven guards on rotation. Two elite sentinels from the Zhao family," whispered Ji Yeyan beneath his breath.
Xuan Le, clad in twilight runes and astral concealment robes, responded through their soul-thread. *"Distraction in sixty seconds. Initiate zero-blade protocol."*
Ji Yeyan vanished into the shadows, melting into the stone corridor as if the palace itself welcomed his presence. Meanwhile, Xuan Le hovered above the dome of the Eastern Pavilion, star-charged glyphs swirling at his fingertips. He released a silent burst—Stellar Mirage—a ghostly copy of a Bai family envoy appeared and darted through the main courtyard.
The guards chased.
Ji Yeyan slipped through the breach.
Inside the private audience hall, Ji Yeyan found the Emperor collapsed. Shen Guancheng was already there, dressed in his ceremonial red robes, his expression eerily calm.
"Too late," Shen said softly.
Ji's eyes narrowed. "What have you done?"
"Administered fate. His majesty drank from the wrong cup. Perhaps it was destiny."
Ji rushed to the Emperor. His fingers checked the pulse.
Faint. Weak.
Not dead.
"The poison was meant to blame Mengtian's supporters. You think the Empire won't burn once the truth comes out?"
Shen Guancheng raised a small jade vial. "The Compact doesn't care about truth. Only perception. The ministers will see the collapsed emperor and a fabricated confession." He gestured toward a parchment stamped with the Thunder Dragon sigil.
A framing note.
"Not if we bring light to it first," Ji said coldly.
In the dark corners of the palace, Xuan Le had traced the mana imprint on the poison vial back to General Zhao Fenglie's private apothecary wing.
He projected an astral map in real time to Ji. "Confirmed. Shen Guancheng colluded with Zhao Fenglie and Shi Jainhong. The order came from the Compact—to crown Zihan and fracture the Empire from within."
Ji's voice was stone. "Then they have declared war not only on Mengtian, but on the Empire itself."
## At Imperial Palace Western Gate, a Palace Rebellion Began
The western gates burst open.
Rao Lin entered with two full strike squads from the Hall of Valor. Their crimson and obsidian armor gleamed under the torchlight.
"Emperor's life is in danger! By decree of the Sovereign of the Heavenly Spear Alliance, we invoke Clause Seven: Emergency Protective Custody!"
Palace guards drew blades.
General Zhao Fenglie, already forewarned, appeared atop the garden terrace, sword drawn.
"You bring war to the Empire itself, Rao Lin! Stand down!"
Rao's eyes glinted. "I swore my blade to protect the soul of the nation. If that means cutting out its rot—so be it."
The courtyard was chaos—imperial guards in full dress regalia clashed with Hall of Valor elites in compact combat formations. Swords rang. Spears flashed. The red banners of the Hall rippled beside the gold lions of the Empire.
Standing tall in the midst of it was Rao Lin, her voice rising like a battle horn.
"Hold the arch! Push the right flank! Do not kill unless they bear the Compact's sigil—neutralize, disarm, defend!"
She caught a falling comrade, lifting them onto her shoulder and barking orders to the medic squad. Her armor, etched in deep maroon and gray, was already slick with blood and heat.
General Zhao Fenglie, atop the garden terrace, yelled down:
"You dare wage civil war beneath the Lion's Throne?"
"No," Rao Lin answered, sword gleaming under the moonlight. "I am ending it."
She slammed her sword into the flagstones. A shockwave surged—a Valor resonance aura pulsing from her armor into the hearts of every Hall-trained warrior.
The frontline pushed. Guards were forced back—most still confused, fearful, unsure.
Rao shouted to them:
"You were trained to serve the Empire. Not a usurper. Not a eunuch. Not the Compact. Look into your souls—do you feel shame, or pride?"
Many guards dropped their weapons.
Zhao Fenglie's eyes widened in fury.
"Traitors!"
"Patriots," Rao Lin corrected. "And we remember."
The jade corridor beyond the Emperor's chamber echoed with silence broken only by the soft crackle of runes. Ji Yeyan stepped into the darkness, his silhouette vanishing beneath flickering lanterns. A thin breath of wind passed—and then the sound of steel, unsheathing.
From the far end of the corridor, Dongfang Weiyue emerged—tall, regal, and utterly unflinching. Twin sabers in hand, his violet flame aura flickered with imperial wrath.
"Shadowmaster," Weiyue said coolly. "Return to your holes. The blood of the throne is not yours to touch."
Ji didn't speak. Instead, he moved—one fluid step forward, and the darkness shifted with him.
"You're guarding a throne emptied by poison and treachery," Ji finally said. "Is that still worth your blade?"
Weiyue's sabers clanged together once—like a tolling bell of judgment.
"My blade serves order. The Empire must remain whole—even if bound by blood."
Ji's voice was a whisper of thunder.
"Then you are already broken."
They clashed.
Weiyue's twin sabers struck like a whirlwind—vertical arc, low sweep, reverse slash. Ji Yeyan parried with surgical precision, twin shadow-forged daggers dancing like void threads between burning strikes.
A window shattered. Star-sigil sparks burst as Xuan Le's projection danced across the wall.
"You must end it fast," Xuan Le warned through their link. "Zhao Fenglie is already moving Zihan out."
Ji disengaged, backflipping over a flaming slash. He threw a needle that hummed with distortion—Weiyue deflected it, but his wrist faltered.
Ji ghosted behind him. A blade at his neck.
"Yield."
Weiyue froze. The flames around his sabers dimmed.
But Ji did not cut.
"You are not the real enemy," Ji said quietly. "Don't let your loyalty to the throne blind you to the poison in its veins."
Weiyue clenched his fists—but nodded once.
"Then go. And may your shadow find truth."
Ji vanished.
Far below the palace, in the Moonstone Escape Passages, Dongfang Zihan stood in full imperial armor—not his ceremonial garb, but darkened, lightplate forged from phoenix-ore.
His mother's words echoed from memory:
"One day, you may have to take the throne in fire. Are you ready to burn?"
Zihan turned to General Zhao Fenglie as servants loaded provisions, scrolls, and seal copies into enchanted storage crates.
"Have the Ember Isles pledged loyalty?"
"Enough of them," Zhao said. "The exiled nobles we placed in those islands are ready. Once you land, you will be declared the rightful regent."
"And my father?"
Zhao's face didn't change.
"He is dying. Whether he speaks again does not matter."
Zihan's eyes narrowed.
"Then let him live. The people must believe I was forced to rise… not that I struck from shadow."
He donned his helmet.
"Let the world see a prince made by fire, not ambition."
As he stepped aboard the hidden cloud barge waiting beneath the Imperial Lake, thunder cracked.
As Ji reached the outer corridor, he saw Zihan vanishing down the jade steps with General Zhao Fenglie.
Ji Yeyan watched from afar, unseen—but memorizing everything.
"They head for the Ember Isles," Xuan Le reported. "The Compact is rallying the exiled nobles. This was merely the opening gambit."
Ji stared at the crimson trail left behind by the poisoned emperor.
"Then we answer gambit with checkmate."
At the Time in the Imperial Palace,
The golden throne stood empty.
Beneath it, the Thunder Dragon sigil burned in defiance.
And across the sea, storm clouds rolled toward war.