Outside the tent, the northern wind howled, sweeping fine rain across the camp, pelting the canvas roof with a steady hiss. Yet this sound paled in comparison to the storm raging within the hearts of the three ministers inside.
"Follow me, defy fate, and forge an unprecedented golden age of Ming—one that commands the submission of all realms!"
"Or…"
Li Ming's voice cut through the air like a frost-edged blade, each word striking the most fragile chords of their hearts. That single utterance of "Zhen"—the imperial first-person—was like a thunderclap, shattering their perception of the Crown Grandson. Gazing upon the pale youth lying on the sickbed, yet whose eyes burned like twin torches, they felt a chill rise from their tailbones straight to the crown of their heads. This was no dying heir. This was a beast long hidden in the shadows, baring its fangs at last.
Cold sweat broke on the foreheads of Qian Yi and Xia Yuanji, their aged bodies trembling ever so slightly. As seasoned ministers who had assisted Emperor Yongle for decades—through the bloody Jingnan Rebellion and into the glory of Ming's golden age—they knew the gravity of imperial power. They understood how usurpation would unleash rivers of blood. Yet the deep, abyssal look in Li Ming's eyes, and the shockingly precise intelligence in his hands about the Wala front, awakened in them a fear they had never known: fear of the unknown, fear of the supernatural.
Yang Shiqi said nothing. He stared at the map in his hands, feeling its chill through his fingertips, sensing the weight of destiny in each ink stroke. Every route, every annotation was terrifyingly accurate. This was no mere speculation—it was prophecy. If what the Crown Grandson claimed was true, and the Wala planned to strike soon, then with the Crown Prince's benevolence but lack of decisiveness, Ming would face a serious crisis.
"There is no need for an immediate answer," Li Ming said, sensing their shock and hesitation. His tone softened, but the pressure he radiated did not. "I know this is a matter of great weight—one that cannot be decided overnight. But time is running out… for Ming."
He coughed violently, once again adopting the appearance of a fragile invalid. It was as if the sharp edge from moments before had vanished like a phantom. Yet that made it even more terrifying—he was acting. He was deliberately showing weakness, luring them in, manipulating, and applying pressure.
"What transpired tonight must never leave this tent," he said, his eyes regaining their abyss-like depth. "My father's illness is grave. The Crown Prince remains unaware. Should word leak, neither I nor any of you will escape ruin."
These words chilled the three ministers. They realized—they were already aboard this ship. And disembarking would not be so easy.
Just then, the sound of galloping hooves approached the tent, followed by frantic, panicked shouting.
"Crown Prince! His Royal Highness the Crown Prince!"
A moment later, the tent's flap was flung open. Wang Zhen stumbled inside, panic and despair written across his face. Forgetting decorum, he dropped to his knees, voice cracking with fear and sorrow:
"Your Highness! The Emperor… His Majesty… has passed!"
Like a bolt of lightning splitting the night sky, the declaration stunned the tent into silence.
Qian Yi, Xia Yuanji, and Yang Shiqi looked up in disbelief, eyes shifting from Wang Zhen to Zhu Zhanji on the sickbed.
The Yongle Emperor—Zhu Di—was truly… dead?
Li Ming's gaze turned somber. So it has come—sooner than expected. He felt no grief. Only a cold clarity. This was inevitable. More importantly—it was the perfect moment.
Another burst of noise erupted outside the tent, and a rotund figure in royal robes stumbled in—the Crown Prince, Zhu Gaochi. His face was pale, eyes bloodshot, tears streaming down his cheeks. Grief clung to him like a shroud.
"Zhanji! You're awake? Your grandfather… your grandfather—" His voice broke as he rushed to the bed, sobbing uncontrollably. His sorrow was sincere—raw and unrestrained.
Li Ming weakly extended a hand and gripped his father's trembling palm. In his eyes flashed a mix of genuine pity for this well-meaning future emperor—and ruthless calculation.
"Father… I… I know His Majesty was gravely ill…" His voice came in broken gasps, so faint it seemed he might lose consciousness at any moment. It was a masterclass in performance. Still holding Zhu Gaochi's hand, he leaned closer and whispered, so only the two of them could hear:
"Father… just moments ago… in a half-dream… Grandfather appeared to me… He warned me—there are traitors planning to strike during the mourning. He told me… to protect you… and protect Ming…"
Like a thunderclap, the words exploded in Zhu Gaochi's ears.
His body stiffened. Tears still streaked his face, but a sharp look of suspicion and alertness entered his eyes. Traitors? Striking during mourning? A dream? A warning from the dead? He glanced toward the tent entrance, then looked back at his son's pale, grave expression.
Li Ming's gaze was filled with conviction and grief, as though he had truly seen a divine omen. He coughed again, spewing blood, his complexion worsening by the second.
"Father… I… cough… I may not live long… But I must obey Grandfather's final command! You must be cautious… Beware… Prince Han…"
"Prince Han?!" Zhu Gaochi blurted out, stunned. His voice trembled with disbelief and rage. Prince Han—Zhu Gaoxu—was his