The world outside his fake slumber continued its slow, predictable dance of decay, but inside Tang Liu, a profound transformation was happening. The Primordial Breathing Technique, a silent, internal symphony, hummed through his new body. It was unlike any cultivation he'd read about in the prince's memories – no distinct meridians, no 'Qi Sea' in the usual sense. Instead, the chaotic energy drawn from the void swirled into the hazy singularity within his dantian, a cosmic eye that absorbed all, refined all, and emitted nothing detectable. He felt like a bottomless well, drawing from an endless source, his strength growing with each imperceptible breath, yet outwardly, he remained a motionless, fragile figure, a prince on the brink of death.
For three days, he was an invisible observer. The opulent room, once a prison of despair, became his information hub. He couldn't move his body, but his Radiant Soul, now boosted by the Primordial Path's mysterious workings, was a finely tuned instrument, picking up on the subtlest shifts in the air, the faint emotions of those who passed nearby. The sickly scent of lilies remained, a deliberate choice, he now realized, meant to signal a deathbed, to soften the hearts of any potential allies who might still remember the Third Prince.
Xiao Qi, his personal maid, was always there. Her footsteps were light, her movements efficient, but there was a tremor in her hands when she poured his herbal mixes, a fleeting shadow in her eyes when she thought no one was watching. He heard her whispering outside his door one evening, her voice low and urgent. "He still breathes, but barely. The doctors say it's a matter of hours. Yes, the usual spot. Tell them… tell them he hasn't opened his eyes yet." The clink of spirit stones, unmistakable even to one newly introduced to this world's economy, followed her hushed words. Xiao Qi, the seemingly loyal servant, was indeed a spy, selling his fragile existence to unknown bidders. Tang Liu filed it away, an icy calm settling over him. Betrayal, he realized, was not an act, but a currency here.
His guards, now a meager fifty men, were a grumbling chorus in the outer courtyard. Their conversations, though hushed, painted a vivid picture of the court's neglect. "Another month, Zhao Wu," one deep voice lamented, "and still no pay. My wife… she needs medicine. The Regent's men, they offered us double to join the capital guard." Zhao Wu, the steadfast captain, remained largely silent, his gruff replies punctuated by sighs. "We swore an oath. To the Third Prince." But even his loyalty, Tang Liu noted, was under immense strain. The Regent, Tang Yun, was not just gathering power; he was dismantling Tang Liu's last bits of support, piece by calculated piece.
On the second day, an important-looking figure visited his room. Minister Qin, a portly man with a silk robe the color of fresh jade and a constant, fawning smile, entered with a group of junior officials. "Ah, Your Royal Highness," he sighed dramatically, "to see you thus. The Emperor's heart breaks. All the court prays for your swift recovery." His voice dripped with false sincerity, his eyes darting around the room, assessing, calculating. While his subordinates arranged elaborate flower tributes and whispered prayers, Minister Qin himself moved with a subtle, predatory grace. His gaze lingered on a particularly exquisite jade statue of a coiled dragon, a family heirloom that had stood in the corner since Tang Liu's infancy. With a flick of his wrist, seemingly casual, he palmed the statue, tucking it into a hidden pocket of his voluminous sleeve. His junior officials, well-practiced, simply looked away.
The audacity of it, done right under the nose of the supposed victim. Tang Liu felt no anger, only a cold, methodical determination. This was the way of the Tang Immortal Dynasty, a snake pit where even the pretense of loyalty was a mask for greed. The statue was probably worth enough to feed a small village for a year, a small token for the Minister, but a symbol of the widespread corruption that gnawed at the empire's core.
He continued to cultivate, the internal power growing steadily, silently. His physical body, though still paralyzed, felt subtly different, stronger, more supple, as if the very cells were vibrating with a nascent, hidden energy. He was already at Qi Condensation Layer 1, then Layer 2, then Layer 3, an astonishing speed given the circumstances. The Primordial Breathing Technique, a Tier 8 art, truly lived up to its name. Yet, his outward appearance remained unchanged, the picture of a helpless, dying prince.
He saw the pattern emerging clearly now. His 'grief-stricken' father, the Emperor, had retreated, leaving a void. The ambitious Prince Regent, Tang Yun, was moving to fill it, stripping Tang Liu of resources and influence, isolating him. The servants and minor officials were opportunists, carving out what they could from the carcass of a dying prince. And he, Tang Liu, was merely a prop in this grim play, a symbol of royal weakness, to be stripped bare before his inevitable, quiet demise.
But they had underestimated the silent spider. They had underestimated the power of a void that consumed all, and a soul that had survived far worse than shattered meridians. He knew who was stealing, who was whispering, who was betraying. He was building an invisible map of alliances and enmities, of weaknesses and strengths, all from the confines of his bed. His mind, once that of an Earthling, was now sharpening, adapting, embracing the ruthlessness of this new world. He would continue to lie still, continue to 'sleep,' until the moment came to strike, to weave his own destiny into the decaying tapestry of the Tang Immortal Dynasty. He was patient. He had eternity now.