Chapter 186: He is gone
"Has His Majesty really..."
The guards nodded, their expressions grim, and stepped aside to allow entry. Inside the palace grounds, eunuchs scurried like mice, delivering orders and fetching incense and white mourning robes. The empress dowager’s court was cloaked in whispers and stifled sobs, but even more than sorrow, there was dread. The Emperor had no officially named successor. Though all eyes naturally turned to Crown Prince Zhao Yan, the matter of succession was still to be finalized through rites and proclamations. And everyone knew—such transitions never went smoothly.
In the Hall of Tranquil Radiance, the Emperor’s body lay on a grand bed draped in white silk, surrounded by high-ranking officials, physicians, and those of the inner court. His face was pale and drawn, lips slightly parted as if still attempting to breathe. A golden thread had been tied loosely around his wrist—a ceremonial mark to signify the final moment of passing.
The heavy toll of the ceremonial bell echoed through the night, its mournful cadence spreading like wildfire through the empire. With each clang, a new ripple of dread tore through the city. People stirred from their sleep, candlelights flaring across courtyards and through manor windows. In the vast stretch of the capital, the palace stood as the trembling heart of it all.
Inside, the Imperial Hall had transformed in mere moments. Palace maids and eunuchs were on their knees, silent with grief. Court officials—called by urgent summons—rushed back to the palace, their faces pale with confusion and fear. Despite the hour, they came in full ceremonial mourning robes, hurriedly donned as the urgency of the moment outshone protocol.
The grand hall was now shrouded in shadows and flickering lanterns, with white silk banners hanging from every rafter. At the center, where once the throne symbolized majesty and absolute power, a gilded platform now bore the frail and lifeless body of the Son of Heaven.
Zhao Yan had not moved from his seat beside the Emperor’s bed since the last breath had left the old man’s lips. He sat still, a statue carved of grief and disbelief. The candlelight caught in his eyes, casting reflections of emotion he refused to let fall. Those eyes that had once shone so fiercely were now dull with a pain too deep for words. His shoulders were tense, yet trembling ever so slightly, his hand still clutching the Emperor’s lifeless fingers.
The Emperor’s passing had been quiet, too quiet for a man who had commanded armies and bent the fates of nations. But Zhao Yan had been there for every heartbeat that faded into stillness, every strained breath, every whispered goodbye.
The officials entered and fell to their knees. The sound of their collective weeping rose steadily, echoing against the tall marble walls. It was a sound meant to honor the passing of a ruler, but there was uncertainty laced within it. Because now, the throne stood empty, and the empire trembled with questions.
Next to him, Hua Jing sat quietly, her long hair still damp from the frantic ride and heavy in loose waves over her shoulders. Her face bore no tears, only a stillness that seemed to speak of storms roiling beneath the surface. She hadn’t uttered a word since they had entered, only placed herself beside him and folded her hands in her lap, her fingers now gripping the edge of her robes tightly.
Her gaze rested on the Emperor’s face, and it struck her how young he looked. Despite the faint lines of age that had begun to settle around his eyes and the pale hue of his skin, there was a nobility to his features that was unmistakably shared by Zhao Yan. Father and son—the resemblance was almost haunting. He had died young, too young for someone of such power and presence.
Hua Jing thought of the poison. It had done its work too swiftly. She could still feel the traces of it clinging to the air, imagined its slow, cruel path through the Emperor’s veins. Her nails dug into her palms as fury surged quietly through her. Whoever had done this would not escape. She would ensure it.