The cryptic message, clutched tightly in Shen Zhiyu's trembling hand, suddenly felt insignificant compared to the immediate, terrifying threat posed by Empress Han Zhenlan. Commander Lin's frantic warning shattered the fragile calm of the chambers. Zhiyu's mind raced, his survival instincts, sharpened by months of isolation and constant vigilance, taking over. He swept Min Haotian into his arms, the baby startled by the sudden urgency. The battlefield courier, bewildered by the sudden intrusion, quickly bowed and discreetly melted away, leaving the unread message clutched in Zhiyu's hand.
"Where, Commander?" Zhiyu asked, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. "Is there a safe passage?"
Commander Lin, a man of action, didn't hesitate. "Behind the tapestry, Your Highness! There's a hidden passage to the old servant's quarters. It's dusty, but secure. My men will create a diversion." He quickly pulled aside a heavy, embroidered tapestry depicting a hunting scene, revealing a narrow, darkened archway.
Zhiyu didn't waste a moment. He pushed Haotian into the passage, then squeezed through himself, the heavy fabric falling back into place just as the first sounds of angry voices and hurried footsteps echoed in the outer corridor. He could hear the peremptory shouts of palace guards and the Empress's icy voice, "Search everywhere! Find the Shen Omega!"
Tucked away in the musty, forgotten passages, Zhiyu huddled with Haotian, the unopened message still clutched in his hand. The emotional toll of Min Yulin's absence weighed heavily on him. The passage of time was marked not just by the fleeting seasons, but by the growing silence from the warfront. The initial sporadic reports had dwindled to nothing. Letters from Yulin, rare even at the beginning, became increasingly sporadic, then ceased altogether. Each passing month was a slow, agonizing process of hope withering, replaced by a cold, creeping dread. The silence was louder than any battle report, a constant, deafening echo of absence.
He diligently cared for Haotian, nurturing the child through his developmental stages, teaching him simple words, songs, and games. Haotian, now a bright and lively toddler, was a constant, living reminder of Yulin and their shared bond. His innocent calls for "baba" (referring to Yulin) became a painful refrain, a stark contrast to the grim reality of Yulin's silence. Zhiyu found strength in the child's presence, a fierce determination to keep him safe, to ensure Haotian would know the truth of his protective brother, even if Yulin never returned.
The palace, in Yulin's prolonged absence, had indeed become a viper's nest of intrigue. Empress Han and her allies, emboldened by the Emperor's increasing frailty, had subtly tightened their grip. The Emperor, Min Tianyou, weakened by age, stress, and perhaps the lingering guilt of his past choices, had retreated further into himself, allowing Empress Han to effectively rule in his stead. She placed her loyalists in every key position, purging any who dared to show loyalty to Yulin. The Crown Prince's personal guards, including Commander Lin, were slowly but systematically transferred to distant, irrelevant posts, replaced by Empress Han's own men. Zhiyu felt the walls closing in, the subtle tightening of the net around him.
He continued to rely on the few remaining loyal servants, mostly older eunuchs and maids who remembered the late Empress Sen Qingyao and despised Empress Han. They would smuggle him news, whisper warnings, and even provide him with carefully selected herbs to calm Haotian's fretfulness or his own anxieties. Zhiyu learned to read the subtle cues of court politics, to navigate the treacherous currents of power, a skill he never thought he would need. He used his scholarly mind to analyze the Empress's moves, to anticipate her next strike, to find the tiny cracks in her formidable facade. He hoarded resources, saved dried foods, and secretly mapped the palace's hidden passages, preparing for the day when he might need to escape.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and then an entire year passed without a single word, a single sign, from the Crown Prince. The hope that had once flickered like a stubborn ember now seemed on the verge of extinguishing completely. The official narrative put forth by Empress Han was that Yulin had perished in battle, a hero who had sacrificed himself for the empire. Public mourning rituals were held, forced and hollow, but giving the Empress a convenient avenue to consolidate her power. She began to subtly promote Min Cheng'an as the rightful successor, her agents spreading rumors of Yulin's "unsuitability" and Cheng'an's "steadfast devotion."
Zhiyu refused to believe it. He clung to the faint, lingering hope that Yulin was merely cut off, trapped behind enemy lines, or silently biding his time. He would not surrender to despair, not when Haotian looked at him with such trust, such innocent reliance. But the silence stretched, long and agonizing, amplifying his fears. The unopened message, the one delivered by the battlefield courier, remained clutched in his hand, a painful symbol of the truth he feared to confront. He dared not open it, for fear of what it might confirm, what it might finally extinguish within him. He kept it hidden, a secret burden.
One dreary afternoon, as Haotian slept fitfully in his arms, the silence from the warfront felt heavier than ever. Zhiyu traced the faint, crude bear crest on the wax seal of the unopened message, his mind conjuring images of desolate battlefields, of icy winds and the silent graves of heroes. Has Yulin truly forgotten them? Has he perished, leaving them to the tender mercies of Empress Han? The question echoed in his mind, a cold, desolate whisper.