As months bled into years, the Min Imperial Palace became a ghost of its former self, haunted by the lengthening shadow of Min Yulin's absence and the unsettling decline of Emperor Min Tianyou. The Emperor, once a figure of stern authority, now appeared increasingly gaunt, his features etched with a profound weariness that seemed to age him beyond his years. His eyes, once sharp and commanding, often held a distant, unfocused gaze, as if lost in a labyrinth of guilt and regret.
His health deteriorated steadily, a slow, insidious process that manifested in tremors, bouts of confusion, and prolonged periods of lethargy. He would often forget conversations, repeat questions, or simply stare blankly ahead, impervious to the pleas of his ministers. The once-formidable weight of his crown seemed to crush him, a silent testament to his past failures and his inability to reconcile with Yulin's accusations. Perhaps the very essence of Yulin's final, chilling threat had burrowed deep into his psyche, eating away at his vitality.
This decline, tragically, further empowered Empress Han Zhenlan and her sons. With the Emperor's judgment severely impaired, Empress Han became the de facto ruler of the Min Empire. She moved with ruthless efficiency, consolidating her power, installing her loyalists in every high office, and subtly undermining Yulin's remaining influence. The palace became a hotbed of intrigue, a viper's nest where different factions, sensing the imminent shift in power, vied for dominance. The older, loyal ministers, those who still held a flicker of respect for Yulin and the late Empress Sen Qingyao, were systematically marginalized, their voices silenced, their influence neutralized.
The internal conflict within the palace reached a fever pitch. Whispers of succession, once subtle, now became more brazen. Empress Han openly promoted Min Cheng'an as the rightful heir, despite his lack of experience and his rather timid nature. She orchestrated public appearances for him, arranged advantageous marriages, and used the "heroic sacrifice" of Yulin at the northern borders as a narrative to legitimize her son's claim.
Shen Zhiyu, confined to his increasingly isolated chambers, felt the escalating danger like a physical chill. The walls seemed to press in on him, the whispers outside growing louder, more contemptuous. He was no longer just an outsider; he was an obstacle, a potential claimant through his implied bond with Yulin, and a living reminder of the Empress's public humiliation. He knew Empress Han saw him and Min Haotian as a threat, a loose thread in her carefully woven tapestry of power.
Despite the mounting pressure, Zhiyu's resolve hardened. He drew on his inherent princely strength, the deep-seated pride of his lineage, and the lessons of resilience his father had instilled in him. He was an Omega, yes, but he was also a prince, a survivor, and now, a mother figure to a vulnerable child. He would not break. He would not surrender.
He painstakingly protected Haotian, becoming a master of discreet vigilance. He tasted all of Haotian's food, meticulously checked his chambers for anything unusual, and rarely allowed Haotian out of his sight. He dismissed all new servants sent by Empress Han, relying solely on the few trusted older maids who had remained loyal. He continued to teach Haotian in secret, instilling in him a love for learning, for stories of heroes and justice, shaping him into a child who would one day understand the sacrifices made for him. Haotian, now a bright, inquisitive boy of nearly three, was his constant anchor, a tangible reason to fight, to endure.
Zhiyu often found himself staring at the unopened scroll delivered by the battlefield courier, the one with the strange bear crest. He still hadn't opened it. It lay hidden beneath a loose floorboard in his chamber, a silent burden, a truth he feared to confront. As long as it remained unread, a sliver of hope, however faint, could persist. To open it would be to invite a finality he wasn't sure he could bear. He clung to the belief that Yulin was merely delayed, cut off, perhaps even captured, but not... gone.
The Emperor's rapid decline was apparent to everyone. His public appearances became rare, and when he did appear, he was a hollow shell of his former self, his eyes vacant, his body frail. This increasing frailty allowed Empress Han to issue edicts in his name, effectively wielding the full power of the throne.
One particularly cold morning, a chilling edict was delivered, bearing the Emperor's official seal, but clearly orchestrated by Empress Han. It was read aloud in the Imperial Hall, its words echoing with a sinister finality that sent a shiver down Zhiyu's spine. The edict formally stripped Min Yulin of his title as Crown Prince, citing his "prolonged absence and presumed demise in the northern campaigns," and formally named Min Cheng'an as the new Crown Prince and rightful heir to the throne. But it did not stop there. The edict further decreed that Min Haotian, the "unfortunate orphan," would be formally adopted by a minor noble family in a distant, secluded province, to be raised "away from the corruption of court," effectively severing his ties to the imperial family and, more importantly, removing him from Yulin's sphere of influence.
The final, devastating blow came with the decree regarding Shen Zhiyu. The edict, with chilling callousness, announced that due to his "unclear status" and his "unseemly attachment" to the former Crown Prince, and to avoid "further scandal," Zhiyu would be formally confined to the Imperial Temple, a remote, isolated monastery, to live out his days in "prayer and quiet contemplation." It was a polite form of exile, a slow, methodical erasure from the court, from Haotian, and from any hope of a future.
The chilling edict, seemingly from the ailing Emperor but clearly orchestrated by Empress Han's malevolent hand, sealed Zhiyu's fate, promising not just exile, but a forced separation from the only family he had left – his precious Min Haotian.