The chilling edict reverberated through Shen Zhiyu's chambers like a death knell, echoing the malevolent will of Empress Han Zhenlan and the crumbling authority of the ailing Emperor Min Tianyou. Confinement to the Imperial Temple, a remote and desolate monastery, was not just exile; it was a slow, agonizing severance from Min Haotian, the only family he had left. The thought of being separated from the child, who had become the very center of his world, was a torment more profound than any physical hardship. Zhiyu's breath hitched, a cold despair settling in his chest, heavy and suffocating.
He felt the palpable shift in the palace. The whispers were gone, replaced by an open, almost triumphant, disdain from Empress Han's loyalists. The few remaining servants who had shown him kindness now avoided his gaze, their faces etched with fear. Zhiyu knew he was truly alone.
Yet, in the face of utter despair, something primal ignited within Zhiyu. He remembered his father, Emperor Wenzhao, not just as a benevolent ruler, but as a man who faced betrayal with unwavering dignity, who taught his son that true strength lay not in brute force, but in intellect, resilience, and an unyielding will. "A leader's mind," his father had often said, "is their greatest weapon. Even when all else fails, your spirit must remain unbroken." Zhiyu clung to these words, drawing on an inherent princely strength he hadn't known he possessed. He was an Omega, yes, but he was also the Crown Prince of a fallen empire, a survivor, and above all, Haotian's protector.
He desperately tried to counter the Empress's influence, but his avenues were severely limited. He dispatched subtle messages through his remaining loyal servants, reaching out to marginalized ministers, to old acquaintances of Yulin's mother, anyone who might harbor a spark of dissent against Empress Han. He appealed to their sense of justice, to their lingering loyalty to the true Crown Prince, and to the danger of allowing Empress Han to seize absolute power through her increasingly erratic means.
He managed a few small victories, momentary reprieves that kept his hope, however faint, flickering. He meticulously documented every subtle abuse of power by Empress Han, every instance of corruption under her and Min Cheng'an's burgeoning rule. He used his knowledge of court protocol and ancient laws to subtly challenge minor decrees, delaying the process of Haotian's transfer to the distant noble family. He would argue, with quiet persistence, for the child's "delicate health" or "need for familiar surroundings," buying precious days, sometimes even weeks. These were small battles, but each one fueled his resolve.
He continued to educate Haotian, not just in basic lessons, but in the history of the Min and Shen Empires, subtly instilling in him a sense of his true lineage and the legacy of his brother, Min Yulin. He wanted Haotian to know who he was, and who his family was, even if the world tried to erase it. Haotian, now a perceptive little boy of almost four, absorbed these lessons with a quiet intensity, often asking insightful questions.
The hope for Yulin's return, however, dwindled to a flickering ember. Three years had passed since his departure to the northern borders. Three years of agonizing silence. The official pronouncements of his demise had been formalized, and Emperor Min Tianyou, now little more than a puppet, had signed decrees of mourning and succession. The very mention of Yulin's name outside of a ceremonial context was frowned upon, a subtle yet potent taboo.
Zhiyu would often sit by the window, gazing at the distant northern mountains, his heart a raw wound. He thought of Yulin's unwavering gaze, the gentle touch when he placed Haotian back in his arms, the small wooden bird. He clutched the bird often, its smooth surface a tangible link to the missing Crown Prince.
Haotian, oblivious to the political machinations that threatened his very existence, continued to occasionally call for "baba," a painful reminder of what they had lost, or perhaps, what they might never regain. "When will baba come back, mama?" he would ask, his innocent eyes wide with curiosity. Zhiyu would offer a strained smile, murmuring reassurances he no longer truly believed.
One bleak morning, as the palace was still shrouded in a heavy mist, a messenger arrived at Zhiyu's chambers. He was a low-ranking eunuch, his face pale and agitated, his hands visibly trembling. He presented a sealed message, its wax bearing the unmistakable royal seal of the Min military, a proud, stylized dragon, not the personal bear crest of Yulin's earlier, unopened message.
Zhiyu's heart leaped, a sudden, frantic flutter of hope, quickly followed by a cold dread. The military seal was official, not a personal one. Could it be news of victory? Of Yulin's long-awaited return? Or was it the final, undeniable confirmation of his death? The weight of it felt immense, a single piece of parchment holding the power to shatter his fragile world or to rekindle a hope he had long thought extinguished. His hands trembled as he reached for it, knowing that with this message, his long vigil was about to end. Its contents promised either salvation or utter despair.