The air in Shen Zhiyu's chambers hung heavy and still, thick with the weight of the unopened message. The royal seal of the Min military, a proud, stylized dragon pressed into the wax, seemed to pulse with an ominous light, a beacon of either long-awaited salvation or the most absolute despair. Min Haotian, now a perceptive and empathetic four-year-old, sensed the profound shift in Zhiyu's demeanor. He had been quietly playing with the small wooden bird Min Yulin had given them, his small hands tracing its smooth contours, but now he stopped, his innocent face etched with concern as he watched Zhiyu's trembling hands, his brow furrowed in a mimicry of Zhiyu's own anxiety. The low-ranking eunuch who had delivered the scroll stood frozen by the door, a statue of terror and morbid curiosity, his eyes darting between Zhiyu and the ominous parchment.
Zhiyu's breath hitched in his throat, a sharp, ragged sound that seemed to shatter the profound silence of the room. This was it. The culmination of three agonizing years of waiting, of whispers, of dwindling hope. Three years marked by the relentless passage of seasons, by Haotian's innocent growth, by the constant, gnawing dread that had become his only companion. Every sunrise had brought with it the same silent question, every sunset the same unanswered prayer. The silence from the northern borders had been a slow poison, seeping into his very soul, eroding his resilience, little by little, day by day. He had clung to the sliver of hope, the desperate, irrational belief that Yulin was merely cut off, captured, biding his time, ready to burst forth from the mists of war and reclaim his rightful place. But now, this formal message, bearing the imperial military seal, promised to end the torment of uncertainty, one way or another.
He could feel Haotian's small, warm hand reaching out, tugging gently at his sleeve, a silent, heart-wrenching plea for reassurance. Zhiyu looked down at the child, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. This tiny, vulnerable life was his anchor, his reason for enduring, his most precious burden. He had sworn to protect Haotian, a vow made not just to himself, but to the memory of Yulin's own fierce protectiveness, the brutal promise he had made to keep them safe. But what if that promise had been broken, not by malice, but by the cold, indiscriminate hand of fate? What if Yulin was truly gone, leaving them utterly exposed to the venomous machinations of Empress Han Zhenlan? The thought was a chilling, soul-numbing terror.
With a supreme effort of will, a strength he didn't know he possessed, Zhiyu took another ragged breath, the scent of dust and aged paper filling his nostrils, mingled with the faint, sweet scent of Haotian's innocent hair. He had lived with uncertainty for so long that the prospect of definite knowledge, even if it was devastating, was both terrifying and strangely compelling. He needed to know. He had to know. For Haotian. For his own sanity.
His fingers, uncharacteristically clumsy and numb, reached for the wax seal. He broke it, the crisp crack echoing loudly in the stillness, a sound of finality. The wax crumbled, delicate and irrevocably broken, symbolizing the shattering of his last fragile hope. He unrolled the parchment, his eyes scanning the elegant, formal script, his mind grasping for meaning, desperate for any shred of good news, any word of Yulin's survival, a triumph, a return.
The words, precise and unyielding, blurred for a moment before snapping into agonizing, crystal-clear focus. It was the formal, imperial script, the elegant flourishes of a palace scribe, yet each stroke felt like a brutal incision.
His breath caught in his throat, a sharp, choked sound that seemed to reverberate through the silent room, but no sound escaped his lips. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the familiar comfort of the chambers dissolving into a swirling vortex of disbelief and pain. His vision tunneled, the periphery fading into a dark, suffocating blur. He felt a cold, crushing weight descend upon him, extinguishing the last flicker of hope he held for Min Yulin's return, for their future, for the fragile family they had forged in the crucible of chaos and shared vulnerability. The profound sadness that had etched itself onto his features over the past three years deepened, curdling into a desolate emptiness that no amount of tears could fill.
He stood there, frozen, the parchment still clutched in his numb fingers, his eyes wide and unseeing, fixed on the words that had just obliterated his world. His body refused to register the blow; no gasp, no tremor, no outward sign of the catastrophic collapse occurring within him. It was as if his very being had ceased to function, the shock too immense for any physical reaction. His mind, however, screamed, a silent, internal scream of despair, echoing endlessly in the cavern of his soul.
The specific, devastating truth of the message, formal and brutal, burned itself into his mind, searing itself into the very fabric of his consciousness, erasing everything else. His eyes, devoid of their usual soft wisdom, were fixed on the few, unyielding words. The rest of the message, the lengthy descriptions of official mourning, the posthumous honors, the formal pronouncements of Yulin's "heroic sacrifice" in the northern campaigns, faded into an unintelligible blur. Only the core truth remained, stark and undeniable, a brand upon his soul. He didn't drop the parchment; he merely held it, suspended in the moment of absolute, soul-crushing certainty.
His heart, it seemed, had simply stopped. The years of silent vigil, the relentless anxieties, the fervent prayers for Yulin's safe return – all of it had been for naught. The promises exchanged, unspoken yet deeply felt, about their reunion, now lay shattered, reduced to mere fragments of a shattered dream. The battle was truly over, and Yulin had lost. And now, Zhiyu and Haotian were left to contend with the ashes of that defeat, and the looming darkness that had now, truly, enveloped them. He felt the phantom limb of Yulin's presence, the silent anchor of his protection, suddenly ripped from him, leaving a gaping, agonizing void. Three years of unwavering hope, of fierce resistance, crumbled into dust.
He felt the tears welling up, hot and uncontrollable, blurring his vision, but they did not fall. They merely pooled, trapped behind his unblinking eyes, reflecting the shattered landscape within. They weren't just for Yulin, but for the future they had silently promised each other, for the family that would now never truly be complete, for the burden of Haotian's future, and for the agonizing realization that he was truly, irrevocably, alone against the encroaching darkness of Empress Han's malevolent grip.
Haotian, still sensing the profound shift in Zhiyu's aura, whimpered, his small face contorting with distress. He reached out, his tiny hand patting Zhiyu's cheek. "Zhiyu? Mama?" he asked, his innocent voice a cruel echo of the hope that had just died, a devastating reminder of the protector who would never return.
Zhiyu clung to Haotian, his heart a desolate landscape, as the silent eunuch, having retrieved the fallen decree, bowed deeply, the ominous words searing themselves into Zhiyu's soul, a new, terrifying chapter of survival beginning in the Crown Prince's absence. His world had narrowed to the parchment in his hand, the unbearable words seared into his vision, the chilling finality that silenced everything else.
"Crown Prince, Min Yulin is dead."
END OF VOLUME ONE.........…..