Chapter 87: Chapter Eighty-Seven Kill Him, Make It Clean

Chapter 87: Kill Him. Make It Clean.

In the emperor's bedchamber, Taihe Hall, Wei Zheng knelt beside the dragon bed. The old emperor struggled to sit up, supported cautiously by the bowing Chief Eunuch, Zhao Fu.

"I thought you would be more composed."

The old emperor gasped two or three times just to utter this short sentence, his eyelids drooping weakly, an aura of impending death hung about him.

He had aged; his eyes were cloudy and yellowed, yet his gaze remained sharp with the authority of long-held power.

He scrutinized Wei Zheng, as if trying to see through his calm exterior to every thought within.

"The Crown Prince has captured my consort."

Wei Zheng had always feigned gentleness and filial respect before the old emperor, but this time, he showed a hint of defiance.

He remained kneeling, but his back was straight and rigid: "Your Majesty has your strategies. As your son and subject, it is my duty to share your burdens, but the Crown Prince should never have dared to threaten Sui Yun."

Smack!

Before his words had faded, the old emperor had already slapped him hard.

"Scoundrel! A man has made you lose your composure!"

Though weak from illness, the old emperor used all his strength in his fury. Soon, a clear palm print rose on half of Wei Zheng's face.

Wei Zheng endured it without a sound. The old emperor, deeply disappointed in this formerly favored son, waved his hand: "Get out and reflect!"

Wei Zheng offered no defense. He stood, bowed, clasped his hands, and said, "As you command, Father. I withdraw."

Without waiting for the old emperor's permission to rise, he stood and walked out without looking back.

"You!"

The old emperor had not expected such defiance. Enraged, his vision darkened, and he spat a mouthful of dark blood.

"Your Majesty, calm your anger! Your health comes first!"

"Call the imperial physicians at once!"

The bright yellow quilts and inner robes were stained with mottled brown blood. Zhao Fu turned pale with fright, as anxious as an ant on a hot griddle, fearing the old emperor might die from rage.

Imperial physicians were on standby in a side chamber and arrived immediately upon summons.

After several acupuncture needles, the old emperor's first act upon recovering his breath was to dismiss everyone, including Zhao Fu.

The physician wished to advise the emperor to avoid anger and maintain calm, but one look at his expression silenced him. Bowing with Zhao Fu, he withdrew.

Once all attendants had left and the palace doors were shut, the old emperor gasped for breath and muttered as if to himself: "Go, kill him. Do it cleanly."

No one answered, and he did not specify whom he meant.

A shadow flitted through the darkness. The old emperor, leaning weakly against the headboard, his eyes held a fierce, ruthless glare in his usually dim eyes.

Seventh, ah Seventh... A competent emperor can have no weaknesses. Do not blame your father for being cruel.

.

The Eastern Palace carriage halted before Taihe Hall. The Crown Prince stepped down, leaned in to whisper instructions to an attendant, straightened his robes, and strode proudly through the hall's gates.

The carriage turned back, but not the way it had come—instead, it proceeded unimpeded deep into the palace grounds.

To a dilapidated, desolate cold palace.

The attendant and the coachman together hauled Wei San, who was bound tightly and shackled, muttering about how someone so slim could be so heavy.

They carried him inside and tossed him onto a moth-eaten bed riddled with holes. To prevent his escape, they forced him to consume a muscle-weakening powder.

Having dealt with Wei San, they considered their job done, swept off two chairs in the main hall, and sat down to rest and laze about.

Inside the room, the man who should have been unconscious was fully awake and alert.

Wei San, trained as an assassin, was resistant to common drugs and poisons. The muscle-weakening powder was like candy to him, utterly ineffective.

He had numerous hidden weapons concealed—seven or eight poisoned needles sewn into his sleeves, which he conveniently used to pick the locks of his shackles.

He freed himself from bonds and fetters in less time than it takes an incense stick to burn. He crept to the door and, through a crack, shot two poisoned needles one after the other into the necks of the two men chatting in the hall.

The needles were coated in a lethal poison that was deadly upon contact with blood. By the time the two sensed something wrong, it was too late.

Within moments, both were dead—faces contorted and livid, bleeding from all seven orifices, a horrifying sight.

Wei San, long accustomed to such sights, expressionlessly stripped the coachman's clothes, dragged the bodies to a dry well outside, and tossed them in. Returning, he dressed the attendant's corpse in his own clothes, wiped the blood from the face, shackled its limbs, and placed it on the bed, faking unconsciousness.

With the scene arranged, Wei San pulled on a hat to hide his face, whipped the horse forward, and the carriage slowly moved forward.

Since it bore the Eastern Palace insignia, and with the emperor critically ill and the Crown Prince's influence at its peak, no one dared stop the carriage. Even the palace guards only perfunctorily questioned it without rigorous inspection.

Thus, Wei San left the palace openly.

Meanwhile, in the cold palace, two shadowy figures appeared like ghosts before the bed, daggers gleaming coldly. With swift moves, they slashed at the throat of the figure on the bed.

Thud!

The blade pierced flesh, but no blood spurted—only a trickle like a spring.

Clearly not the reaction of a living throat being cut.

The two dark figures exchanged glances, turned the corpse over. Its plain, unremarkable face—unnoticeable in a crowd—was nothing like the bright, handsome beauty in the portrait.

"He escaped."

Both realized simultaneously: the mission to assassinate Secondary Consort Yun had failed. Returning empty-handed meant certain death, but if they pursued and killed the escaped consort, there might be a slim chance of survival.

One black-clad figure bent to feel the corpse: "Still warm. He can't have gone far."

"After him!"

Elsewhere, after leaving the palace, Wei San abandoned the carriage, changed disguises, and headed straight for the imperial prison.

The emperor had awoken from coma and summoned the Crown Prince first. The situation was unclear, and it was uncertain whether this was good or bad for his master. Unskilled in schemes and strategies, the only thing Wei San could do was quickly relay all he knew to his master, allowing for early planning and response.

His plan was sound, focused solely on reaching his master swiftly. But as he passed through a deserted alley, his sharp instinct for danger made him twist and bend backward—a black throwing knife grazed his neck.

A lock of hair was severed. Killing intent flashed in Wei San's eyes. His wrist turned, and all the poisoned needles in his sleeve flew toward the direction the knife had come from.

A faint sound came from the shadows, then silence. Wei San's tense expression did not relax.

Clearly, the needles had missed the hidden assailant.

Sure enough, the next moment, several throwing daggers shot forth consecutively from ahead. A spiked iron net descended from above. Two black shadows emerged from the darkness, flanking Wei San front and back—clearly aiming to trap him like a turtle in a jar.