Chapter 392 Heaven-Sent Khan

Chapter 392: The Heaven-Given Khan

The dry brush and dung caught quickly, orange flames leaping with a crackle, soon engulfing the two bodies.

The distinctive scent of burning cypress mingled with the smell of burning leather and fur, drifting through the cold air.

Thick smoke climbed straight up, blending into the low clouds.

People watched the flames in silence, the figures inside slowly blurring, as if saying a last goodbye.

The weeping was no longer held back—many women sobbed openly, and men clenched their fists, eyes red.

The fire didn't just take the dead—it seemed to light the anger and grief smoldering in the living.

Cheng Ge watched the blazing fire—Tana's smiling face as she handed him the reins under yesterday's sun, Temur's calm nod, their figures riding side by side...

Scene after vivid scene flashed past, only to be swallowed by the flames.

He pressed his palms together at his forehead, closing his eyes in silence, low chanting filling his ears.

The flames slowly died down, finally becoming ashes that still held a lingering warmth.

Hari Nohai and a few clansmen stepped forward, carefully gathering the ashes, to scatter them, as custom dictated, over the pastures they'd loved in life.

.........

Cheng Ge swung onto his horse, carefully tying two leather pouches to the saddle.

Grey Cloud spread its wings and took off, but instead of landing on his shoulder, it circled low, calling out in clear, long cries, as if guiding the dead.

The wind hit his face, carrying that sharp, clean bite of fresh snow, whipping his robes and Snowstep's mane.

Grey Cloud sometimes flew low ahead of him, circling, sometimes letting out a clear, long cry or two.

The cries echoed across the open land, missing their usual sharpness.

One hand on the reins, he used the other to untie one of the pouches from the saddle.

His fingers brushed the soft leather, feeling the fine powder shift inside.

He opened the pouch without hesitation, reached in, and scooped out a handful of ashes.

It was incredibly fine, almost impossible to hold onto, still carrying the fire's last warmth and an indescribable lightness.

He let go of the reins, letting Snowstep walk on its own.

He raised his hand and tossed the gray-white powder into the wind.

The ashes were caught by the wind at once, spiraling up and vanishing into the gray sky.

Cheng Ge reached in again, took another handful, and with a slight turn, scattered it to the other side.

He moved unhurriedly, with a near-ritual solemnity.

After a long while, he tied the two empty pouches back to the saddle, the last cool trace of ash still on his fingertips.

He reined in on a high slope, holding the whip, the cold wind hitting his face full-on, making his robes snap and his hair cling to his temples.

The snowy plain rolled like frozen waves, stretching to the horizon, merging with the low leaden sky into a blur of gray-white.

.........

Cheng Ge had been waking late lately, with no real energy.

That day, the woman who brought his meals, afraid he'd go hungry, called softly outside for a long time before waking him from his restless sleep.

He rubbed his heavy forehead as he got up. He was indeed drained, with faint dark circles under his eyes, but he forced himself to wash up and sit at the low table.

The food was about the same as always. The woman set things down quietly and turned to leave.

Just as she turned, a clear "gurgle" came from her stomach, loud in the quiet tent.

Cheng Ge paused, a steamed bun in hand, and looked up at her.

The woman heard it too, turning crimson with embarrassment. She dropped her head and hurried to leave.

"Eat with me," Cheng Ge said, his voice still rough from sleep.

The woman was startled, not understanding. She just stared at him, confused and embarrassed.

Cheng Ge set down the bun, mimed eating, then pointed at her, then at the seat across the table.

The woman finally got it. She waved her hands, forcing an awkward smile, and said in halting Chinese: "No... not hungry."

"Did you eat at midday?" Cheng Ge asked, speaking slower as he looked at her.

The woman shook her head, pressing a hand to her stomach, where another soft rumble came. She hung her head lower.

Herders lived off the land, and even more off their livestock. This year had brought heavy snow, and most of their herds had been taken. The little food left would barely last the winter.

He was quiet for a moment, then picked up two warm buns and held them out, face blank, tone flat: "Take them."

The woman looked at the buns offered to her but stubbornly shook her head, refusing to accept them.

Cheng Ge didn't withdraw his hand. He just looked at her and said, in even slower speech, word by word: "Next time, whatever everyone else eats, I'll eat too. No need to make something special."

This time the woman understood. She suddenly looked up, her eyes filled with panic and a nearly instinctive reverence.

"No... no! You... you are an honored guest, the... the future Khatun of the Chief! It's different! You must have the best!"

Cheng Ge: "........."

He opened his mouth to say something, but the woman added in a small voice:

"I... I can tell, the Chief, the Chief treats you... differently from others. Really."

Cheng Ge made no comment. Just then, a low murmur of noise came from outside the tent.

Cheng Ge looked at the woman. She heard the commotion too, and the smile on her face froze.

She lowered her voice and said in even more halting Chinese: "Yesterday, the Arslan tribe... someone rose up..."

She paused, as if recalling the Chinese word, and lowered her voice even further.

"...Rebelled. The Great Khan sent men... to suppress... and kill them."

The tent fell silent, with only the faint wind and noise outside. Cheng Ge's hand holding the bun tightened almost imperceptibly.

The woman twisted her rough fingers, her voice carrying a nearly instinctive reverence.

"...Hutur the Great Khan is the heaven-sent... the heaven-sent Khan, blessed by the Eternal Heaven.

He and his warriors, as numerous as wolves—no one... no one can defeat them."

As she spoke, her gaze unconsciously drifted toward the royal court, then quickly darted back.

Her words seemed both an explanation to Cheng Ge for why the rebellion was so easily crushed, and a murmured attempt to persuade herself to accept this harsh reality.

Cheng Ge said nothing, merely watching her.

He took in her hollow cheeks from hunger, her worn leather robe, washed pale and patched.

A heaven-sent Khan? Blessings of the Eternal Heaven? How absurd...

"Cheng Ge had only heard of heaven-sent organic milk, never any damn heaven-sent Khan."

Zhou Mingqi sat on the dragon throne behind the imperial desk, the hall dim and solemn, with only a palace lantern beside him casting light on the dense script of the yellow memorials.

His gaze rested on the document, yet he didn't seem truly absorbed, his fingers idly tapping the smooth sandalwood surface.

Below, Zhou Hao knelt on the cold, polished brick floor, his back ramrod straight, his face pale in the hall's intersecting shadows, dense beads of cold sweat forming at his temples.

He kept his eyes lowered, fixed on the small patch of ground before him, not daring to shift his gaze.

Beside him, Fu Quan stepped forward quietly, silently removing the tea that had long gone cold from Zhou Mingqi's side and replacing it with a fresh one.

A light tea fragrance rose with the wisps of steam.

As Fu Quan retreated with lowered eyes, his gaze—calm and unreadable—swept briefly over the kneeling second prince, as if weighing Zhou Hao from head to toe.

The steam rose, then slowly faded away.

Zhou Mingqi finally set down the memorial, his gaze still on the paper, and gave a slight wave of his hand toward Fu Quan.

Fu Quan understood, bowed in salute, then signaled with his eyes to the eunuchs and maids standing in attendance.

They moved with practiced discipline, heads bowed, footsteps as light as a cat's, filing out of the hall as the heavy doors were silently shut.

A soft click, and the hall fell into a suffocating silence.

Zhou Mingqi picked up the freshly replaced cup of tea, the celadon saucer making his long, pale fingers stand out.

He didn't drink, only slowly turned the warm cup, his gaze finally shifting from empty space to Zhou Hao.

"How are your studies coming along lately?" His voice was neither loud nor soft, giving away nothing, as if asking about the weather.

Zhou Hao subtly shifted his knees, long numb and aching from kneeling, the cold, sharp pain drilling into his bones.

His throat tightened, and he swallowed dryly before speaking, his voice struggling to stay steady: "Your Majesty, the Grand Tutor has taught me with great care, and I dare not be negligent for even a moment.

I only hope to master my studies soon, to be able to share Your Majesty's burdens and bring blessings to the people of the Great Zhou." His words were respectful, textbook-perfect, flawless.

Zhou Mingqi lifted his gaze, his eyes resting on the top of Zhou Hao's lowered head. Zhou Hao could feel the weight of that stare, like a cold iron weight pressing on his spine.

"Then you..." Zhou Mingqi paused, his tone still flat, "are truly considerate."

Zhou Hao's heart tightened, and he bowed low in kowtow, his forehead lightly touching the ground: "Every word your son speaks comes from the heart; I only fear I do too little, unworthy of Your Majesty's expectations."

Zhou Mingqi didn't tell him to rise, nor did he say anything else, simply watching him stay in that bowed position for a long while.

"Come closer," he said suddenly.

Zhou Hao's body stiffened almost imperceptibly, then he acknowledged: "Yes." His father the emperor hadn't told him to rise, so he couldn't.

He gritted his teeth and, on his already aching knees, inched forward across the cold ground.

The friction of his kneecaps against the floor sent dull aches shooting through him, and more cold sweat beaded on his forehead.

After moving a few steps, still more than ten feet from the imperial desk, Zhou Hao stopped, lowered himself again, and prepared to speak.

Just as he raised his head, in that instant—

An object flew at him, cutting through the air!

Zhou Hao's pupils contracted sharply; he didn't even have time to see what it was, let alone dodge.

He only saw a blur before his eyes, then a sharp, piercing pain at his temple!

"Bang—clatter!" The celadon teacup struck his temple and shattered instantly!

Scalding tea and tea leaves splashed over his face and body, shards scattering, a few slicing across his cheek and neck, leaving thin streaks of blood.

The pain exploded, and warm liquid wound its way down from his temple—whether tea or blood, he couldn't tell.

Zhou Hao's vision went dark, his ears ringing, his whole being stunned by the sudden assault, frozen with his head half-raised.

Shards of porcelain and tea leaves clung to his soaked hair and robes, leaving him a mess.

The hall was deathly silent.

Only a few small fragments of porcelain bounced lightly on the floor, making the last faint sounds.

Zhou Mingqi remained seated on the dragon throne, his hands now empty, his expression unchanged, as if he hadn't just thrown the cup.

He simply watched his second son, bleeding from the forehead, face stained with tea, stiff as a stone statue.

Drops of blood mixed with tea dripped onto the bricks before Zhou Hao, spreading into a dark stain.

Zhou Hao's mind reeled.

The sharp pain at his temple made him flinch violently, but overwhelming shock drowned out the pain.

But he couldn't dwell on it; he quickly kowtowed to Zhou Mingqi, struggling to keep his voice clear:

"Your Majesty, please calm your anger! Your son... your son is dull-witted! I don't know where I've offended Your Majesty's grace, please tell me clearly! I... I willingly accept any punishment!"

Before Zhou Hao could finish, Zhou Mingqi suddenly slapped the imperial desk!

"Bang!" The dull, heavy sound exploded in the silent hall, startling Zhou Hao so he shuddered, his unfinished plea caught in his throat.

"What a fine 'mastery of studies'! What a fine 'blessings for the people'!"

Zhou Mingqi's voice rose sharply, no longer flat, but filled with thunderous rage and icy sarcasm.

"So this is how you share my burdens, how you bring blessings to the common folk?!"

With that, he grabbed the thick stack of confidential memorials with dark yellow covers from the desk and hurled them straight at the kneeling Zhou Hao's face!

The memorials scattered like startled crows, some striking Zhou Hao's head and shoulders, others rustling down around him onto the floor.

The edges of the paper were sharp, even leaving a few new shallow cuts on his face.

Zhou Hao was scared out of his wits, his eyes squeezed shut, his body rigid, not daring to flinch in the slightest.

The sting of the paper against his face was nothing compared to the terror clutching at his heart.

"Open your damn eyes! See for yourself!" Zhou Mingqi's furious roar was like a thunderclap.

Zhou Hao trembled, not daring to disobey. He forced his eyes open, his vision blurred by blood and tea, and his gaze frantically searched the scattered papers on the ground.

With trembling hands, he grabbed the nearest paper that had fallen before his knees and unfolded it.

His eyes hastily scanned the familiar vermilion annotations and neatly penned small script, reading only the first few lines.

His face drained of all color in an instant, going even whiter than when he had been kneeling, his lips going completely bloodless.

"...Corruption in Yuanzhou... embezzlement... flow of illicit funds... investigation reveals... connection to the Chen family in the capital..."

Zhou Hao's breath caught in his throat, his heart as if squeezed by an invisible hand, on the verge of bursting.

He jerked his head up, his face a mask of blood, tea stains, and sheer terror, his voice rising to a shrill, distorted pitch from sheer shock and desperation:

"Father! This is a frame-up! This... this has nothing to do with me! I know nothing about it, Father!"

He defended himself hastily, speaking incoherently: "Someone must be framing me! Someone must bear ill will toward me... toward the Chen family..."