Chapter 431 Confession Letter

Chapter 431: The Letter of Confession

His voice echoed across the square, and the armored soldiers of the Capital Guard tightened their grip on their spears.

"I was so worried that I took it upon myself to summon a physician for His Majesty!"

He raised his hand and gestured behind him.

From the rear of the formation, a middle-aged man in a blue robe stepped out of the soldier ranks, carrying a medicine box.

Behind him followed eight attendants, all dressed as ordinary soldiers.

The man's name was Shen Zhen, the Left Vice Director of the Imperial Academy of Medicine, and a regular visitor to Chen Zhengqi's estate.

Prince Jing lowered his head, staring intently at the tips of his shoes, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might leap out of his throat.

His hands hung at his sides, his fingertips trembling uncontrollably, and he accidentally brushed against the back of Cheng Ge's hand.

Cheng Ge did not pull away, but turned his head and shot him a reassuring look.

Prince Jing took a deep breath and hunched down even more, like a quail trying to disappear.

Zhou Yan stood before the hall, one hand on his sword hilt, his gaze passing over Shen Zhen and landing on the Capital Guard soldiers massed in the distance.

Torches stood like a forest, painting half the night sky red. Spearmen, swordsmen, archers—rank upon rank, stretching as far as the eye could see.

The physician was nothing more than a cover; this man was merely a negotiator sent by Chen Zhengqi.

Zhou Yan saw it clearly, and the deputy commanders saw it too.

But what good did seeing it clearly do?

Outnumbered and outmatched, if it came to a real fight with no outside support, they had less than a one-in-ten chance of victory.

Zhou Yan knew this, and so did Chen Zhengqi.

That was why they were at a standoff, why they were negotiating, why they let Shen Zhen carry his medicine box and walk boldly into the Qianqing Palace.

Chen Zhengqi did not want to fight—at least not now—and neither did Zhou Yan, because neither had a justifiable reason to strike, and the timing wasn't right.

He slowly turned his head to look at Shen Zhen.

The man had already reached the palace gates and was turning back, looking at him with a faint, unreadable smile.

"Commander Zhou?" Shen Zhen's voice was not loud, but clear enough. "May this humble official enter now?"

Zhou Yan was silent for a moment, then he let go of the sword hilt and stepped aside.

Shen Zhen smiled, lifted his medicine box, and stepped over the threshold of the Qianqing Palace.

The eight attendants lowered their heads and filed in behind him.

Zhou Yan stood in place, watching the palace doors close slowly in front of him.

The doors closed behind them with a muffled thud.

Cheng Ge and the others kept their heads low, following at the very rear, making their way deeper into the main hall.

He scanned his surroundings from the corner of his eye—inside the Qianqing Palace, security was even tighter than outside.

Every three steps stood an imperial guard with a spear, and every five steps hung a palace lantern, lighting the entire corridor as bright as day.

The guards' gazes swept over them, cold as blades, yet no one said a word to stop them.

Prince Jing followed behind him, his legs weak as if weighted with lead.

He stared fixedly at the heels of the man in front, terrified of being found out.

But then, for some reason, the man ahead suddenly paused.

Prince Jing could not stop in time and stepped right on the man's heel.

The man whirled around, his eyes wide as brass bells, shooting daggers at Prince Jing.

Prince Jing froze in place, cold sweat instantly drenching his back.

Cheng Ge caught this from the corner of his eye and subtly shifted half a step sideways, using his own body to block the man's line of sight.

Prince Jing took a deep breath, lowered his head even further, wishing he could make himself disappear into thin air.

The man shot them a fierce glare, but given the circumstances, he didn't make a scene. He snorted coldly, turned, and continued on.

Prince Jing felt like he'd been pardoned, quietly letting out a breath, but he no longer dared to follow so closely.

The group passed through the main hall, skirted around the empty dragon throne, and headed toward the side hall.

The side hall's door was ajar, with a dim yellow glow seeping through the crack.

Shen Zhen stopped before the door, adjusted his robes and hat, and raised his hand to push it open.

The moment the door opened, warm yellow light flooded out, carrying a heavy scent of medicine and incense.

All the guards on both sides of the hall turned in unison, their gazes like a dozen invisible blades pressed against the necks of these uninvited guests.

Cheng Ge stood at the very back, subtly lifting his eyes to scan the surroundings, then quickly dropping them again.

Shen Zhen, however, remained composed, as if those murderous looks didn't exist at all. Carrying his medicine box, he walked calmly past them, heading straight for the main hall.

Shen Zhen had only taken a few steps when a burly military officer stepped forward, throwing his arm out to block his path. His gaze passed over Shen Zhen and landed on the eight submissive-looking soldiers behind him.

The message was clear without a word being said.

Shen Zhen glanced at the arm stretched across his path, then at the officer's impassive face.

He said nothing, simply looked away, lifted his foot, and kept walking.

The officer's arm dropped behind him, and Cheng Ge and the others were blocked from following.

Cheng Ge stood still with the others, watching Shen Zhen's retreating figure from the corner of his eye.

Medicine box in hand, he walked calmly past them and continued straight ahead.

He stopped three steps from the bedchamber door, lifted the hem of his robe, and slowly knelt down.

The hall fell silent, with only the faint sound of breathing.

Shen Zhen's voice rang out, neither loud nor low, yet clear enough for everyone present to hear:

"Your servant, acting on orders, has entered the hall to attend to Your Majesty's health. I kowtow and humbly inquire after Your Majesty's wellbeing. Your Majesty is unwell, and your servants are deeply worried. May Your Majesty recover soon and enjoy ten thousand years of blessings."

He gave neither his rank nor his name—only that he came "on orders."

The hall stayed silent. Behind the curtain, no response came.

Shen Zhen knelt there, motionless, as if waiting for a reply—or as if he did not care whether one came at all. He just knelt there, posture respectful, expression calm.

Cheng Ge stood at the back of the crowd, eyes down, but his peripheral vision never left that closed door.

Zhou Mingqi was inside. Was he still alive?

That question went around in Cheng Ge's mind seven or eight times, and every time, it came up empty.

Then—

"Bang!" A dull thud came from behind the door, like something had been slammed to the ground.

Then came the sharp crack of a bowl shattering, porcelain splintering and cutting through the hall's silence.

The door was thrown open, and Crown Prince Zhou Zhan burst out.

His sash hung loose, his outer robe thrown carelessly over his shoulders, and his hair fell in tangled strands around his face.

Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and the whites were shot through with blood. He looked haggard, like he'd spent seven days and nights in hell.

But his eyes burned with fury—like a beast cornered with no way out.

As the Crown Prince burst out, Shen Zhen was just getting up off the ground.

He'd barely straightened up when a gleaming blade pressed against his throat.

The edge touched his Adam's apple; one more inch and it would cut through flesh.

The Crown Prince's hand gripped the hilt, knuckles white, veins bulging on the back of it.

His chest heaved violently, eyes bloodshot, his whole body strung tight like a bow pulled to its breaking point.

"Today, I'll cut down you traitors first!"

His voice was hoarse, almost broken, yet carried a ferocity that had been bottled up for seven days and finally exploded.

The hall fell into dead silence.

The guards stood frozen. No one moved. Not because they didn't want to—but because they didn't know if they should.

The blade rested on Shen Zhen's neck. Shen Zhen was Chen Zhengqi's man. The Crown Prince was the heir apparent. If that blade fell, there'd be no turning back from tonight's events.

But Shen Zhen didn't move.

He just stood there, letting the blade press against his throat, even tilting his chin up a little, exposing his neck even more. There was no fear in his face, no panic.

He just looked at the Crown Prince for a long moment.

Then he smiled faintly. It was light, brief—just a flicker.

But in the deathly stillness, that smile was as clear as a pebble dropping onto a porcelain plate.

"Your Highness," his voice was low, even soft, so soft only the Crown Prince could hear, "if this blade falls, you'll never be able to clear your name."

The Crown Prince's hand jerked hard.

Shen Zhen's gaze stayed steady on the Crown Prince, on those bloodshot eyes.

The Crown Prince's face flushed red, then went pale in an instant. His hand trembled, drawing a thin line of blood across Shen Zhen's neck.

But Shen Zhen smiled.

"Your Highness," his voice was not loud, even gentle, yet loud enough for everyone in the hall to hear, "I am here on orders to treat His Majesty. Your Highness draws a blade on me—what does this mean?"

The Crown Prince's brow twitched sharply, but Shen Zhen gave him no chance to speak, and continued:

"I knelt outside the hall, pleading for His Majesty's wellbeing. Your Highness charged out and tried to kill me. I dare ask—what crime have I committed?"

His gaze locked onto the Crown Prince, fixed on those bloodshot eyes.

"I am but a physician, carrying my medicine box to treat His Majesty. If Your Highness won't let me enter, I kneel and wait. If Your Highness wants to kill me, I stand and take it."

His voice suddenly dropped, low as a whisper, yet every word landed clearly in the Crown Prince's ear:

"Your Highness blocks my entry to treat His Majesty—could it be that you intend to bring about His Majesty's death?"

As the words fell, the hall went so silent that even breathing seemed to stop.

The Crown Prince's hand jerked again, and the blade drew another line of blood across Shen Zhen's neck, deeper this time.

But he didn't strike.

He just stared at Shen Zhen, at that calm face. His lips moved, as if to speak, but the words got stuck in his throat.

Not because he had nothing to say. But because there was too much—too heavy, too tangled—and in that moment, he didn't know where to begin.

After a long while, so long that everyone thought he'd never speak—

His voice squeezed out from between clenched teeth, hoarse and almost shapeless:

"I... my devotion to the Emperor is as clear as the sun and moon..."

His hand trembled, his voice trembled, his whole body trembled.

"I won't allow you... to spout nonsense here..."

Shen Zhen looked at the Crown Prince, at those bloodshot eyes, at that face pale and drained of color, at that blade pressed against his neck that somehow couldn't fall.

He lifted his foot and stepped forward.

The blade pressed against his throat, digging deeper with his movement. Blood beaded up, sliding down the length of the steel.

But he didn't stop.

He took another step.

The Crown Prince stepped back.

Shen Zhen advanced again. The Crown Prince retreated again.

One step, two steps, three steps—pressing closer and closer!

The blade stayed at Shen Zhen's throat, yet it never fell.

The Crown Prince's back slammed into the corridor pillar.

No room to retreat.

Shen Zhen stood before him, so close that he was almost touching the blade. The blade had already sliced through his skin, blood seeping down his neck, staining the collar of his blue robe.

But he seemed not to feel the pain.

He simply looked at the Crown Prince, at those eyes, so close to his, and gave a soft sigh.

"Your Highness," his voice was gentle, as if soothing a child, "how has His Majesty treated you?"

The Crown Prince's hand shook violently.

Shen Zhen did not wait for an answer but continued:

"I have heard that from the very day Your Highness was born, His Majesty appointed you Crown Prince. Even in swaddling clothes, you were already the Crown Prince of Great Zhou."

His gaze rested steadily on the Crown Prince, watching something slowly rise in those eyes.

"Your Highness eats the finest rice and grain in the realm, wears the finest silks. When Your Highness studies, His Majesty personally supervises your lessons. When Your Highness falls ill, His Majesty stays by your bedside all night."

His voice was low, yet every word landed clearly in the Crown Prince's ears.

"His Majesty has given Your Highness the best of everything."

He paused.

"And this realm, too, His Majesty has given to Your Highness—waiting only for his hundredth year to pass."

The Crown Prince remained silent.

He only gripped the blade, standing there, his chest heaving.

Shen Zhen leaned in even closer, nearly pressing his lips to the Crown Prince's ear.

"Your Highness," his voice was barely a whisper, "His Majesty has been lying gravely ill inside for seven days and seven nights now. No physician allowed in, no medicine past his lips. Your Highness stands guard at the door, never leaving—what are you guarding?"

The Crown Prince's hand shook.

Shen Zhen continued: "I dare to ask—how was His Majesty poisoned?"

The Crown Prince's face went pale in an instant.

Shen Zhen looked at him, at that ashen face, and sighed softly.

"I have heard that Your Highness carried the bowl of soup in with your own hand."

The Crown Prince's hand jerked, the blade cutting another gash across Shen Zhen's neck.

"The soup Your Highness personally carried in—His Majesty drank it and fell. Your Highness has stood guard for seven days and nights, letting no one inside. Your Highness—"

Shen Zhen paused, his gaze boring into the Crown Prince.

"What do you want the world to think?"

The Crown Prince said nothing, his youthful face filled with helplessness.

He only gripped the blade, standing there, stiff as a stone statue.

His lips moved, as if to speak, but the words stuck in his throat.

Not because he had nothing to say, but because no one would believe him if he did.

Shen Zhen looked at him, at the grief swirling in those eyes.

His voice grew softer, as if drifting from far away: "Your Highness, write a confession admitting your guilt."

The Crown Prince's pupils shrank sharply.

His hand gripping the blade shook, the edge trembling against Shen Zhen's neck, carving a few more shallow cuts.

But he remained silent.

He only stared at Shen Zhen, at that calm face, at those compassionate eyes.

Shen Zhen looked at him and gave a soft sigh.

"Your Highness," his voice remained gentle, "do you know why I came here today?"

The Crown Prince said nothing.

Shen Zhen continued:

"I came to treat His Majesty, but Your Highness has blocked me, refusing to let me in. You've blocked me for one day, two days, seven days—"

He paused. "Lord Chen can wait no longer."