Chapter 432 Urgency

Chapter 432: Urgency

The Crown Prince's brow jumped sharply.

Shen Zhen looked at him, his gaze heavy: "Lord Chen has been ordered to cleanse the court. Does Your Highness know what 'cleansing the court' means?"

The Crown Prince said nothing, so the man answered for him: "It means clearing out everyone in this palace who shouldn't be here."

His voice wasn't loud—barely a whisper, even—yet every word landed crisp and clear in the Crown Prince's ears:

"Does Your Highness think Lord Chen let me in here for nothing?"

The Crown Prince's face went pale.

The man continued: "If Lord Chen can let me in, he can let others in as well. I came to heal, but if I cannot heal—"

He paused slightly. "The next person to walk through that door won't be carrying a medicine box."

The hand clutching the sword shook violently.

Shen Zhen looked at him, at that pallid face, at those bloodshot eyes, at the blade pressed to his own neck that somehow couldn't fall.

His voice dropped even lower, soft as a leaf landing on water:

"Your Highness, you block me from entering. Don't you see—you're not blocking me, you're blocking the Emperor's life itself?"

"Don't you see—every moment you stall, Lord Chen gets one more excuse—if the purge isn't clean enough, he'll just make it cleaner."

Zhou Zhan's lips trembled, and he muttered under his breath: "No... what crime did I commit? I've been set up... I won't write it... I won't write it!"

He glared at Shen Zhen, his voice suddenly rising, with a shrill, desperate edge.

Shen Zhen didn't flinch. He stared into the blade and stepped forward another half step.

The cut went deeper; beads of blood slid down the steel, dripping onto the hand that gripped it.

Warm. Zhou Zhan's hand twitched violently.

"The Emperor's poison... can't wait any longer!" Shen Zhen's voice suddenly rose—no longer the soft coaxing of before, but a hard, unyielding edge. "Your Highness better think this through!"

Zhou Zhan's mind went blank, his vision blurring into chaos. The sword was still in his hand, pressed against Shen Zhen's neck.

But looking at that face, those eyes, that endless flow of blood—it burned like fire.

"Father..." he murmured, his voice faint as a dream.

He did not know what to do.

His hand on the sword nearly let go, knuckles white, but it wouldn't unclench.

He stood frozen, and Shen Zhen didn't back down an inch.

He stood before the blade, before the Crown Prince, in the dead silence, his gaze fixed directly on Zhou Zhan, saying each word slowly:

"Your Highness, for every moment you hesitate, the Emperor's danger grows."

"For every moment you block, Lord Chen gets one more excuse."

"For every moment you wait—"

He paused slightly, his voice so soft it seemed to drift from far away, yet every word landed clearly in Zhou Zhan's ears:

"How many people will be left in this Qianqing Palace, I really couldn't say."

Zhou Zhan's face went completely white. His lips moved like he wanted to speak, but no words came out.

He just stood there, gripping the sword, staring at Shen Zhen—that calm face, those pitying eyes—

Shen Zhen looked at Zhou Zhan's bloodshot eyes, at that pallid face, at the trembling hand holding the sword, and a faint, barely visible smile flickered in his eyes.

Slowly, he pulled a scroll from his sleeve, unrolled it, and laid it out before the Crown Prince.

Black words on white paper—

"The guilty subject, Crown Prince Zhan, guilty of crimes too numerous to count, conspiring with Fu Quan, the Chief Eunuch of the Directorate of Ceremonial, to secretly poison the Emperor's medicine, plotting to usurp the throne.

Having been heir for over a decade, lacking virtue and talent, unfit to inherit the throne, bringing about heavenly warnings and frequent disasters.

The drought in Hedong, the floods in Jiangnan—all because of my own lack of virtue, offending heaven and failing the people..."

Line after line, densely packed, accusation after accusation—every one fabricated, yet every one laid at the Crown Prince's feet.

"Your Highness," Shen Zhen's voice softened back to that gentle, coaxing tone, like soothing a child who didn't understand:

"Your Highness just needs to copy this out by hand, stamp it with your personal seal, and present it before the army—and this whole matter is done."

Zhou Zhan's eyes fell on the scroll, his pupils shrinking, his lips shaking violently.

"No... I won't write it..."

Shen Zhen pressed forward another half step. The blade cut deeper, blood flowed faster, yet he seemed to feel no pain.

"Your Highness!" His voice suddenly dropped low. "Don't you understand—once you confess, this purge is over.

Lord Chen brought troops into the palace for one purpose: to purge the court. Once Your Highness confesses, the court is purged—what reason would Lord Chen have to stay in the palace?"

He paused, his gaze boring into Zhou Zhan.

"Then, once Your Highness confesses, the Emperor, in his mercy, seeing your repentance, will surely remember the bond between father and son and forgive you.

The Emperor gets his treatment, Your Highness keeps your honor—both problems solved. Why not do it?"

Zhou Zhan's pupils shook violently. "You... all of you are setting me up..."

His voice was hoarse, almost broken, his whole body shaking like a leaf in the wind. "I... I'll kill you!"

The hand on the sword suddenly tightened, as if to lunge forward—

But Shen Zhen suddenly raised his voice, thundering: "I come with total loyalty, for the nation and the Emperor—what reason does Your Highness have to kill me!"

His voice echoed through the hall, shocking everyone into silence.

"And how dare you try to kill me!" He glared at the Crown Prince, his eyes blazing. The blood on his neck still flowed, staining half his blue robe red.

Yet he stood there, like an immovable god. Zhou Zhan's hand froze mid-air, the sword unable to come down.

Then Shen Zhen grabbed the hilt of the sword in Zhou Zhan's hand. He gripped it tight, knuckles white, veins popping on the back of his hand.

The blade that had been at his neck was now in his grip, and he pushed it, inch by inch, toward his own throat.

The blade sliced through flesh, blood pouring faster, running down the blade, between his fingers, dripping to the ground.

But he did not stop.

He just held the blade, held the prince's hand, held that knife that could take his life at any moment, pressing forward step by step.

"I stand right here—strike off my head if you dare," his voice was low, almost soft, yet every word landed clearly in everyone's ears, "Why does Your Highness hesitate to make a move?"

His gaze locked onto Zhou Zhan, and he demanded, word by word, "Is it fear that grips your heart?!!!"

"Crack!—"

The sound of a blade shearing through bone suddenly rang out, in the deathly silent hall, so clear it seemed to split the silence itself.

Shen Zhen's face still wore that self-righteous expression, his lips half-parted, as if the words "Your minister fears nothing" were still on his lips—

But the world before his eyes began to reel and blur.

The heavens spun, the earth tilted, the candle flames warped, the shadows upended.

He saw the toe of the prince's boot, saw the golden-threaded claw stitched onto the python robe's hem.

A headless body in blue robes stood rigidly in place, blood spurting from the neck.

Scalding blood sprayed out, splashing onto Zhou Zhan's python robe, onto that golden-threaded claw.

The scorching blood made Zhou Zhan flinch.

"Thud." Shen Zhen's head bounced twice and stopped at Zhou Zhan's feet.

The face still held that defiant look from moments before, but the eyes had already gone blank.

The half-open mouth seemed ready to speak, but no words would come.

The headless body swayed in place, then slammed to the ground, revealing the man standing behind him.

The blade in Cheng Ge's hand still dripped with blood, his eyes still burning with unyielding ferocity.

The blood slid down the blade, pooled at the tip, hung for a heartbeat, then fell.

It dropped into the pool of blood without a sound, leaving only a faint ripple, instantly swallowed by the deeper crimson.

He stood there—behind the headless corpse, at the edge of the spreading blood, under the stunned gaze of the entire hall.

Blood was splattered across his face, glinting dark red in the candlelight.

A single drop traced from his brow, past his eye, past his cheekbone, and hung at his jaw, refusing to fall.

The soldiers behind him, who had moved to seize him, froze—so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

Cheng Ge swept his gaze across the crowd and said coldly: "This traitor tried to assassinate His Majesty, so I executed him on the spot."

When his words landed, the hall stayed dead silent.

Behind him, the armored soldiers who'd been held back stood utterly bewildered, unable to believe what they'd just witnessed.

Was this... one of their own killing one of their own?! Was this man insane!

The air felt like it had frozen solid.

But then Zhou Zhan stirred.

In his overwhelming shock, he stared blankly at the man before him—at that face.

"Mu... Muyu..." His voice shook so badly he couldn't even hear himself.

Cheng Ge turned to look at Zhou Zhan.

Then—

Without warning, he raised his hand—"Slap!"

A brutal slap cracked across Zhou Zhan's face!

The sound was sharp, loud—like a thunderclap exploding in the deathly silent hall.

Everyone: "!!!!"

Zhou Zhan's body jolted violently, stumbling back two steps, almost falling.

He lifted his head, staring blankly at Cheng Ge, not blinking.

The armored soldiers stood utterly stunned.

They'd been hesitating whether to rush him, but now they stood frozen, as if under a spell.

The tension in the air was absolute.

Cheng Ge stood over Zhou Zhan, looking down at him: "Does Your Highness know who you are?"

Cheng Ge's voice suddenly boomed, as if long-suppressed rage had finally found an outlet:

"Do today's actions set an example for the realm! Do they befit the Crown Prince!"

His voice echoed through the hall, rattling every heart in the room.

Zhou Zhan's lips moved, as if to speak, but no words came out.

Tears finally spilled over. He didn't know what to say.

All he knew was that Muyu was back—Muyu was scolding him, Muyu was hitting him.

Cheng Ge turned, his gaze settling on the men who had come in with Shen Zhen.

Those men stood frozen, pale-faced, unable to grasp how things had spiraled this far.

Cheng Ge raised a hand, pointed at them, and said in a low voice: "Tie them up."

The words dropped into the dead-silent hall like a stone plunging into a frozen lake.

A few guards stirred instinctively, traded glances, then looked to the military officers.

The officers hesitated for a beat, then quickly snapped into action—

With a wave, the imperial guards behind them surged forward, shoved the terrified men to the ground, and bound them in no time.

They didn't even dare struggle—just lay there, as if their bones had been pulled out.

Cheng Ge swept his gaze over them, then casually tossed the long blade aside.

He turned and strode quickly toward the inner hall.

Everyone's eyes followed him, no one daring to step forward, a glint in their eyes that had never been there before.

It looked like a cowering, downtrodden family finally welcoming back their matriarch.

The door to the inner hall was ajar. Chen Ge raised his hand and pushed it open.

Warm yellow light flooded toward him, carrying a thick scent of incense.

Layer upon layer of bright yellow drapes hung, like a maze, like a barrier, hiding the dragon bed completely.

Several palace maids and eunuchs knelt on either side of the dragon bed.

They kept their heads bowed, shoulders hunched, not daring to look up even when they heard footsteps, only shrinking further into themselves, as if they wished they could bury themselves in the cracks of the floor.

Chen Ge strode over, pushing aside the first drape, then the second, the third—

Finally, he saw the dragon bed—and Zhou Mingqi lying there.

His eyes were shut tight, his body motionless, his face as pale as rice paper, drained of all color.

His lips were tinged an unnatural dark purple—deep and heavy, like pooled blood or settled poison.

His breathing was shallow and faint, so light the rise and fall of his chest was barely visible.

Chen Ge stood by the bed, staring at that face for a long, long time.

Zhou Zhan finally caught up, standing at Chen Ge's side. Looking at the emperor on the bed, tears welled up in his eyes again.

He wanted to speak, his lips trembling, but no words came out. He just stood there.

Chen Ge asked, "How is His Majesty?"

Zhou Zhan opened his mouth, his voice hoarse and nearly shattered:

"The Imperial Medical Bureau is surrounded by Chen Zhengqi's men. Our people can't get in, and the ones inside can't get out.

That bowl of soup—I carried it in myself... but I didn't know it was poisoned... I really didn't know..."

He defended himself in a low voice, terrified Chen Ge wouldn't believe him.

"I only had someone secretly bring a few detox pills—the kind always kept in the Eastern Palace. I don't know if they'll work... I..."

He couldn't go on.

Chen Ge said nothing, staring at Zhou Mingqi on the bed, his face growing darker by the second.

Judging by the look of him, those few detox pills couldn't even slow the poison—they were only holding on to his last breath.

Just then, Zhou Yinyun burst in from the side hall.

He clutched an armful of medicine bottles—big and small, some porcelain, some jade—grabbed in a panic.

He had been running hard, sweat beading at his temples, chest heaving violently—clearly he'd sprinted all the way here.

"The Emperor's medicine—I found some—"

His words cut off abruptly.

Because the moment he looked up, he saw him.

The one standing by the dragon bed, amid the layers of bright yellow drapes, in the flickering candlelight.

That person wore the uniform of an ordinary soldier, blood still staining the collar.

That person stood with his back to the candlelight, his face half-hidden in shadow—

Zhou Yinyun's grip on the medicine bottles suddenly tightened.