The chaos erupted without any warning like a pot of cold water suddenly brought to a boil. Before those inside could react, they were already being scalded.

By the time they reached Hanshui, the war had escalated. Iron cavalry trampled through, leaving cities destroyed and homes reduced to ashes. Once fertile fields turned into decayed blackened ruins. Silk and brocade fabrics drifted in the muddy waters, and corpses of civilians who perished in the war lay scattered along the roadsides. The once-thriving land was annihilated overnight, and the stench of rotting flesh filled the summer air.

Prince Luo raised his troops in Meishan, and those unwilling to become rebels fled eastward with their families. However, upon arriving at Hanshui, they found the eastern waterway blockade firmly held by Xu Su, the cousin of Prince Luo’s concubine. The western defense line of Bian Tang’s army was fragmented, suffering a major defeat at Hongcheng, leaving the empire’s control in jeopardy.

Chu Qiao and her companions were forced to halt their journey. With war looming, even she could not alter the tides of such a grand-scale conflict.

Refugees gathered in Hanshui, and with the summer heat, disease spread rapidly. In less than half a month, an epidemic broke out in the city. Noble families barricaded themselves within their homes, posting armed guards. Inns and taverns shut down, and even a grain of rice became difficult to purchase. Chu Qiao and her group retreated to the outskirts, relying on their prior preparations of provisions and tents.

Days passed, and rumors spread like wildfire. Even when Duoji and Ping’an risked their lives to gather intelligence in the city, they found little substance.

The rumors varied—some claimed Li Ce had assembled an army of 800,000 elite troops heading for Hanshui. Others said Prince Luo had recently crushed the Nanhuai forces in Junshan, conquering Jiangzhe, Feicheng, Nanwang, Anxi County, and Xizhao Mountain. The empire’s military suffered massive casualties, with the remaining troops either slain or surrendered and within five days, Prince Luo’s forces would march into Hanshui. Some said that the southwestern gentry had pledged allegiance to Prince Luo, denouncing the emperor as incompetent and supplying their private armies to Meishan’s cause, swelling his forces to nearly a million. The most absurd claim was that Li Ce had already fled the Tang capital, taking his concubines into Daxia’s territory and that Huai Song of the Eastern Sea was constructing ships to aid his escape.

Fear gripped Hanshui. Although the rumors were inconsistent, one fact remained—Prince Luo’s forces were drawing closer by the day.

The dwindling number of refugees signaled the tightening encirclement. The inevitable confrontation between Prince Luo’s forces and General Xu Su’s Hanshui defenders loomed near.

Seven days later, Prince Luo’s army reached Qibaipo, just eighty miles from Hanshui. Yet, surprisingly, they halted instead of engaging General Xu Su. Likewise, Hanshui did not openly declare allegiance to Prince Luo.

The war entered a deadlock.

Sensing the unusual turn of events, the empire’s Xishuo Army intervened. Xu Su, once a loyal follower of General Murong, was a key imperial commander. If he stood with Li Ce, the imperial faction’s victory would be assured.

After four days of observation, Xishuo Army leader Lu Bingkuan led 30,000 troops to Qibaipo, clashing fiercely with Prince Luo’s forces. Though the Xishuo Army suffered heavy casualties, they broke through and sought refuge in Xu Su’s Hanshui camp—an unmistakable gesture of allegiance to the empire.

Then, without warning, the Hanshui Massacre shocked the entire Ximeng Continent.

Overnight, Xu Su slaughtered 13,000 of Lu Bingkuan’s soldiers. The Hanshui River ran red with blood, and even thirty miles downstream, its waters remained crimson. Corpses stacked high, forming makeshift embankments.

Day and night, vultures and scavengers circled the area. At night, their eerie cries and the stench of decay turned Hanshui into a living nightmare.

Three days later, convinced of Xu Su’s loyalty, Prince Luo led 150,000 troops into Hanshui. The following day, amidst his soldiers’ cheers, he donned the imperial robe, bowed before his ancestors, and declared himself emperor, taking the reign title Jingheng.

Two days later, Meishan’s 200,000-strong army arrived at Hanshui, joining Xu Su’s 180,000 troops. Prince Luo’s forces swelled to nearly 600,000.

Thus, Bian Tang entered a bizarre era of two emperors ruling separately.

Ten days later, unable to endure such humiliation, Emperor Li Ce issued an aggressive decree of war. Leading the Central Army (90,000), the Southeastern Army (110,000), and the Wolf Cavalry (200,000), he marched towards Hanshui with overwhelming force.

The battle was imminent.

On August 9, Prince Luo ascended Chaoyang Terrace, offering incense and prayers before leading 150,000 troops and the Meishan Army across the river, leaving 50,000 behind with Xu Su to defend Hanshui. However, Li Ce’s forces remained in their camp, refusing to engage. For five days, only skirmishes involving hundreds of soldiers occurred—hardly battles, more like street brawls. Li Ce’s reluctance to fight turned him into a national laughingstock.

Just when the world believed Li Ce had lost his empire, Chu Qiao suddenly ordered Meixiang to prepare for departure.

Meixiang, puzzled, asked why.

Gazing eastward at Xu Su’s camp, Chu Qiao’s eyes clouded with distant memories of the Xishuo Army’s massacre. The screams of the dying haunted her ears.

“This war is about to end.”

On August 17, the Tang army launched a full-scale assault at Hulinyuan against Prince Luo’s forces.

The battle raged for a full day and night. Neither side relented—they knew this was a struggle for the throne. The victorious would enjoy wealth and power, while the defeated faced total annihilation.

At the climax of the battle, General Xu Su appeared on the field.

Prince Luo’s troops erupted in cheers. But before their joy subsided, Xu Su’s army suddenly turned their blades upon them, attacking from the rear.

On August 20, Prince Luo suffered a crushing defeat. Over 40,000 of his soldiers perished, and the survivors surrendered.

Fleeing with 2,000 elite guards, Prince Luo reached Hanshui, only to find his 50,000-strong garrison massacred. The river offered no escape.

Trapped, Prince Luo sighed at his fate. Drawing his sword, he ended his own life at the river’s edge.

Thus, “Emperor Jingheng,” who ruled for merely eleven days, vanished from history as if he had never existed.

On August 21, the imperial army hunted down Prince Luo’s remaining supporters, annihilating over 300 noble families from the southwest. Women were forced into servitude, and all men taller than a horsewhip were executed. Overnight, the southwestern clans were erased from existence, leaving desolation in their wake.

On August 27, Li Ce returned triumphantly. He decreed that half of the seized Southwest wealth be distributed among the war-torn provinces and granted the Southwest a five-year tax exemption, allowing them to recover. His popularity soared, and the people, grateful for a future, praised him as a benevolent ruler.

On September 9, Chu Qiao and her companions set off for the Tang capital.

Bian Tang remained unchanged—blue skies, drifting clouds, warm breezes.

Only the fallen warriors could no longer witness it.

On September 15, a full moon shone outside the window, round and luminous like a flawless jade disk. Among the parasol trees in the palace courtyard, fireflies danced, casting a soft blue glow as they swirled through the night.

The entire palace was cold and desolate, draped in mourning white. From the highest halls to the lowest chambers, pure white curtains swayed in the cold wind. Pale candles replaced the usual ornate lanterns, casting a dim, sorrowful glow.

She followed the guards slowly, her footsteps barely making a sound. The Jinwu Palace was still as grand as ever, yet without the endless melodies of songstresses and the charm of graceful courtesans, the towering halls suddenly felt hollow and vast.

The embroidered patterns on her sleeves brushed against the fabric of her robes, producing a faint rustling sound. The night was too quiet. A crow soared above her head, and when she looked up, she could only see the guardian beasts crouching atop the high eaves. The twilight mist spread like a veil, and beneath the solemn pine trees, incense smoke coiled into the air. From the depths of the palace, faint chants of monks drifted through the breeze, distant and ethereal, stirring an inexplicable emptiness in her heart.

Mihua Residence had remained unchanged—rows of parasol trees, the moonlit lotus pond, and the ceaseless chirping of cicadas. The moonlight seeped through the white paper windows, casting a hazy glow. A few windows to the west were left wide open, allowing the damp night air to swirl inside. The pale blue drapes billowed gently, and a wind chime, long worn by time, hung by the window, its crisp ringing reminiscent of a song breaking through frozen silence.

Li Ce sat amid the fluttering gauze curtains, his figure outlined by the moon’s cold radiance. A small ebony table, two simple cushions, a jade-green wine vessel, and two white porcelain cups accompanied him. The sheer drapery danced in the wind, sweeping across the silent hall. His long, ink-black hair fell loosely over his shoulders, and he wore a deep purple brocade robe embroidered with intricate azure clouds, meticulously stitched with the imperial family’s unique needlework. His face, as flawless as white jade, remained motionless in the moonlight, a painting of quiet solitude.

At the doorway, Chu Qiao hesitated, her fingers lightly resting on the cool wooden column. For a moment, she did not know how to approach him.

The night wind lifted the curtains once more. Li Ce turned his head, his expression calm as his eyes curved into a familiar smile. “You’re here,” he said.

His voice was gentle, yet it made her heartache. She looked at him, finding him just as he had always been—playful, mischievous, yet always seeing through everything with clarity.

So much had happened. Time had rushed forward mercilessly, leaving her struggling to catch up. And now, facing him again, she felt both estranged and sorrowful.

She stepped forward and crouched beside him, her lips pressed tightly together, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.

Li Ce smiled and ruffled her hair, deliberately disheveling her once-neat bun. “Why such a long face? I’m not dead yet.”

The more he smiled, the heavier the sorrow weighed upon her. She forced a small smile and nodded, whispering, “As long as you’re all right.”

Outside, the last blooms of the lotus pond swayed gently in the breeze. Li Ce traced the delicate carvings on the wine cup, his voice light yet distant.

“He was a traitor,” he murmured. “He could not be buried in the imperial tombs. I buried him in Luofu Mountain.”

A gust of wind swept through the hall, and the wind chime trembled, its sound ringing through the stillness. The golden patterns on its surface remained as vivid as ever, untouched by the passage of time.

Li Ce took a slow sip of wine. His gaze was tranquil, his tone devoid of emotion as he added, “I buried Fu’er there too.”

Lifting his head, he gazed at the flickering candlelight, his expression wistful yet resolute.

“They could not live together, but at least they can rest together in death. He did not fight in vain.”

Silence enveloped the grand hall once more. Chu Qiao remained by his side, accompanying him cup after cup, though she never sat in the seat across from him—because she knew that place was not meant for her.

Beneath the lonely lamp and pale moon, he waited for someone who would never return.

“I knew he would rebel,” Li Ce spoke suddenly. His voice was calm, almost as if he were telling a tale from another life.

Chu Qiao said nothing. She knew he was not seeking an answer, only someone willing to listen.

“I waited for him for so many years. But I still hoped, just a little, that he might change his mind.”

Li Ce chuckled bitterly, tilting his head back to drain his cup. He turned to her, his familiar fox-like smirk returning. “Did you know? Li Luo was never as intelligent as I was. He was neither skilled in war nor politics, but he excelled at poetry. When we were young, he dreamed of gathering the greatest scholars and writing the most complete history of Ximeng.”

His brow furrowed slightly, the moonlight spilling through the veil of white gauze, illuminating his features in soft silver hues. His voice turned quieter.

“He never knew that the day I became crown prince, I built a history academy in Anqing for him. But after Fu’er died, I never had the chance to tell him.”

Suddenly, his brows knotted, his voice tightening with suppressed anger.

“Why did he have to rebel?”

With a sudden crack, the wine cup shattered in his grip. Jagged shards embedded into his palm, and bright crimson blood dripped onto the ebony table, blooming like a sea of scarlet petals.

In that instant, memories surged back—years ago, beneath these very palace eaves, a man clad in blue had smiled at her and softly said, “I am the Prince of Luo.”

Time rewound in a blur, tracing back to a distant past where three children once played beneath the palace parasol trees, their laughter carrying through the grand, somber halls. Their joy had once shattered the darkness of this imperial house.

…

The night deepened, the flickering illusions of the past gradually fading. Only the moon remained, cold and distant.

Li Ce staggered from Mihua Residence, his figure frail against the endless darkness.

He seemed thinner now, his silhouette slowly swallowed by the shadows of the parasol trees. Chu Qiao stood at the window, watching him leave, an empty ache settling in her chest—like a frozen lake cracking under the weight of time.

In the endless power struggle, there was no compromise. Either you killed, or you perished.

Just like the war between Yanbei and Daxia—an irreconcilable conflict.

She thought of Yan Xun and how she had once felt when he killed Mr. Wu and the others.

Perhaps the circumstances had been different, but in the end, it was all the same—a brutal contest for power. Li Ce mourned Luo Wang’s death now, but would Yan Xun ever regret his own choices?

The crisp chime of the wind bell pulled her from her thoughts. She reached out to touch it gently, but as soon as her fingers made contact, the silk string snapped.

With a soft thud, the wind chime tumbled into the clear waters of Taiqing Pond below, vanishing beneath the rippling surface.