The Emperor's Last Breath

The throne room of the Celestial Palace was stifling, heavy with the weight of impending death. Emperor Zhen Ying lay motionless on his gilded deathbed, his pale, sunken features illuminated by the dim light filtering through the golden silk curtains. The air was oppressive, despite the faint breeze sneaking in through the tall windows. It smelled of incense and despair.

The leaders of the four great families—Li, Wei, Cong, and Bei—stood in a semicircle, their postures deceptively respectful. Their finely embroidered robes shimmered faintly in the low light, but their eyes betrayed their true thoughts: calculations, strategies, and ambitions simmered beneath the surface. Zhen Ying was a weak emperor, and they had long turned his throne into a hollow symbol. With his death, they would finally discard the pretense.

Zhen Ying never knew how to rule. He ascended to the throne by blood, not merit, and for decades he delegated responsibilities to those who flattered him most, not to those who knew best. The four families, cunning and opportunistic, took advantage of his vanity: they showered him with poems, feasts, and empty praises, while plundering the imperial coffers and placing their own kin in key positions. By the time the emperor realized his dependence on them, it was too late; his reign had become a façade of silk and gold, rotten from within.

It wasn't always this way. A century ago, the ancestors of the Li, Wei, Cong, and Bei families had been loyal generals to the Empire's founder, Zhen Long. But over time, their descendants corrupted that legacy. Arranged marriages, bribes, and backroom deals allowed them to control armies, lands, and courts. Now, after a hundred years of decay, only the emperor's name held the Empire together… and Zhen Ying hadn't even managed to preserve that.

By his side, Zhen Luo, the emperor's six-year-old son, clutched his father's frail hand. His large, teary eyes darted between the faces surrounding him. The boy did not understand the full weight of what was happening, but the quiet sobs of his mother, the empress dowager, told him that nothing would ever be the same.

Near the chamber's entrance stood General Yuan Guo, a stoic sentinel, his calloused hands clenched behind his back. Once the Empire's most celebrated military commander, he had been sidelined by the very families who now surrounded the emperor like vultures. Yuan Guo's face remained unreadable, but his mind raced. He had fought for this Empire for decades, watching it crumble under the greed and arrogance of the great families. They were wolves in fine silk, carving out the emperor's legacy while the man himself lay dying.

Zhen Ying stirred weakly, a faint moan escaping his lips. The sound drew the attention of Wei Jian, head of the Wei family. He was a tall, gaunt man, his neatly trimmed beard framing a face that seemed carved from stone. Stepping forward, he performed a shallow bow—just deep enough to be polite.

"Your Majesty," Wei Jian intoned, his voice oozing with feigned reverence, "you have led the Empire through trying times. Rest assured, we will safeguard your legacy."

The emperor's eyelids fluttered open, his cloudy gaze sweeping the room. He was no fool; he recognized the thin veneer of respect in Wei Jian's tone. But he had neither the strength nor the will to confront it. Zhen Ying had spent his reign surrounded by false smiles and sycophants, his authority eroded piece by piece until he was little more than a figurehead. Perhaps that was why he felt no hatred for the men in this room—only a bone-deep exhaustion.

"Luo…" The emperor's voice was a whisper, rasping like dry leaves. He turned his head toward his son, summoning the last reserves of his strength. "Take care… of the Empire…"

The boy nodded, tears streaming down his cheeks. He did not understand the burden being placed on his small shoulders, but the solemnity in his father's voice etched itself into his heart.

Zhen Ying exhaled a long, shuddering breath—and then, silence.

The empress dowager's quiet sobs became the only sound in the room.

Li Kang, head of the Li family, was the first to break the stillness. His booming voice reverberated off the chamber walls.

"The emperor has departed," he declared solemnly, though the glint in his eyes betrayed satisfaction. "Now it falls upon us to ensure the stability of the Empire."

"Indeed," added Cong Min, leader of the Cong family, his thin lips curving into a faint smile. "The young emperor will require guidance. Proper guidance."

Bei Tao, a stout man with a hawkish gaze, nodded. "The four families are united in our commitment to the Empire's well-being."

Yuan Guo's fists tightened behind his back. He knew their "guidance" would amount to little more than manipulation and control, reducing the boy to a puppet just as they had reduced his father. But he held his tongue; open defiance now would mean certain death.

Wei Jian turned to Yuan Guo, his expression a mask of cold civility. "General Yuan, your loyalty to the Empire is beyond question. We trust you will continue to serve with the same devotion under the young emperor."

Yuan Guo inclined his head, his voice even. "It is my duty to serve the Empire."

The words tasted bitter on his tongue, but he forced them out. Any sign of dissent would be his undoing.

As the families turned their attention to planning the funeral and the coronation, Yuan Guo slipped away from the chamber. The palace gardens offered little solace; the air was no less heavy, the sky darkening with storm clouds. Luo Wen, a middle-aged official and one of the few remaining allies Yuan Guo could trust, was waiting for him beneath a gnarled cherry tree.

"What now, General?" Luo Wen's voice was low, edged with fear. "The Empire is at their mercy."

Yuan Guo gazed at the horizon, his expression grim. "The Empire is in the hands of wolves," he said quietly. "But as long as there are those who remember what it was meant to be, there is hope."

Luo Wen nodded, though his worry did not fade. Both men knew the road ahead would be perilous.

Back in the throne room, Zhen Luo sat silently beside his father's lifeless body, his small frame trembling. The leaders of the four families did not spare him a glance, their attention consumed by power plays and whispers of control. To them, he was nothing but a pawn.

But the boy clenched his fists, his young heart heavy with a determination he did not yet fully understand. Somewhere deep inside, an ember flickered.

And Yuan Guo, standing in the shadow of the palace walls, made a silent vow. He would not let the Empire die—not while he still drew breath.