Chapter 10: The Throne

The General's Manor slept soundly behind its tall stone walls — unaware that within its silence, a shadow moved with purpose.

Hua Rui slipped out from her chambers just as the midnight bell rang.

Dressed in a plain grey cloak with her hair tied back, she scaled the side gate with a rope she had hidden beneath the garden rock months ago.

This wasn't her first time.

It was her twentieth.

The city beyond the manor was not the capital shown to nobles and scholars — it was narrow alleys, crooked roofs, and poor families curled under thin blankets.

And tonight, she carried food, herbs, and coin for an old widow who had lost her son to debt collectors.

She crouched behind the alley bricks, waited for the patrolling guards to pass, then knocked softly on a wooden panel.

"Aunty," she whispered. "It's me."

The door creaked open and the old woman's face lit up.

"Ah, my little moonlight girl," she said with a tired smile. "You came again."

"How's your leg?"

"Still aching like my late husband's complaints," she chuckled.

"But better since you brought that salve last time."

Hua Rui stepped in, handed over a wrapped bundle of dumplings and herbs.

Then, sitting by the old stove, she poured tea from a small clay pot and gently massaged the woman's swollen ankle.

"You shouldn't risk coming so late," the old woman said softly. "If your family finds out…"

"They won't," Hua Rui said. "They only see what I let them see."

The old woman studied her carefully.

"You hide more than your presence, child. One day, it might be too heavy to carry."

Hua Rui smiled gently but said nothing.

After she left the home, she didn't go back to the manor. Instead, she headed toward the abandoned shrine near the city's edge — where an old swordsman with a scar over one eye waited, seated cross-legged under a moonbeam.

"You're late," he said without opening his eyes.

"I was helping someone."

"Helping the weak and training in secret. Do you plan to save the world, little lady?"

"No," she said.

"Just the people who never had anyone on their side."

The swordsman grunted.

"A noble heart will get you killed. Draw."

She pulled her short sword from her belt, and in the moonlit clearing, they danced like two shadows locked in rhythm.

Her blade was swift, her stance stronger now — weeks of secret training had shaped her. Sweat dripped down her temple, but she didn't falter.

"Better," he said. "Still too soft in the wrists."

"I'll fix it."

"You still flinch when striking."

"Only when I see my own reflection in the blade," she muttered.

"Then stop seeing a lady," he snapped. "See a warrior."

They trained till dawn cracked the sky.

Then she returned quietly to the manor, just as the maids began to stir.

She entered through the side garden, dusted off the dirt, slipped into her robes — and when her mother entered the room moments later, she was already seated at the vanity, hair neatly brushed.

"You're up early," Xiao Lan said.

"The peach blossoms were too beautiful to ignore," Hua Rui said sweetly, gazing out the window.

No one knew she'd just spent the night fighting shadows.

No one knew she'd healed five sick children in a slum the night before.

No one knew she was building something… quietly, steadily… with every sword strike and every secret step.

...

Meanwhile, in the palace, the storm of succession was growing.

The other princes—sons of noble consorts and high-ranking wives—were being paraded before the Emperor, their mothers scheming to put their sons on the throne.

And far away in the cold palace, the forgotten Fourth Prince still stood beneath the cracked beams and faded tapestries.

He hadn't seen his father in years.

But his shadow was growing darker, colder… deadlier.

...

The palace was as grand as ever — gold-trimmed pillars, fragrant sandalwood burning in bronze censers, and eunuchs scurrying like ghosts through silk-draped halls.

But beneath the beauty, a storm brewed with quiet intensity.

The throne sat tall, but those who sought it… sat even lower.

Inside the Eastern Palace, Consort Tang — the current Empress — poured herself a cup of warm plum wine as her son, the Second Prince, practiced sword forms in the garden below.

"He's graceful," a court lady commented, watching from the veranda.

"He must be," Consort Tang replied, her tone calm but proud. "Grace draws eyes. But control? That earns respect."

The Second Prince, Li Xiao sheng, was well-spoken, handsome, and skilled in poetry and etiquette. Everything a Crown Prince should be. And his mother had raised him with purpose.

Ever since the death of the former Empress Xia Rui, the throne beside the Emperor had been hers.

But not once… had the Emperor hinted at Li Xiao sheng as his heir.

"What of the Fourth Prince?" she once asked.

The Emperor's face had darkened.

"He's locked away for his protection. He no longer exists to the court."

But still, his shadow remained.