Every step forward seemed to echo through an empire holding its breath.
There were no laughing merchants. No gossiping women sweeping their storefronts. No children chasing chickens through the dust. The silence wasn't peace—it was fear.
And guilt.
The emperor—dead.
The crown prince—presumed dead.
And the throne—already poisoned by ambition.
Hua Jing didn't need to hear the drums of war or the clash of steel to know something terrible was coming. The quiet told her enough.
"But it's true," the first man muttered, looking around. "What kind of gods take both the emperor and the crown prince in the same season? And leave… that thing in their place."
They all went silent. One of them spat on the ground.
Then came a softer voice—maybe the woman again. "We're doomed. If Zhao Yan's really dead, we're finished. Pei Rong's not a ruler, he's a butcher with a crown."
They paused again. Then the boy added, "The coronation's in two days. We won't see another new year."
