Chapter 114.

After the fields were tilled and spring set in, April arrived with a bold flourish.

New buds sprouted, grass flourished, and orioles fluttered. The sun’s warmth blanketed the land, chasing away winter’s lingering gloom.

As the Longevity Festival approached, the imperial capital of Wangjing City came alive. From noble families behind gilded gates to the humblest commoners in their modest homes, everyone was swept up in the vibrant festivities. Emperor Longfeng’s fervent devotion to Daoism dictated that on his birthday, not only in Wangjing but throughout the empire, grand Daoist rituals were held. On that day, scriptures were chanted to bless the emperor with long life.

The ritual sites in the capital had been meticulously prepared long before the festival. On the day itself, Emperor Longfeng, accompanied by the revered Daoist Ziyuan Zhenren, ascended to the Temple of Heaven for prayers. Following this, he presided over a solemn court ceremony in the Qianqing Palace, receiving tributes and blessings from his ministers. By noon, he stepped out of the palace to the public ritual site, mingling with the common folk in a rare display of imperial camaraderie.

For three days after the festival, the city bustled with charity events from the Shanji Hall and free rice distributions. Acrobats and performers from across the empire competed to outshine each other, creating a scene brimming with joy and prosperity.

As evening descended, the palace hosted the Qianqiu Banquet, a lavish affair where Emperor Longfeng dined and reveled with his ministers.

Held in the Huangji Hall, the banquet was an exclusive affair, reserved for officials ranked fourth grade and above. Dressed in ceremonial robes, they attended while palace attendants flitted silently through the grand hall, balancing platters of exquisite dishes and jugs of fine wine.

Emperor Longfeng sat at the head, raising his goblet to acknowledge the celebratory toasts from his officials. Yet, not everyone could approach him for a toast. Aside from the crown prince and his royal siblings, only a select few elder statesmen and esteemed nobles were granted the privilege.

Naturally, Crown Prince Yin Chengyu was the first to step forward.

For this grand occasion, the Crown Prince wore an intricate deep-purple robe adorned with four-clawed golden dragons coiling across his chest and shoulders. His ebony hair was bound by a golden crown, lending him a poised and dignified air. Standing tall and unruffled, his presence alone commanded attention, his grace and authority casting an imposing shadow over the room.

He was regal. He was peerless.

Earlier that day, Emperor Longfeng had swallowed two alchemical pills before the banquet. They gave him a fleeting vitality, tricking him into believing he had recaptured the vigor of youth. But illusions are just that—illusions. As he looked upon his youthful, handsome son standing in his prime, the emperor’s smile faltered, and a subtle bitterness tugged at the corners of his lips.

At 42, by all rights, Emperor Longfeng should have still been in his prime.

But years of indulgence in wine and women had taken their toll. His body, long betrayed by excess, aged prematurely. Two grave illnesses had further sapped his strength, leaving him reliant on alchemical crutches to stave off the weariness that now defined him.

And there was Yin Chengyu, a constant, unrelenting reminder of the emperor’s own decline. Youthful, robust, and brimming with life, the crown prince stood as a cruel contrast to his father’s waning vitality. A stark reminder of his encroaching mortality.

Fear crept into the emperor’s heart—a gnawing dread of his own frailty.

Feigning indifference, Emperor Longfeng barely wet his lips with wine and dismissed his son’s toast with a hollow nod, his face devoid of joy.

Those seated nearby noticed this all too clearly.

“Still hates the crown prince after all these years,” they thought in hushed amazement.

Yet Yin Chengyu remained unbothered. To him, Emperor Longfeng was little more than a superior to be placated when necessary. Fatherly affection had long since been replaced by the cold calculus of power and ambition.

Bowing respectfully, the prince retreated to his seat, though his eyes lingered briefly on Xue Shu, the imperial attendant standing by the emperor’s side. Then, as smoothly as he had approached, he withdrew, his expression unreadable.

Next came Prince An, the emperor’s eldest and least threatening son, stepping forward to offer his toast.

Unlike the imposing crown prince, Prince An’s gentle and compliant demeanor evoked a rare warmth in the emperor. Their exchange was effortless, a well-rehearsed performance of filial affection. The emperor’s smile widened as he indulged his eldest son, creating an illusion of fatherly love that stood in sharp contrast to the frigid tension moments earlier.

The comparison was stark. The court officials took it in, their expressions shifting subtly. Some pondered the emperor’s favoritism, while others weighed the implications of the crown prince’s uneasy position.

All the while, the night wore on, the banquet’s splendor cloaking the simmering tensions beneath.

The officials loyal to the Crown Prince were naturally riddled with anxiety, while those still sitting on the fence wasted no time cozying up to Prince An. They swarmed forward, offering toasts and small talk.

Yin Ciguang, ever composed and easygoing, graciously entertained them all without a hint of reluctance.

Just as he finished his toast to Emperor Longfeng, Yin Chengjing sauntered over, wine cup in hand. With a polished grin, he raised his glass from a distance, his tone dripping with faux sincerity. "A toast to my eldest brother," he declared, his words sharp enough to cut. "Big Brother’s tolerance is nothing short of legendary—enduring what others cannot. A true role model for this humble younger brother."

The crowd froze. His statement landed like a dagger, slicing through the jovial atmosphere. After all, who hadn’t heard the rampant rumors in the palace? And the funeral for Consort Rong had barely ended.

Only fools would miss the malice behind his words.

The lively scene faltered; the officials who had come to flatter Yin Ciguang shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether to retreat or advance.

But Yin Ciguang’s serene smile didn’t waver. He clinked glasses with his younger brother, his tone impossibly gentle, devoid of any apparent ire. "Third Brother jests," he replied with an air of sincerity so convincing it bordered on art. "When it comes to tolerance, how could I possibly measure up to you?"

The subtle retort passed unnoticed by most, but Yin Chengjing, with his guilty conscience, stiffened. His expression darkened as he scrutinized Yin Ciguang, searching for a crack in his mask, yet finding nothing but calm, inscrutable composure.

Was it a slip of the tongue or a calculated blow?

Yin Chengjing replayed their exchange in his mind, certain he’d revealed no weakness. But as his eyes met Yin Ciguang’s unshaken smile, the meaning behind it seemed to grow heavier, more deliberate.

Grinding his teeth, Yin Chengjing ultimately conceded the verbal sparring match. He downed his wine and slunk back to his seat, his interest in the party thoroughly dampened.

The officials, who had been silently observing the tense exchange, exchanged knowing glances. Their approach toward Yin Ciguang grew noticeably more fervent.

Several rounds of wine later, the Crown Prince began to show signs of intoxication. With a polite apology to Emperor Longfeng, he excused himself to sober up in a side hall.

The Emperor, unconcerned, waved him off to enjoy the festivities and the entertainment. He didn’t notice the brief exchange of glances between Yin Ciguang and Gao Xian, his loyal attendant, before the Crown Prince departed.

Once outside the grand Huangji Hall, Yin Ciguang shrugged off the eunuch attempting to assist him, adjusted his robes, and stepped into the enveloping shadows.

The lavish feast had drawn most of the palace staff and guards to Huangji Hall, leaving the surrounding halls eerily quiet. Only the faint whispers of wind through the corridors accompanied Yin Ciguang’s brisk steps. Within moments, he arrived at his destination.

He looked up at the faded plaque above, the once-proud characters for Changchun Palace now barely legible.

"You wait here," he instructed, taking the lantern from the eunuch before pushing the door open.

The peeling red doors groaned as they parted just enough to admit him, then creaked shut again.

Changchun Palace had long been abandoned. Nestled in a secluded corner of the palace grounds, it was steeped in a dark history. Several fallen consorts had been imprisoned here, tainting the place with misfortune and making it a site most avoided. Over time, it had become the cold palace.

The current Emperor, enamored with beauty, rarely treated his consorts harshly. As a result, the cold palace now housed only one occupant.

Yin Ciguang strode to the main hall and pushed open the doors. There, he found Noble Consort Wen, bound hand and foot, her mouth gagged. Her wide, terrified eyes locked onto his.

Gao Xian had done an impeccable job. Everything was set, leaving Yin Ciguang with nothing more to do but finish what he came for.

Yin Ciguang placed the lantern to the side, lifting his robe’s hem as he crouched down. With deliberate ease, he pulled the gag from the fallen consort’s mouth. His voice, laced with an unsettling warmth, sliced through the oppressive silence. "It’s been a while. How have you been, Consort?" His greeting hung in the air, followed by a pause that oozed quiet malice. "Ah, but I forgot," he added with mock contrition, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "You’re no longer a consort, are you? My father stripped you of that title long ago. That name doesn’t suit you anymore."

The hall was dim, bathed in the faint, eerie glow of the lone lantern. The light barely illuminated a small patch of the room, leaving most of the space steeped in darkness.

Yin Ciguang stood with his back to the light, his face mostly obscured by the shadows. Only his eyes reflected the flickering flame, glinting with a brightness that chilled to the bone.

The former consort, trembling under his serene yet predatory gaze, felt an unnatural dread take root. This was no man before her—he was a specter cloaked in human skin, a phantom of vengeance come to exact retribution.

Her voice faltered, thick with fear. "What... what do you want?" Her eyes darted to him as her bound hands twisted behind her, struggling futilely against the restraints.

Yin Ciguang didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his sleeve with unnerving composure and pulled out a length of white silk. His movements were almost tender as he draped it around her neck.

For a moment, she might have been fooled by his gentle demeanor—until the silk began to tighten. Her realization came too late, and her body jerked violently, her voice shattering the stillness as she screamed for help.

Her cries rang hollow in the cold palace walls, unanswered. The few servants lingering in the forsaken cold palace had scattered like rats, leaving her to face the nightmare alone.

The silk drew tighter, stealing the air from her lungs. Her screams dwindled into hoarse gasps, her mouth gaping as she clawed for breath. Her face turned a deep, mottled red, and her body convulsed helplessly.

Yin Ciguang watched her impassively, his expression unnervingly calm. The silk slipped through his fingers with measured precision, tightening slowly, methodically.

Just as she teetered on the edge of death, he loosened his grip, letting her collapse like a fish dumped back into water. She gulped for air, her eyes brimming with terror. "I’ll do anything! Anything you want—" she croaked, her voice cracking under the strain.

But before she could finish, the silk cinched tight again, cutting off her words.

He loomed over her, his face devoid of triumph or rage, as if what he held wasn’t a tool of death but a stringed instrument he was plucking with dispassionate grace. He repeated the cruel game, tightening the noose only to release it at the brink of her demise.

At first, she pleaded, bargaining with every shred of dignity she had left. Then, when the futility of her cries became clear, she cursed him with venomous desperation.

Eventually, her voice gave out entirely. Hoarse and broken, she could only glare at him with bloodshot eyes, hatred burning in the depths of her soul.

Yin Ciguang remained unmoved.

He stayed with her for nearly an hour, watching as she sank into a state that was neither life nor death. When she was little more than a lifeless shell, he finally ended it with a decisive pull, the silk tightening until her struggles ceased entirely.

Her wide, unblinking eyes stared into the void, frozen in an expression of defiance and despair. Even in death, her spirit clung to bitterness and spite.

The silk slipped from his hands, pooling on the floor as he stood. He retrieved the lantern and, for the first time, his tone shifted, a jagged edge breaking through his smooth exterior. "This suffering," he said coldly, "isn’t even a fraction of what my mother endured."

For a fleeting moment, his mask of tranquility cracked, revealing the raw fury simmering beneath. Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

After a long, silent pause, he turned and left.

Outside, the eunuch waiting in the shadows scurried to his side. Without breaking stride, Yin Ciguang issued his orders. "Handle her body as instructed."

The eunuch bowed and hurried to obey, disappearing into the depths of the cold palace.

Yin Ciguang carried the lantern as he walked leisurely back to the Emperor’s Hall, his pace unhurried, his expression unreadable.

The banquet was far from over, the music of strings and flutes weaving through the air. Even before stepping closer, the sound carried a festive warmth. Yin Ciguang strode down the corridor, the flicker of his lantern casting long shadows. Just as he turned a corner, someone rushed out—abrupt, unsteady, and collided straight into him.

The lantern tumbled from his hand, its flame flickering out as his arm instinctively steadied the intruder. When he caught a proper glimpse of their face, he paused for just a moment before a sly smile curled his lips. His fingers tightened ever so slightly around her wrist, his voice smooth yet laced with mock concern. “Did my dear sister-in-law hurt herself?”

Yao Shi froze, her expression a mix of surprise and barely concealed panic. Of all people, she hadn’t expected to bump into him here. Quickly, she stepped back, putting a respectable distance between them, and offered a courteous bow. “Thank you for your concern, Your Highness. It’s nothing serious.”

Yin Ciguang, ever perceptive, let the moment hang just long enough before stepping back with a disarming ease. He made no effort to probe further, his tone warm, even coaxing. “Did you lose your maid, sister-in-law? Shall I escort you to find my third brother?”

“No need.” Yao Shi shook her head hastily, her gaze darting around until she spotted her maid approaching from a distance. With a faint smile, she declined, her voice steady but her eyes betraying her unease. “I was momentarily separated, but she’s here now. Your Highness needn’t trouble himself.”

Yin Ciguang inclined his head, neither offended nor insistent. He stepped aside, gesturing gracefully for her to pass. Only when her maid reached her side did he turn and stroll away.

Behind him, Yao Shi exhaled deeply, relief plain on her face as she hurried off in the opposite direction with her maid in tow.

But Yin Ciguang’s pace faltered. He stopped, turning his head ever so slightly to watch her retreating figure—tense, hurried, and unmistakably rattled. His gaze lingered before he called over a servant who had been trailing behind. “Find out what happened on the third princess consort’s side just now. Something stirred her up.”

The servant returned promptly with his report, his voice hushed. “Nothing major, Your Highness. The princess consort and the Shizi of the Prince of Ziyang had a misunderstanding. The heir drank too much, mistook her for someone else, and… acted improperly.”

Yin Ciguang’s eyes narrowed. The Shizi of Prince Ziyang? By family ties, that was his cousin.

When Emperor Longfeng ascended the throne, most of his brothers had already died, leaving Ziyang as his only surviving sibling. The man was a hedonistic scoundrel, content to revel in his own debauchery, and the emperor indulged him by keeping him confined to his fiefdom.

The Shizi, however, was worse—a notorious libertine who had not yet inherited his father’s title but had earned himself a scandalous reputation in the capital. A drunkard and a womanizer, his antics were an open secret. It wasn’t surprising he’d cause trouble, but Yao Shi’s panic seemed… excessive.

Yin Ciguang mulled over the details, but no clarity emerged. He shelved the matter for now and returned to the banquet hall, a polite smile masking his thoughts.

Elsewhere, Xue Shu caught sight of him reentering the hall and quietly excused himself. He made his way to a side chamber, where Yin Chengyu was sobering up. “There’s news. The First Prince went to the Cold Palace earlier. The cleanup? Gao Xian’s people handled it.”

Xue Shu hesitated before continuing, his voice cautious. “Your Highness, the First Prince was just granted a princely title. Now he’s mingling with High Xian’s faction. Could it be he’s… entertaining certain ambitions?”

Yin Chengyu’s brow furrowed deeply. He wanted to argue otherwise, to say his eldest brother wasn’t that kind of man. But the words stuck in his throat.

People change.

Since the recent turmoil, Yin Ciguang had grown colder, sharper, and more unreadable. Whether that was a good or bad thing, Yin Chengyu couldn’t yet tell.

Pressing his fingers to his temples, he let out a weary sigh. “Leave Consort Wen’s matters alone. As for my eldest brother… we’ll watch and wait.”