Chapter 17: The Shadow Beneath the Imperial Palace
by Donghua ReaderIn the dim attic, Song Ce gripped a copper pestle over a foot long, engraved with ancient inscriptions, and strode swiftly through the palace’s shadowy corridors.
Since the emperor had dismissed all attendants when retrieving the pestle, the outside clamor had not yet reached this place. Because he lacked imperial blood, the pestle had already burned his palm red and swollen. Yet Song Ce still clutched it tightly, his expression calm, bordering on indifference.
He recalled the emperor’s shocked, flustered gaze moments ago and smiled faintly.
“After over a decade as sovereign, he has merely mastered superficial tricks—no real progress at all.”
A cold smile curved his lips. Everything had proceeded smoothly, sparing them unnecessary bloodshed.
Following a route he had calculated countless times, he moved toward the rear of the palace. After several dozen paces, he drew a ring from his robe. Four keys hung from it—keys to the locks guarding the passage to the rear palace gates. Earlier that morning, under the pretense of welcoming an immortal, he had discreetly received these from the secret guards at the outer city gates.
Only then, examining the duplicates, had he realized this operation had been secretly orchestrated for quite some time. Yet the young emperor remained utterly unaware. As long as no one obstructed him, the path ahead would be unimpeded.
It was only after he passed through the first gate that chaotic voices erupted behind him.
“Song Ce! Without imperial blood, seizing the Fire-Burning Pestle brings only harm. Don’t be mad!”
“His Majesty is benevolent. Turn back now, and there is still room for mercy!”
A deep voice echoed from far behind, yet its profound internal energy carried clearly to his ears.
Song Ce remained unmoved. He strode through the dimly lit chamber, opened a door, and latched it firmly behind him. Though many of the pursuers were palace guards, none matched his familiarity with the palace’s layout. Its labyrinth of hidden doors and secret passages was so intricate that even the emperor likely did not know them all.
Beyond the door, the sounds of pursuit grew faint. Song Ce hurried down the corridor. At its end stood a small chamber. He opened the door, quickly counted the floorboards, and pried up a specific plank with the tip of the pestle. Slipping into the passage below, he vanished.
Meanwhile, the emperor sat slumped in the rain. Several palace maids hurried over, lifting him from the ground and guiding him into the hall. His dragon robe drenched, his face pale, he muttered to himself.
He had always trusted Song Ce implicitly. Why would he betray him? Could it be merely because he had ordered him to pull the fire poker once? Impossible… unless…
The emperor clutched his forehead, his head throbbing. Staggering to his feet, he shoved a maid aside and roared:
“Guards! Seize Song Ce! I shall interrogate him personally!”
The palace maids bowed quickly.
“Your Majesty, the guards have already gone to apprehend him. That traitor has no martial arts—he should be captured swiftly.”
An imperial guard added:
“Could Song Ce be the illegitimate son of some prince? Otherwise, how could he wield that object without imperial blood?”
The emperor froze, then shook his head repeatedly.
“No… no, Song Ce… it can’t be him. He must be under someone’s command… Who could it be…”
Clutching his head, he groaned in anguish.
“Those elite guards always boast of their prowess! Yet they cannot capture a mere Song Ce? Useless fools! If you can’t catch him, I’ll do it myself!”
His voice cracked. Straightening his back, he strode toward the palace gates. Court ladies tried to stop him, but a minister raised his hand, signaling them to stand aside.
At the gates, the emperor turned. Those watching either lowered their heads or averted their eyes. A faint sigh seemed to ripple through the entire palace.
The emperor gave a cold laugh.
“You… aren’t going to betray me too, are you?”
The minister sighed.
“We only hope Your Majesty remains calm. The imperial city faces internal and external troubles—we cannot plunge into chaos. Though Song’s faction seized the pestle, they cannot go far. Your Majesty should not panic.”
The emperor’s fury boiled.
“But what if the pestle falls into my brothers’ hands… or my uncles’… They should have been exterminated long ago!”
The guard replied:
“Security is tight today. No one else is near the palace.”
The emperor sneered.
“Then why did Song Ce do this? Is he a fool?”
Silence followed. Lightning lit his face, ghastly pale. He muttered:
“Do you know what that Vermilion Bird Fire-Burning Pestle signifies? Do you know… what lies beneath this imperial city? Push me too far, and I shall unleash that thing. Then whether Yan or Rong, Zhao shall perish with the Southern State!”
As the thunder faded, his words echoed through the hall. Everyone stared at him—even the maids raised their heads. He realized he had spoken too far.
Seeking to salvage dignity, he roared suddenly:
“That ancient demon… The palace is heavily guarded… Who says it is? Look! That place has no guards!”
“Your Majesty, you mean…”
“Behind the main hall lies a well! Is it guarded?”
The minister frowned.
“That well sits in the middle of the path. Countless pass it daily. What’s peculiar about it?”
The emperor exhaled, voice deep.
“What do you know? Guards! Follow me to arrest Song Ce!”
The rear gate opened. Two guards, spears ready, first tensed, then bowed.
“Minister Song.”
Unaware of the chaos, they still treated him with respect.
Song Ce nodded.
“The Emperor entrusted me with matters. Don’t ask what you shouldn’t.”
“Shall we hold an umbrella, Lord Song?”
“Not necessary. Continue your post.”
They obeyed. Yet one whispered:
“Look… what is Lord Song holding?”
“A palace treasure… But this gate was sealed. Only His Majesty could open it with the supreme artifact. How could Lord Song…”
Song ignored them. He walked ahead and stopped at an ancient well in the center of the path. The rim was high, circled with jade railing. For decades, consorts had drawn water here without incident.
Now he knelt solemnly by the well, rain soaking his robes, holding the bronze pestle reverently in both hands.
The guards sensed danger, but before they moved, hoofbeats thundered from the flank.
The emperor, clad in imperial robes, led the charge. Leaping down, he glared.
“Well, well! So you are here!”
“Your Majesty’s insight is unmatched,” someone echoed.
“Enough talk! Seize him!”
The emperor smiled coldly.
“Song Ce, to whom do you truly pledge allegiance? Zhao Shiqiu is in Min City. Zhao An is clever but under watch. Zhao Shisong is my uncle—he promised to make me a wealthy prince. I grow curious… who exactly are you waiting for?”
Song Ce smiled.
“Your Majesty can guess why I came here. You’re not entirely foolish.”
The emperor’s fury flared.
“Kill him! Reclaim the pestle! Whoever he waits for—I shall wait myself!”
But no one moved.
“What? Are you rebelling too?”
Autumn rain drummed like beans. Then a soft, clear voice rose above it.
The emperor turned. On the well’s edge sat a girl in a black dress, beautiful beyond words. She gazed at him softly, swaying her skirt, revealing a pale leg. Her smile was gentle.
“Zhao Fu. When I was very young, I called you a fool. Now I see those words wounded you. All these years, you still insist on thinking yourself clever. Compared to your younger brothers, what else do you have besides being born first?”
The emperor trembled, recalling the girl ten years his junior who once called him foolish with innocent candor. He had told himself she was too young to understand. Yet he had carried those words in his heart all his life, striving to prove otherwise.
Still puzzled, he asked:
“Zhao Xiang’er… weren’t you at the Grand Preceptor’s residence? How did you…”
The legend of the well struck him. His father’s dying words were not rambling after all.
Zhao Xiang’er winked, as if to say, Where in this palace is off-limits to me?
Song Ce smiled bitterly.
“Your Highness, this is a heavy burden for me to bear.”
She snorted.
“Over twenty days ago, you failed to save my mother. What harm in kneeling a little longer now?”
Song Ce sighed.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
The emperor demanded:
“When did Song Ce pledge loyalty to you? Was it all a show?”
Song Ce answered:
“Your Majesty is mistaken. I never betrayed Her Majesty. When you attacked Qianyugong, I was powerless. Now that Her Highness has returned, my loyalty belongs to her.”
“But the Witch Master and I had you watched. This plot was precise. When did it begin?”
“Several days ago, at the Young General’s residence. The Princess visited. As she departed, before all eyes, she adjusted my robe. In that instant, she slipped me a note. Everything was understood without words.”
Zhao Xiang’er smiled at the defeated emperor.
“Any further questions?”
The emperor stammered:
“Only imperial blood can wield this scepter. Could it be… you are my father’s illegitimate daughter?”
Zhao Xiang’er blinked. She took the pestle from Song Ce, cradled it in her palm, and asked:
“Do you even know what imperial blood is?”
He replied:
“It is the bloodline of Zhao’s royal house.”
She shook her head. With a cut across her palm, blood dripped onto the pestle. It seeped in. Crimson light flared from every inscription, as though a furnace ignited by her blood.
The emperor gasped.
“This… how is it possible? Who are you?”
She smiled.
“The Imperial Blood is the blood bestowed upon your Zhao family by the Immortals. I am the daughter of an Immortal. The Imperial Blood is, of course, my blood.”
The palace fell silent. Only Song Ce knelt in reverence, all doubts dispelled.
The emperor staggered back, trembling.
“You… could it be… we killed…”
Clutching his chest, his words faltered.
Zhao Xiang’er descended the steps. Fiery wings faintly unfurled behind her. Rain evaporated into mist before it touched her.
“The late emperor long intended to depose you, but his heart was too merciful. Zhao Fu, this state was merely lent to you by my mother. Now, as calamity falls and you are powerless, I shall reclaim it in her stead. Retire to Changxiang Palace and rest well. Do not trouble me again.”
They passed in the storm. The emperor stood rooted, his soul hollow, his yellow robes heavy with rain.
Zhao Xiang’er turned to the crowd.
“And what of you?”
All remembered the scene three years ago. Now there was no sunset, only a storm. Her robe bore no blood, yet instinctively they parted, making way.
Song Ce bowed deeply.
“Song Ce vows eternal loyalty to Your Highness!”
His cry cut through the storm like frost winds over grass. The crowd bent in unison, falling like reeds before her.
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