MY PRINCE HUSBAND HAS SEVEN WIVES AND I AM HIS FAVOURITE!
Chapter 185: All that is left is duty

Chapter 185: All that is left is duty

The Prime Minister stood motionless under the moon-drenched sky, his thoughts still haunted by the blood-soaked memory of his past. The stars shimmered above him, as indifferent to the turmoil in his heart as they were to the fate of the empire below. Just then, the sound of soft footsteps echoed through the quiet corridor.

A shadow peeled from the darkness, forming into a man clad in dark robes with the insignia of the Prime Minister’s most trusted circle. The officer came to a halt a few steps away, breath short and urgent. He leaned forward, and in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, "Sir, something happened to the Emperor."

The Prime Minister’s entire expression changed. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Instead, his eyes narrowed sharply, and for the first time in a long while, uncertainty marred his features. The officer took a small step back, awaiting orders, but the Prime Minister remained frozen, the weight of the empire pressing down upon his shoulders.

---

At the same time, within the walls of Hua Jing’s courtyard, peace reigned for only a fleeting moment. Zhao Yan and Hua Jing were wrapped in the comforting warmth of each other’s arms, savoring the brief solace in the midst of endless chaos. The flickering oil lamp by the bedside cast a golden glow over their resting forms.

Suddenly, a knock exploded against the door. It was not the polite tap of a servant, but an urgent, insistent pounding that reverberated through the walls.

"Your Highness!" Wei Ling’s voice rang out from beyond the door, strained and panicked. "Sir, we have a problem!"

Zhao Yan and Hua Jing shot up, the serenity of their embrace shattered. Without needing to exchange a word, they moved in practiced sync. Zhao Yan threw on his outer robe as Hua Jing quickly reached for her sash. Their hearts beat with the same rhythm—something was terribly wrong.

They flung open the doors. Zhao Yan’s face was taut, Hua Jing’s eyes wide with fear.

"What happened?" Zhao Yan demanded.

Wei Ling bowed deeply but did not speak.

Then, from a distance, a low, reverberating sound echoed through the cold night.

Dong...

A bell.

A heavy, ancient bell.

Its sound rolled through the capital like thunder dipped in sorrow. Once... Twice... A third time.

Zhao Yan’s breath caught in his chest. His fists clenched at his side. He knew what it meant. The bell was sacred—its toll reserved for one purpose alone: the nearing death of an emperor.

His father.

Without another word, Zhao Yan turned and broke into a run. His royal robes trailed behind him like shadows as his feet pounded against the stone path.

Hua Jing stood still for a heartbeat, hand raised over her mouth in disbelief. Her mind reeled.

No... No, it can’t be...

She quickly fastened her sandals and, lifting the hem of her robe, ran after Zhao Yan.

Wei Ling and Deng Mi exchanged a grim glance before following them, the courtyard quickly emptied, silence descending again like a mourning shroud.

---

The path to the Emperor’s private quarters was long, but Zhao Yan did not falter. Servants parted like a tide at his approach. The royal guards, stunned and pale, stepped aside without needing explanation.

The ancient bell continued to toll, each deep note shaking the hearts of every soul within the palace.

Finally, Zhao Yan reached the entrance. The Emperor’s trusted eunuch, Old Wen, was waiting. His eyes were rimmed with red, and his body trembled slightly.

"Your Highness... hurry."

Zhao Yan nodded and pushed past the thick curtains.

The room was heavy with the scent of incense and medicine. Lanterns cast flickering light upon the bed where the Emperor lay. His face, once full of regal vitality, was now sunken and pale. He was barely breathing.

Zhao Yan approached slowly, each step feeling like an eternity. He knelt beside the bed, gently taking his father’s withered hand into his own.

"Father..." he whispered, voice tight with grief.

The Emperor’s eyelids fluttered, and with great effort, they opened. His gaze found Zhao Yan.

A weak smile touched his lips.

"Yan’er... you came."

"Yes, Father. I’m here."

Behind him, Hua Jing entered quietly and stood to the side, her face pale and eyes shining.

The Emperor’s voice was barely audible, but each word felt as though it was carved into stone.

"You... must protect... the Empire. Trust no one... but yourself."

Zhao Yan gripped his father’s hand tighter. "I will. I promise."

The Emperor’s gaze shifted slowly to Hua Jing. He smiled again, barely.

"She... will stand with you..." he said. "Like your mother once stood by me..."

Hua Jing’s heart clenched. She lowered her head, tears sliding silently down her cheeks.

A long breath escaped the Emperor’s lips.

Then silence.

The bell tolled once more.

Zhao Yan’s head lowered as he gently placed his father’s hand back on the bed. His heart screamed, but no tears came. There would be time to grieve later.

Now, there was only duty.

He stood slowly and turned to Hua Jing. She stepped forward, and without a word, took his hand.

Together, they stood over the man who had ruled a nation.

And now, with his death, the storm would begin!

...

With the sounding of the bell and the emperor breathing his last, the whole empire was thrown into chaos. The iron bell tolled thrice, each chime a solemn, earth-shaking sound that echoed across the capital like a death knell. Even in the dark embrace of night, the meaning of the bell was unmistakable. The Emperor, the Son of Heaven, the ruler of the mighty empire, had passed away.

Within moments, lights flared to life in countless households. The streets, once silent under the cloak of dusk, became a flurry of motion as officials, guards, and servants poured from their residences, robes hastily thrown over sleep-wrinkled nightclothes. Torches were lit, lanterns hoisted, and palanquins drawn in haste. Couriers darted through alleyways with scrolls of command, and the distant thudding of hooves upon cobblestones signaled the arrival of high-ranking officials returning to the palace.

In the imperial court, the mood was electric with fear and uncertainty. Ministers rushed through the grand stone gates of the palace, their faces tight with concern. Many had not even bothered to change from their informal wear. Some still bore signs of interrupted sleep, yet all of them were drawn to the imperial court like moths to flame. Their voices trembled as they asked the guards for confirmation.

"Is it