MY PRINCE HUSBAND HAS SEVEN WIVES AND I AM HIS FAVOURITE!
Chapter 191: All that was left was blood

Chapter 191: All that was left was blood

The air was still, thick with the weight of unspoken tension. Zhao Yan stepped out of the cold palace with a heavy expression, his jaw tight and his eyes shadowed. The golden mask he so often wore had been left behind, revealing the raw lines of grief and anger etched across his face. Behind him, Wei Ling and Deng Mi silently matched his pace, both of them exchanging anxious glances as they walked alongside their prince.

Wei Ling, ever the careful observer, couldn’t hold his concern any longer. "Your Highness," he said in a low voice, "you don’t look well. Are you—?"

Zhao Yan didn’t even look at him. With a single flick of his fingers, he cut him off. "I am fine."

That was the end of it. No one dared to speak further.

They mounted their horses in silence, the beasts obedient and swift under their masters. The path back to the palace wound through quiet corridors of tall trees, the foliage rustling faintly in the cool afternoon breeze. Despite the calm scenery, something about the road ahead sent a chill crawling up Zhao Yan’s spine.

It started slowly. The horse beneath him began to fidget, its hooves tapping anxiously on the ground. Zhao Yan narrowed his eyes and gently pulled the reins. The beast halted, head tossing nervously.

Behind him, Wei Ling’s horse jerked sideways.

"What is it?" Deng Mi asked, but the tension in his tone betrayed that he, too, had sensed something.

Zhao Yan held up a hand. All three horses stopped. The riders went silent.

The forest was too quiet.

No birds. No wind. No sound.

Zhao Yan’s eyes sharpened. His hand instinctively moved toward the hilt of his sword.

Then it came.

A sudden whistle. Thin, sharp, faster than the wind.

Zhao Yan’s instincts screamed. He ducked low in his saddle just in time.

A silver-tipped arrow sliced through the air, grazing his ear and embedding itself in the tree behind him with a vicious thunk. Blood trickled down the side of his face from the fresh wound.

"My prince!" Wei Ling shouted, leaping off his horse as he drew his blade in one fluid motion.

Deng Mi was already shielding Zhao Yan with his own body, eyes scanning the treetops.

Zhao Yan didn’t speak. He reached up to wipe the blood from his ear, his fingers coming away crimson. His face remained unreadable, calm in its rage.

"They’re here," he said coldly.

The forested path trembled with tension.

Wei Ling’s cry had barely left his lips before the woods around them exploded into chaos. Dozens of masked men clad in dark robes poured from the shadows, descending from trees and emerging from the dense underbrush with practiced silence. The wind carried the sharp hiss of blades being unsheathed, the metallic clang echoing ominously across the secluded road.

Zhao Yan, his bleeding ear stinging in the cold air, didn’t flinch. Instead, his eyes narrowed, scanning their attackers with precision honed from countless battlefield encounters.

"Protect His Highness!" Deng Mi shouted, already vaulting from his horse and drawing his twin sabers, the metal gleaming under the moonlight.

Wei Ling had already dismounted and taken a defensive stance beside the prince, back-to-back with Deng Mi. Zhao Yan leapt down from his own steed, the horse rearing and bolting as more arrows rained down, striking the earth where he had just stood.

From every angle, the assassins surged forward, blades flashing, feet silent. It was not a fight; it was an execution attempt.

Zhao Yan unsheathed his sword, the elegant, narrow blade glowing faintly under the pale light. It sliced through the air with almost unnatural grace, parrying an oncoming spear before flipping it out of its wielder’s hands with a single twist of the wrist. Blood spattered across his sleeve.

Deng Mi was a storm of steel, his twin sabers cutting arcs that painted the night with crimson streaks. He moved like a dancer, flowing from enemy to enemy with terrifying fluidity, each motion purposeful, efficient. An attacker lunged from behind—Wei Ling was there in a flash, intercepting the blow and retaliating with a swift kick to the man’s chest, sending him flying into a tree trunk with a sickening crunch.

"We’re surrounded!" Wei Ling called, breathing heavily.

"Then we cut through!" Zhao Yan shouted.

His voice was thunder in the storm of battle.

More enemies spilled out, but they weren’t mere hired thugs. Their formation was military—tight, strategic. Zhao Yan knew this wasn’t just an assassination attempt. This was war.

He slashed forward, cleaving through two more enemies, his blade singing as it moved. One tried to catch him off guard from the side—Zhao Yan ducked low, rolled forward, and stabbed upward into the attacker’s gut. Blood gurgled from the man’s mouth as he collapsed.

Arrows came from above. Deng Mi grabbed a fallen shield and deflected several, but one embedded in his thigh. He grunted in pain and fought on, limping but undeterred.

Zhao Yan pivoted and met eyes with a particularly skilled swordsman. Their blades clashed with a screech of steel. This man was different—faster, stronger. He pressed Zhao Yan hard, their duel a blur of strikes, blocks, and countermoves. Sparks flew as they met again and again.

"Your head will fetch a fine reward," the man growled.

Zhao Yan smiled coldly. "Come and take it, if you dare."

He parried a strike and spun behind his opponent, slashing across his back before driving his sword into the man’s side. The assassin gasped, eyes wide, and dropped.

Deng Mi, blood soaking his leg, still carved through enemies with feral efficiency. Wei Ling’s arm was bleeding, his tunic torn, but he held the flank, keeping them from being surrounded completely.

"Your Highness!" Wei Ling shouted again, urgency sharp in his voice.

Zhao Yan turned.

More were coming. Dozens more.

A new wave.

They were heavily armored, and they marched in unison—clearly a trained unit.

Zhao Yan’s heart slammed in his chest. This wasn’t an ambush.

This was a military maneuver.

And they were the targets.

He looked at Deng Mi and Wei Ling—both wounded, breathing hard, blood on their faces.

Yet none of them hesitated.

Zhao Yan raised his sword again, face like stone.

"Then we hold the line."

The ground was slippery with blood and the metallic scent of death hung thick in the air. Zhao Yan’s chest heaved as he stumbled back, sword heavy in his hand. He could barely feel the grip of his weapon anymore. His arms screamed in protest, his legs trembled beneath him, and yet he refused to stop. Not now. Not here.

Wei Ling was bleeding from a long gash across his side, yet still fought like a demon, his blade flashing in the moonlight. Deng Mi had already taken several hits, his armor dented, his movements sluggish. But he had positioned himself like a shield before Zhao Yan, refusing to let even a breath reach his prince unchecked.

But there were too many. Hundreds, swarming from all sides, a tide of black-clad assassins. Their eyes glinted with madness and cruelty, their movements synchronized and unrelenting. There was no retreat. No backup. No hope.

One figure stepped forward from the enemy lines, his armor darker than the night, his grin wide and mocking. The leader.

"Look at the mighty Crown Prince now," he sneered, voice oily and cruel. "So much pride. So much power. And yet here you are, barely standing."

Zhao Yan glared at him, teeth clenched, sweat and blood streaking down his face. But he said nothing. He had no strength left for words.

The leader walked slowly, deliberately, twirling a gleaming sword in his hand. Around them, the fighting quieted. The assassins formed a circle. They knew. Their leader wanted this kill.

"You fought well," the man said mockingly. "But like all dreams of glory, this one ends here."

Zhao Yan thought of Hua Jing. Her soft smile, the way she held him when he came undone. The sound of her voice when she whispered his name.

They had not had much time, he thought.

Anger suddeny clouded his mind at the thought

He did not know what was in store for him if he died.

Would he go back to their original world? If so, what would happen to their doppelgangers in this world?

Would he reunite with her?

A smile formed on his face as he thought...

The way she would scold him and then kiss his cheek, as if nothing else in the world mattered. He had promised to protect her. Promised to come back. And now...

He didn’t want to die. Not here. Not like this. But his knees gave way and he collapsed onto them, sword clattering to the ground. He had nothing left.

The assassin raised his blade, a grin of triumph splitting his face.

"Die, Crown Prince!"

Zhao Yan stilled. His breath was coming out in soft whips.

Was this truly the end?

The sword came down in one swift, brutal arc.

And then, all that was left was blood.

A fountain of crimson sprayed into the air, catching the moonlight.

A breath escaped

"Ah!"