MY PRINCE HUSBAND HAS SEVEN WIVES AND I AM HIS FAVOURITE!
Chapter 240: Silk scarf

Chapter 240: Silk scarf

The pain was sharp. Then dull. Then nothing.

Zhao Yan couldn’t feel much after the arrow struck. Just a strange hollowness in his chest, as though something essential had been ripped out.

But even as everything else dimmed—there was warmth.

He saw her.

Blurry.

Wavering like a mirage in the desert. But it was her.

Hua Jing.

The last thing he wanted to see.

The only thing.

He tried to focus. Tried to drink her in—those eyes, the tremble of her lips, the soft curve of her cheek streaked with something wet.

Was she crying?

Why?

His mind couldn’t make sense of it.

She was here.

She was close.

Everything would be fine.

She leaned in. Her tears dropped like rain on his face.

He wanted to reach up. Wipe them away. Tell her not to cry.

But his arm was heavy. Too heavy.

It wouldn’t move.

His body was distant, like it belonged to someone else. Or no one at all.

The light flickered. The warmth began to retreat.

No—he needed it.

He needed her.

He tried to hold on, to force his eyes open just a second longer—

But the darkness surged.

And it swallowed him whole.

---

It was cold.

Not the kind of cold that stings your skin.

No—this was deeper.

Bone-deep. Soul-deep.

Zhao Yan opened his eyes. But there was nothing to see.

No walls.

No floor.

No ceiling.

Just black. Endless. Bottomless. Thick.

His breathing echoed—too loud in the silence.

Where was he?

His feet moved, but he couldn’t feel the ground. Was he floating?

No. Running?

Yes.

He was running.

Why?

From what?

Behind him, something growled.

Low. Feral. Wet with hunger.

He didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

He just ran.

His legs burned. His lungs screamed.

But he didn’t stop.

Not here. Not in this place.

It was getting darker, somehow. More suffocating.

The growl grew louder.

Closer.

Then—

A voice.

Soft. Distant.

Feminine.

Calling.

Not his name.

A name he didn’t recognize. Muffled at first.

F̷͎̐ǘ̷͇ ̵͕́J̸̲́i̷̡̅n̴͔͊g̶̢̎ ̴̨̈́R̸̮͘o̴͚͌n̸̹̾g̴͙͊...

His heart stumbled.

Who?

Who was that?

He kept running. Toward the voice.

It pulled at him like a string tied to his chest.

F̷̲̔ù̵̮ ̸̹̽J̵̞̔i̴̡͐n̷̡͌g̴̜̎ ̶̪̂R̴̯̍o̸̢̒n̶̼̕g̴̙̍...

Louder now.

The syllables clearer.

Still not his name. But it meant something. It felt like something.

His legs moved faster.

He ran harder.

He didn’t know where the voice was coming from, only that it was forward. Forward was the only option.

Dark shapes shifted in the shadows.

Faces—twisted. Grinning. Groaning.

He didn’t look at them.

He couldn’t.

F̸͚͋ủ̷̥ ̷̲̓J̵͔̋į̸̑n̶͚͠g̷̬̓ ̶̹̈́Ȓ̵͍o̵̞͠n̶͚̐g̷̻͛.

Now it was a scream.

A command.

A plea.

He was almost there.

He didn’t know where "there" was.

But he was close.

He could feel it in his blood.

He burst through something—a veil, a crack, a memory. The dark peeled away like torn fabric.

The light hit him like a blade.

He gasped.

And his eyes opened.

---

But the world was wrong.

So wrong.

There were no red banners.

No canopy.

No scent of sandalwood from Hua Jing’s sleeves.

No white silk sheets or palace lanterns.

No Hua Jing.

The ceiling above him was grey, veined with cracks like a dried river.

He tried to sit up.

Couldn’t.

Everything ached.

His fingers twitched.

Still alive.

But where was he?

The five of them sat in a circle—Zhao Yan, Hua Jing, Wei Ling, Deng Mi, and Gu Wei—cast in warm orange glow, their faces half-lit, half-shadowed. It was a rare stillness in the storm they all knew was coming.

Zhao Yan turned to Wei Ling and Deng Mi, his voice low. "Is everything in place?"

Wei Ling nodded. "The route has been mapped. The guards loyal to you will meet at the back gate before dawn."

Deng Mi added, "The palace armory still has access points we can use. Hidden ones. They haven’t been touched."

Hua Jing leaned slightly forward. "You... you have a plan?"

Zhao Yan met her gaze and gave a quiet nod. "I’ve had one since the moment I opened my eyes in the healer’s hut. All that’s left is execution."

He turned then, his eyes catching the distant horizon where the moonlight kissed the edge of the hills.

"There will be a coronation tomorrow," he said, calm and steady. "But the one who sits on that throne... will be someone no one expected."

Hua Jing’s breath caught.

Those words—

They were the same words she’d spoken to the First Consort. The same warning. The same promise. Another will take that throne.

How could they think so alike?

She stared at him, the corner of her mouth curling just slightly.

It wasn’t just love.

It was alignment.

Before the silence could settle too deeply, Gu Wei snorted and poked the fire with a stick.

"If you’re going to conquer the empire tomorrow," he muttered, "you should rest tonight. Sitting here like ghosts won’t win you any crowns."

Zhao Yan arched a brow. "You sound like a general."

"I sound like someone who doesn’t want snoring corpses in my yard," Gu Wei snapped. "Go. Sleep. Think clearer in the morning."

No one argued.

One by one, they stood—silent, thoughtful—and drifted toward the small hut.

But not before Zhao Yan reached for Hua Jing’s hand.

And held it tightly in his own.

He smiled at her, "Let’s go—"

Petals rained down from above.

Servants atop the balconies scattered them from long baskets—white plum blossoms cut fresh that morning. They fluttered like snow against the purple backdrop.

A eunuch near the main stage cleared his throat.

"The Emperor’s procession is beginning."

The music rose.

The drumline began to beat, low and slow.

Doom... doom... doom.

Each strike echoed like a heartbeat across the hall.

Doom... doom... doom.

The dancers circled once more and then knelt in perfect symmetry, heads bowed.

The hall stilled.

Everyone turned.

And then—

The doors at the far end opened.

And Zhao Ling Xu entered.

He walked alone, robe trailing behind him. The phoenix across his shoulders shimmered gold, wings outstretched in mid-flight. His posture was perfect. Chin high. Gaze steady.

But if anyone looked closely, they’d see the tightness in his jaw. The small tremble in his fingertips. The weight behind his eyes.

He was dressed like an emperor.

But he walked like a man heading to the edge of something.

The music swelled as he passed between the kneeling dancers. Flute harmonies rose into the rafters.

The Prime Minister watched from the dais, smiling.