MY PRINCE HUSBAND HAS SEVEN WIVES AND I AM HIS FAVOURITE!
Chapter 248: Snakes

Chapter 248: Snakes

Every step forward seemed to echo through an empire holding its breath.

There were no laughing merchants. No gossiping women sweeping their storefronts. No children chasing chickens through the dust. The silence wasn’t peace—it was fear.

And guilt.

The emperor—dead.

The crown prince—presumed dead.

And the throne—already poisoned by ambition.

Hua Jing didn’t need to hear the drums of war or the clash of steel to know something terrible was coming. The quiet told her enough.

"But it’s true," the first man muttered, looking around. "What kind of gods take both the emperor and the crown prince in the same season? And leave... that thing in their place."

They all went silent. One of them spat on the ground.

Then came a softer voice—maybe the woman again. "We’re doomed. If Zhao Yan’s really dead, we’re finished. Pei Rong’s not a ruler, he’s a butcher with a crown."

They paused again. Then the boy added, "The coronation’s in two days. We won’t see another new year."

The broom-holder looked up, squinting into the shadows. "Keep your heads low. Don’t talk about this again."

And then, just like that, the group scattered, slipping into the dark like frightened mice.

Hua Jing didn’t move until they were gone.

She had pressed herself into the shadows, just inches away. Every word had landed like a stone in her gut. She had never known the former emperor. Never seen what kind of man Zhao Yan had been to the people before they transmigrated into this cursed world. But now—

Now she understood.

He had been more than a prince. He had been their hope.

And now that hope was bleeding out somewhere beyond the palace gates.

If she failed... they would not only lose a crown. They would lose their last chance at peace.

Her feet moved again, faster now. No more hesitation. No more second guessing.

Zhao Yan had always been calm, stubbornly composed—even when he woke up in this world, dazed and confused like her. He had adjusted faster than her. Carried himself with a quiet strength, even when he didn’t yet know the customs or the ancient titles, or the crushing weight of seven wives and a scheming court.

He had joked once, in a hushed whisper beneath silk covers, that transmigrating as a prince was better than waking up a beggar.

But now, he wasn’t a prince.

He was a hunted ghost, and if she didn’t reach Gu Wei before midday tomorrow, he’d be a real one.

She clutched the fabric of her sleeve, trembling. "You idiot," she whispered to herself, "why did you get yourself poisoned? Why did you go alone?"

But she already knew why.

Zhao Yan had gone to investigate the Cold Palace. To find answers about the emperor’s death. To challenge Pei Rong. And he had paid the price.

Her legs burned. Her lungs scraped. Still, she didn’t stop.

The road forked ahead—left, toward the merchant quarter, now dark and locked up, and right, toward the outer gates. She took the right, ducking past a silent shrine where incense sticks were still burning low in the offering bowl. Someone had been praying recently.

Maybe for safety.

Maybe for revenge.

She prayed too—but not with words.

She prayed with movement. With action.

With the promise that she would not let Zhao Yan die in this world, no matter what fate had planned for them.

They hadn’t come all this way—through death, through another world, through seven twisted palace wives—for nothing.

Hua Jing vanished into the fog of the eastern road, where the city ended and the unknown began.

Somewhere beyond the hills was Gu Wei.

Somewhere beyond that was her prince.

And she would find them both.

Even if it meant tearing through heaven and earth with her bare hands!

Meanwhile, back at the palace...

The chamber reeked of mildew, rust, and something worse—blood long dried into the cracks of the stone floor.

Water dripped steadily from somewhere above, the sound maddening in its rhythm. One... two... three...

Then came the splash.

Xia Lin’s body was hauled upward again—soaked to the bone, lips purple, eyes fluttering somewhere between life and death. Her wrists were tied tight with cords that had long since rubbed her skin raw. The weight of her drenched robes clung to her like chains, heavy and suffocating.

She coughed—weakly. Then went still.

"Start talking," a hoarse voice snarled.

Five men stood around her, each one uglier than the last—scarred, scowling, shadows painted across their faces from the single flickering lantern overhead. Their armor was mismatched, their eyes cold. Mercenaries. The kind Pei Rong paid handsomely to do his dirty work.

"She was here," growled the tallest one. "Her courtyard smelled of perfume and poison. But the bird flew. You—" he stepped forward and jabbed a finger at Xia Lin’s face, "you know where she went."

Xia Lin didn’t respond.

Her lips were split. Her breathing shallow. But her eyes—those eyes still burned.

"She’s just a maid," one of them muttered. "Barely more than a girl. She’ll break."

Another splash. They dropped her again.

The water closed over her with a gurgling rush.

Ten seconds.

Fifteen.

Twenty.

They hauled her back up.

She choked, coughing up water, hair plastered to her face, arms trembling from exhaustion. Still, she didn’t speak.

"Stupid girl," someone hissed.

"She’s loyal," said another, with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. "Loyal little dog."

He stepped closer, sneering.

"You think we won’t kill you? You think your silence is some grand act of bravery?"

Still nothing.

Xia Lin lifted her head, just barely, and rasped, "Even if you kill me... I will never say where my lady is."

Her voice was a whisper, but it echoed in the chamber like a scream.

"You can break my bones, drown me, burn me," she said through gritted teeth, "but I won’t betray her. Never."

The smirk twisted into a snarl.

"You little—!"

He surged forward, hand outstretched, ready to strike, to tear, to make her regret every word.

But then—

BOOM.

The doors to the chamber burst open with a force that slammed them into the walls.

The flames of the lanterns flared wildly in the sudden gust of air.

The men turned, startled, drawing blades from their belts.

A figure stood in the doorway, cloaked in black from head to toe.

Tall. Silent.

His face was hidden behind a carved mask the color of ash.

No insignia. No name. No allegiance.

Just presence.

Heavy. Ominous.

The masked figure didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Even the mercenaries—hardened killers—froze, instinct telling them what their mouths couldn’t say:

They were in danger.

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