After Xue Kai stormed out, the room sank into silence.
Tai Jian, unbothered, dipped his brush back into the ink and returned to his painting. His strokes were precise, almost reverent, as if each line carried the weight of unspoken emotions. By the time he set his brush down, the image of Tie Hongchen stared back at him from the silk canvas—serene, proud, untouchable.
Beneath the painting, he carefully inscribed a poem. The words were tender, overflowing with longing, yet restrained by sorrow. It was a confession he would never voice aloud, a secret carved in ink instead of spoken in the warmth of her presence.
Anyone bold enough to search through Tai Jian's drawers would have found nothing of politics or state affairs. No records, no ledgers, no schemes written in words. Only paintings—endless portraits of Princess Hongchen, accompanied by verses that bled with the heart of a man who lived for a woman yet dared not claim her openly.
This was his shield. Let the shadows pry all they wished—his world was filled with brushes, not blades. His heart was hidden behind poems, not plots.
But away from the painting desk, Tai Jian nurtured another weapon. Ever since his departure from the borders two years ago, he had been feeding his sword with yang energy. Day after day, night after night, he poured his essence into it. The blade, once ordinary, now thrummed with a low, terrifying hum. It had grown alongside him, tempered by his spirit. After two years of patient nurturing, it was finally ready—capable of withstanding his full strength without shattering.
The hours slipped by unnoticed. By the time Tai Jian rose from his study, night had already devoured the sky. His once quiet life was now filled with watchful eyes. His brothers spied on him, wary of a rival. His wife's brothers, ever suspicious, sought weaknesses to exploit. The shadow guild lingered, their assassins skulking in the dark, waiting for the slightest opening.
Tai Jian was no longer a man—he was a living treasure, a prize too valuable to ignore.
In the Heaven Battling State, his name had even been inscribed into the assassination guilds as a golden mission. Any assassin who killed him would earn riches beyond imagination. In the Shadow Guild, his bounty had been raised to a five-star rank—an honor reserved only for those whose deaths could shake nations.
When Tai Jian first learned of it, he had almost laughed himself hoarse.
"A five-star mission for me?" he had muttered at the time. "Tempting… If only I could cut off my own head and claim the reward myself."
He had started at three stars, but after wave upon wave of assassins failed—none returning alive—his value had only risen.
Now, few dared to accept the contract. The rare ones who tried met a grisly end, not by Tai Jian's hand, but by the terrifying death guards he had personally trained.
Among them were eight chosen men, his most fearsome creation. To the world, they were nameless. To Tai Jian, they were "Controllers of the Shadows." Each possessed strength enough to match seasoned experts, but together—when they unleashed forbidden techniques in unison—even Tai Jian was uncertain of the extent of their power. They were his hidden fangs, and they had never failed him.
Even when his brothers once conspired to charge him with rebellion, Tai Jian stood unflinching. He had summoned elder officials versed in state law, and with iron logic he tore their accusations apart. According to Qin's statutes, a prince was permitted to raise a private force, so long as it did not exceed a hundred men. His troop of eight broke no law.
Not only that, Tai Jian shocked the court by dismissing half the soldiers stationed at his mansion, reducing his visible power instead of flaunting it. His palace became nearly deserted, populated only by a few loyal retainers willing to lay down their lives for him. This act of prudence stayed the hands of his enemies—for the moment.
Yet the greatest threat did not come from assassins or brothers. It came from the palace itself.
Since Emperor Qin Wushuang's sudden illness, court politics had twisted beyond recognition. The ministers leaned toward the first prince, and Tai Jian—conveniently absent from political affairs—was forbidden from even stepping foot into the palace. Two years had passed without him seeing his father or mother.
That was his weakness. His family.
He had tried sending spies, but every one of them was discovered and rooted out. With his parents sealed behind walls he could not breach, their condition unknown, Tai Jian was forced to tread carefully. One wrong step could mean their deaths.
That night, as always, Tai Jian left his study and walked quietly to Tie Hongchen's chambers.
The princess lay on her bed, seemingly asleep, her breathing calm and even. But Tai Jian knew better. Tonight, she had not succumbed to dreams. She was awake—pretending, waiting.
He approached anyway, as he always did. Gently, he pressed two fingers against her wrist, reading her pulse. Her cold yin energy was suppressed, but faint tremors signaled its inevitable resurgence. Without hesitation, he slipped behind her, embracing her slender form, and began transferring his yang energy into her body.
For two years, he had done this in secret. Ever since the day they ceased dual cultivation, he had silently borne the burden himself, ensuring she would not freeze to death. At first, it was duty. But over time… something within him had shifted.
Her sorrow became his sorrow. Her joy, his joy. When she was upset, he could not eat. When she was restless, he spent sleepless nights. When she smiled at another man, his chest burned with a jealousy he could scarcely restrain.
He had fallen deeply, irreversibly in love with Tie Hongchen.
And yet, to her, he was still the coward who had abandoned her father.
Memories flickered in his mind—like the banquet. He remembered the night his brothers lured her with drink. His fourth brother had almost spirited her away, smug and drunk on triumph. But Tai Jian had arrived at the last moment, his expression calm yet cutting like a blade.
"Fourth brother," he had said lightly, lifting the unconscious princess into his arms, "thank you for caring for my wife. Forgive me for letting you all witness such a scene."
The fury on his brothers' faces that night had been delicious, but the truth cut him deeper: he had exposed to all that the princess mattered to him, that she was his heart's weakness.
Since then, he had forbidden her from leaving the palace.
Now, holding her sleeping figure, he breathed in the faint fragrance of her hair and whispered silently into the darkness.
Hongchen… even if you never forgive me, I will still protect you.
Outside, unseen shadows crept across the walls of his mansion. Assassins, brothers, ministers—enemies cloaked in many forms.
But within, the thirteenth prince clung to his quiet flame.
A lonely flame, stubborn enough to burn against the night.