About twenty minutes after Zhan left, King Yibo finally stood up. The rain had stopped, leaving only a soft drizzle, and the air had turned cold enough to bite through fabric. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them toward the wide, clear sky. The city had fallen silent, the scent of wet earth filling the air. Straightening his back, he began to walk again, each step deliberate and regal—like a man counting his own heartbeat.
★★… ★★
Ever since Zhan returned to his room, he hadn't stopped pacing. His thoughts were tangled beyond reason.
He had wanted to know who Mulan truly was, but never...ever...did he imagine that person could be King Yibo himself.
The idea was absurd. Impossible.
Could it be that his own assumptions were wrong all along? That everything he'd thought, every suspicion, had been part of a web spun around him?
His chest tightened painfully. Nothing made sense anymore.
Everything he thought he understood had slipped away. He felt as if his fate had already been sealed.
How could this even be real? How could King Yibo and Mulan be the same man? And why would Sir Fenghui involve him in such a deception? Why? What for?
Zhan groaned, clutching his stomach. The confusion and panic were twisting inside him until he almost feel the nature calling. He pressed a hand to his chest as if that could steady his racing heart.
Then.....
"Did I say, I'm done with you?."
Zhan's head snapped up, eyes wide. The calm, unmistakable voice of King Yibo filled the room.
He was standing there, hands tucked into his trouser pockets, watching him with unreadable calm.
Zhan hadn't even heard the door open. It was still ajar from when he left it earlier, lost in his panic.
He stumbled back, one step after another, until he almost tripped. His heart pounded so violently it felt like it might burst. And then, as though his body couldn't handle the tension, he spun around and dashed into the bathroom.
He stayed there for several long minutes, his pulse hammering in his ears. Maybe...just maybe...King Yibo had left by now. He waited until the palace clock chimed one in the afternoon.
A long, shaky sigh escaped him. Surely the King had gone.
But as soon as Zhan stepped out and turned to lock the door, he froze.
King Yibo was still there. Sitting in regal stillness, one leg crossed over the other, his expression calm but unreadable.
Zhan's instinct was to turn right back around and leave...but the King's sharp, commanding look stopped him cold.
"I'll be surprised you if.... You go back in there," Yibo said quietly.
Zhan blinked, too stunned to answer. His throat went dry, and his eyes stung unexpectedly.
He didn't dare look up. That's it, he thought miserably. Whatever happens now… I brought it on myself.
He took a few slow, timid steps toward him without daring to meet the King's eyes.
King Yibo rose slowly, his face unreadable, eyes trained on Zhan. The faint scent of his cologne wrapped around the space between them. For a brief, dizzying moment, Zhan couldn't reconcile this quiet, composed man with the distant, imperious ruler everyone feared.
His presence was overwhelming.
When Yibo finally stood close enough that Zhan could feel the warmth radiating from him, he shut his eyes tightly, bracing for whatever might come next.
"I'm leaving," King Yibo said softly.
Zhan's eyes flew open in disbelief. His breath escaped him in a shaky rush. The King turned his head aside slightly, that subtle, controlled movement somehow making the moment even more disorienting.
"I want to talk to you," Yibo said suddenly, voice low but firm...as though forcing the words out.
Zhan swallowed hard, barely able to speak. "Uhm."
Yibo took another step closer, so near that Zhan could feel the King's breath against his face. When the King's fingertips brushed against his jaw, Zhan's eyes fluttered shut again, trying desperately to keep the tremor out of his body.
King Yibo's gaze traced over his face, the corner of his lips twitching with a restrained smile.
Then, without warning, Yibo leaned in and pressed a soft kiss against Zhan's forehead.
Zhan gasped...a quiet, involuntary sound escaping him...as warmth flooded through his chest and his knees nearly gave out.
After King Yibo kissed, he said nothing more. He turned and left the room, his face still carrying that quiet smile he couldn't suppress no matter how hard he tried.
Inwardly, he thought to himself, "A paper kitten....frightening, yet terrified."
Zhan's eyes followed him until he was gone. Then he let out a long sigh, slumping down as though he had just finished a long run. His whole body was tense, trembling slightly, and even when he tried to calm himself, the shivers refused to stop. Eventually, exhaustion forced him to lie back for a short while. He wasn't truly rested, but when he noticed the time slipping away, he stood up and straightened his clothes.
No matter how hard King Yibo tried to compose himself, he couldn't. He had to admit—love was an uncontrollable force. No matter how one tried to hide it or deny it, it refused to stay buried. It didn't matter how old or powerful he was; love humbled him all the same. He was proof of it. Whenever he stood before that sharp-tongued young man, Zhan, he forgot who he was and what position he held. The feeling was so strange it almost felt unreal.
Hurriedly, he changed his clothes and went out. His composure was gone; the dignified, commanding king had vanished, replaced by someone oddly restless. When he finally returned, he didn't go back to his chambers but straight to the imperial court. There, he gave orders to summon several senior members of the royal household. Within minutes, everyone whose name was on the list had arrived.
Although the meeting was officially held in the court, King Yibo sat instead in a medium-sized living room, not in the main throne hall. Beside him stood his most trusted aide, always by his side no matter where he went—except, perhaps, his private sleeping quarters. The aide quietly carried out every task and adjusted every detail as needed.
At first glance, one might think the King's attention was fixed on the television flickering across the room, his sharp eyes trained on it. Before him sat an exquisite white-and-gold teapot, the kind used by high-ranking royals, its body adorned with tiny white stones that sparkled in the light. Yet his thoughts were far from the room. His mind was still wrapped around Zhan's words from earlier. The longing and confusion stirring inside him were not gone; he had only tucked them away to deal with later.
The sound of footsteps broke his trance. His aide, Ghazi, moved immediately toward the door to check who it was. King Yibo didn't even lift his head, as if unaware of the movement around him. Moments later, the aide returned, bowed deeply, and said respectfully,
"Prince Aoying has arrived, bringing the final report from those assembled."
King Yibo remained silent for nearly two minutes. It was as though he hadn't heard. Finally, with effort, he moved his lips and said quietly,
"They may enter."
"As you command, Your Majesty," the aide replied, bowing again before hurrying off.
Within minutes, a group of elderly men entered one by one—each calm, dignified, and deliberate. Each greeted the King respectfully before taking their seat. Prince Aoying entered last, carrying a sealed leather bag. He placed it gently before King Yibo, shifting the elegant teapot slightly aside to make room. Then he opened the bag and sat down.
For a while, King Yibo said nothing, as if he had forgotten that he himself had called for this meeting. Everyone's eyes drifted toward the bag, especially Prince Langya, who looked visibly uneasy but tried hard to compose himself.
Finally, King Yibo lifted his gaze, studying each of them from beneath his lashes. His voice was calm but heavy when he spoke.
"I have no need to know who left these spiritual items here, nor why they were left. But I will offer three warnings to whoever did it.
First....King Yibo is always under his own protection.
Second....I act from the heart, not from fear or uncalculation.
And lastly...anyone who strikes from behind is a coward. A true warrior faces his opponent head-on."
"So, if he's ready, I can assure you that King Wang Murong's son is equally prepared."
At once, the entire living room filled with murmurs of apology and soft pleas for the King's forgiveness. Beneath the surface, however, the only sound was the pounding of hearts. The air grew thick with tension as everyone exchanged uneasy glances....King Yibo's sharp words had clearly cut deep.
Yet outwardly, he had spoken with that same cool composure, his voice calm but carrying the full weight of his authority....a reminder of exactly who he was.
Soon, quiet whispers began to rise as each person tried to justify themselves or deflect blame. King Yibo acted as if he couldn't hear them at all, his expression unreadable. It wasn't until Prince Aoying cleared his throat to get their attention that the room fell silent once more.
An elderly man, known as Prince Tang, finally spoke up for the first time since entering. His lined face showed clear displeasure, and his tone carried the sharp edge of irritation.
Prince Tang was something of an uncle figure to King Yibo...an old man known for his blunt honesty, which often made him unpopular among the courtiers. Many times, when he saw people crowding too closely around the King or attempting to manipulate him, he voiced his disapproval openly, never sugarcoating his words.
Today was no different. From the moment he saw those strange stuffs earlier, he had made no effort to hide his frustration. In fact, it was he who had urged Prince Aoying to tell the King to gather everyone together and confront the matter directly.
"It's better," he had said, "for whoever left those items to know that their actions have been noticed...rather than letting them believe they can hide in silence."
"Trying to defend ourselves won't solve anything," Prince Tang began, his voice rough with restrained anger. "Even if not all of us here are guilty, it's clear that whoever is responsible is among us. What kind of legacy are we hoping to build for our lineage if deceit and betrayal continue to spread among people of the same blood?
What more do we seek that we haven't already been given? What do we lack that drives some among us to sow chaos and discontent? Do we crave the throne? Or perhaps the downfall of a man whose goodwill has always surrounded us?"
Frustration tightened his face, and tears welled in his eyes as he spoke. He wiped them away with a handkerchief and continued firmly, "Very well, no one can stop anyone from doing as they please. But understand this...whoever it is, once we uncover the truth, that person will regret ever being part of this family. History will not forget their names....it will be written down forever as that of a deceitful traitor, a two-faced disgrace among us.
This conflict is not King Yibo's burden alone....it's ours. This is a war being fought within us, not against him. So, whoever is ready to face the truth, let them step forward. We're ready too."
Outwardly, the others murmured their agreement, nodding in support of his speech. But in their hearts, many of them wanted to grab him by the throat. He knew it too, which was why he didn't bother acknowledging any of their looks; his composure only made them despise him more.
Prince Langya, seething in silence, fought the urge to strike Prince Tang down where he stood. It took every ounce of restraint not to let his rage consume him. Still, he saw an opportunity. The absence of Prince Deng from the gathering pleased him....this was his chance to speak and assert control.
He stood slowly, calm and deliberate, his words sharp as blades as he addressed the room. His speech was calculated, his tone dangerously composed. At last, he concluded with:
"If fear or shame has kept whoever did this from coming here, then I'm certain their allies are seated among us. Let them carry our message....that the day we discover the culprit, they'll taste the full bitterness of their betrayal in this palace. Just as Prince Tang said, no one escapes accountability here."
His words stirred whispers around the room, some wary, others suspicious. Everyone began to sense his hidden intent, though no one dared to speak it aloud. The discussion dragged on for some time before it was finally dismissed.
King Yibo remained in the living room for a while, quietly watching and listening. Once the meeting ended and the nobles dispersed, he returned to his private quarters. He didn't want to go to Zhan—not this time. He needed a moment to himself, for his mind was still restless and heavy with thoughts.
Eventually, he rose and changed into a crisp white outfit—a fitted shirt and trousers from NIKE that somehow enhanced his quiet elegance, though he hadn't worn them for style. Slipping into black boots and holding a black cap in his hand, he stepped out with his usual commanding stride that turned heads even from afar.
His trusted aide immediately stood at attention, bowing slightly. He didn't need to speak; the aide already knew what the King intended. Without waiting for instruction, the man reached for his phone and called the stablemaster.
"Prepare His Majesty's white stallion," he ordered sharply. "You know the ONE....no one else is allowed to ride it."
He hung up just as King Yibo approached the elevator. The King didn't glance his way; he simply entered, and the aide hurried to follow, pressing the button for the first floor before the doors slid shut.
They exited through a concealed passage, one that allowed them to leave without alerting the palace staff. The corridor led to a wide open courtyard, its ground covered in soft white sand that gleamed faintly under the evening light.
A gentle breeze swept through, carrying the cool scent of rain that had recently fallen. The tall palm trees swayed softly, their leaves whispering against the night air.
From a short distance away, the stablemaster stood holding the reins of the magnificent white horse—a flawless creature the King himself had named The Gift Of God and trained. It gleamed like polished silver under the dim lights, a living testament to its master's grace and power.
As was the stallion's habit, the moment they stepped out into the open, it gave a loud, proud neigh and shook its head, as if recognizing King Yibo's scent and presence nearby. With a sudden burst of speed, the majestic creature galloped toward him, its hooves thundering against the ground. Upon reaching the King, it reared up slightly, stamping the earth before bowing its head and snorting, its mane rippling in waves from the top of its head to its neck.
King Yibo closed his eyes for a brief moment, a rare, soft smile tugging at his lips...something few had ever seen. Reaching out, he brushed his palm along the stallion's face and whispered quietly to it, his tone low and calm, the kind of voice that only the horse could hear. Even the royal stablemaster and his trusted aide, both standing at a respectful distance, couldn't make out a word.
With an ease born of mastery, the King gripped the reins and mounted in one smooth motion, his movements sharp and commanding yet effortlessly graceful. The stallion responded instantly—snorting, pawing the earth, then taking off like a thunderbolt across the field.
Around them, four other horses had been released, riderless, simply to give chase. But it was clear from the start...King Yibo's control and precision left no competition. His movements were steady and exact, the coordination between man and horse flawless.
Anyone watching could tell—this was not just a ruler but a true rider, a born horseman. His confidence and speed carried the air of someone who might have ruled a polo field with the same dominance he ruled a kingdom.
In no time, he outpaced the other horses completely, circling back around before they even caught up. The exhilaration on his face was unmistakable....he was enjoying every moment.
The stablemaster and the guards watching couldn't help but exchange smiles, murmuring their admiration. Their king was no ordinary man. Even among a thousand, he stood apart...sharp, fearless, and composed. Many believed that if he had been born in a time of war, he would have been the most formidable warrior alive.
He continued his ride until his pulse steadied, until his energy burned with satisfaction. Then he slowed the horse and finally dismounted, landing lightly on the ground with effortless grace. His breathing came steady and deep.
His aide approached quickly, carrying a silver tray with a glass and a bottle of chilled water. King Yibo took the bottle directly, uncapped it, and drank deeply... nearly half of it gone in seconds. Then, with a small smirk, he poured the remaining water over the stallion's head.
The horse neighed happily, tossing its mane, clearly pleased. The King chuckled softly, running a hand over the animal's wet face. The stablemaster quickly handed him a small towel, which the King accepted without a word. He dried his hands and neck, then gently wiped the horse's face as well.
The quiet affection between them was undeniable—it was as if the stallion understood him, not merely as a master, but as a companion. Even an animal could sense when it was loved and cared for.
***
Later that evening, she entered his chambers for the second time that day and found him in same place, clearly in a foul mood. She hesitated by the doorway, torn between duty and fear. She had wanted to ask what troubled him, but she knew better...her husband was a man of unpredictable temper, difficult to read, and even harder to please.
To the rest of the royal household, however, he was a paragon of control and grace. The people admired him, spoke his name with reverence. Only those who lived with him knew how different he could be behind closed doors.
The room was thick with the smoke of his shisha pipe, curling through the air in dense, bluish clouds. She waved her hand in front of her face, coughing softly as she tried to see him through the haze. Still, she stepped forward, her voice trembling as she bowed slightly.
"Good evening, my lord," she murmured.
He froze mid-inhale, his jaw tightening. Then, in one sharp exhale, he blew out a thick stream of smoke that filled the room again, his eyes narrowing dangerously. His patience snapped as he realized who it was....of course, it had to be her. She was the only one bold....or foolish—enough to enter uninvited.
With a burst of anger, he stood and barked,
"Bahuan! Didn't I say no one is to enter my room unless I summon them myself?! How many times must I repeat it?!"
Startled, Bahuan jumped back, trembling as she shook her head quickly.
"It's true, but please forgive me, Husan's Papa," she stammered, her voice shaking. "I didn't mean to break your rule. It wasn't intentional. There's a message from the King.... requesting your presence. I thought it would be wrong not to inform you, so I...."
Smack!
The sound of the slap echoed sharply across the room. His palm had landed squarely on her face. She was a beautiful woman, elegant and dignified even with age, but that blow left her reeling. Though this wasn't the first time he had struck her, this one hurt more than any before....physically and somewhere deeper inside.
Slowly, Bahuan lifted her head, her eyes red and glistening. She looked at him with quiet disbelief, her face carrying something he had never seen on her before....defiance.
"Husan's Papa," she said softly but firmly, "what did I do to deserve this?"
"You dare question me? You want more, is that it?" Prince Deng snapped furiously, raising his hand again. Yet something about her stillness made him hesitate.
Zhanxianyibo💚❤️💛