The Emperor's Last Breath
Emperor Xiao Muo Heng lay upon the golden throne, his frail body sinking beneath the dim, flickering candlelight.
The soft yellow flames danced upon the walls, casting long, wavering shadows—like dark secrets waiting to be revealed.
The air in the chamber felt heavy and damp, thick with the scent of burning wax and fading incense, pressing against the lungs of all who stood within.
"Yi Feng…"
The Emperor's voice was hoarse, almost lost between his ragged breaths.
"You… must protect this throne… with your heart… do not let…"
His clouded eyes found his son's, piercing through to his soul—a gaze that carried both pride and sorrow. Slowly, his eyelids fell shut for the last time, and silence swallowed the room whole, devouring time and sound alike.
Yi Feng bowed his head, his body trembling with restrained emotion. His heart pounded violently, yet his steps had to remain steady. The stillness in the chamber pressed down like collapsing earth, while outside, muffled whispers of ministers and the echo of armored boots rippled along the cold stone corridor. Every sound—no matter how small—felt like a lurking threat in the shadows.
He stepped out. His royal robe of deep violet, embroidered with gold thread, shimmered beneath the candlelight—its weight pressing not only on his shoulders, but upon his heart, now burdened with the legacy of a king. The marble floor glistened faintly, reflecting the glow of the flames, and every step he took echoed through the vast, silent hall, where tension hung thicker than air.
The ministers bowed low, their faces half-hidden in shadow, concealing either grief… or ambition.
Yi Feng's gaze swept over them—sharp and commanding, like a blade cutting through uncertainty.
> "From this day forth, I, Xiao Yi Feng, accept my father's will. This kingdom shall stand, and justice shall prevail."
His voice pierced the heavy stillness, echoing against the towering pillars.
The light flickered across his face, illuminating a strong jaw and eyes that hid a storm beneath their calm.
Yet behind those words, his heart trembled. The throne was not a symbol of glory—it was a battlefield waiting to devour him whole.
The Preparation for Ascension
The royal chamber fell into silence. The echo of Emperor Xiao Muo Heng's final breath still lingered in Yi Feng's ears, weighing upon his shoulders like an invisible chain.
He closed his eyes briefly, feeling the chill of the marble beneath his feet before slowly stepping into the grand hall.
The hall was wrapped in a suffocating stillness. Ministers, attendants, and the remaining members of the royal family bowed deeply, their grief restrained behind solemn expressions.
Only the steady ticking of the great clock filled the air, counting the final moments before destiny shifted once more.
General Li Zue An, the Prime Minister, stepped forward. His frame stood tall, yet his eyes glimmered with carefully hidden sorrow.
> "Your Majesty," he said, his voice firm yet respectful, "His Late Majesty has departed. For the sake of stability, the ceremony of ascension must be prepared at once. Several key matters require Your Majesty's approval."
Yi Feng looked into the faces before him. His breath came heavy, his pulse racing, yet he suppressed every flicker of unease. His lips felt dry; his gaze drifted momentarily toward his father's body laid in honor at the center of the hall. The scent of incense hung thick in the air, mingling with the soft tremor of candlelight.
> "I understand," he replied hoarsely, but with firm resolve. "Proceed."
Silence once again cloaked the room.
Some concubines stifled their sobs; servants bowed their heads; a few ministers exchanged wary glances—each aware of the weight that now rested upon Yi Feng's shoulders.
From the right side, the Right Minister stepped forward, his tone calm but unwavering.
> "Your Majesty, tomorrow at noon the ceremony of ascension shall be held. Preparations for the late Emperor's funeral must also begin at once, in accordance with imperial tradition."
Yi Feng lowered his gaze, gripping the edge of his robe tightly. Words threatened to rise but he held them back.
Within his eyes, determination began to take shape—a silent vow to carry both the crown and its burden.
> "Make all preparations," he said finally, his voice steady and resolute. "Tomorrow… I shall ascend the throne before the empire and its people."
The hall fell silent again, but this time, the quiet carried something new—reverence, anticipation, and the heavy pulse of change.
The candles burned brighter, their flames dancing across the walls, and Yi Feng knew: by tomorrow, the throne would no longer be a symbol of inheritance—but a test of survival.
The Coronation of the Dragon
Dawn spilled through the crystal windows of the grand hall, casting golden light across the polished marble floor.
The scent of burning incense mingled with morning air, filling the room with a sacred hush.
The hall was lined with courtiers, ministers, generals, and envoys from neighboring states—all dressed in ceremonial robes of silk: red for courage, blue for loyalty, and gold for authority.
Their faces were composed, their eyes reflecting reverence—and an unspoken tension.
At the center stood Yi Feng, draped in a dark-blue imperial robe embroidered with a golden dragon coiling across his chest, its tail wrapping around his sleeves.
That dragon was no mere decoration—it was the symbol of Heaven's Mandate itself.
In his hand rested a golden scepter, engraved with clouds and a tiny phoenix at the base. His posture was steady, though his breath trembled faintly beneath the weight of expectation. Every gaze upon him saw not a prince—but the man who would decide the empire's fate.
General Li Zue An, clad in black armor polished to a bronze sheen, stepped forward.
> "Your Majesty," he declared, his voice clear and echoing through the high dome, "all preparations are complete. The ministers await your command. The people have been informed, and the altar for His Late Majesty stands ready."
Yi Feng nodded, his eyes sweeping across the bowed figures before him—faces that reflected duty, hope, and hidden calculation.
He took a slow breath and spoke:
> "Begin the ceremony."
From the adjoining hall, the low beat of ritual drums resonated, joined by the chime of bronze bells.
The royal guards, clad in polished armor, stood like statues at either side, their swords gleaming beneath the morning light.
The synchronized rhythm of silk shoes upon marble filled the air, creating a solemn cadence.
One by one, the ministers stepped forward to bow, pressing their hands to the ground as they presented scrolls and seals of the empire—the formal acknowledgment of Yi Feng's divine ascension.
Every motion followed strict ceremonial law, a tradition preserved through centuries of imperial power.
When Yi Feng signed the final decree with a brush dipped in gold pigment, time itself seemed to still.
He looked toward the altar where his father's coffin rested, the memory of grief flickering within his eyes. But he straightened his back, drew a deep breath, and lifted his head high—embodying the spirit of a true sovereign.
> "By the mandate of Heaven, through the will of the people and the legacy of my ancestors, I, Yi Feng, hereby ascend the throne of the Xiao Dynasty."
His voice resounded through the hall.
Sunlight bathed him in a golden glow, and the embroidered dragon across his robe seemed to stir to life—its eyes glinting as if bestowing its celestial blessing.
A restrained cheer rippled through the ministers and envoys, though beneath their polite applause, Yi Feng still felt the weight pressing upon his chest.
Each word he had spoken was no mere declaration—it was a vow.
A vow to lead, to protect, and to uphold the honor of his father's legacy.
When the ceremony concluded, the courtiers withdrew to their positions.
Yi Feng stood alone at the heart of the hall, sunlight cascading upon the golden embroidery that marked him emperor.
He took a slow breath, allowing grief, duty, and determination to blend into one unwavering force.
That day, Yi Feng was no longer a prince.
He was the Emperor—the chosen heir of Heaven's Mandate.
And though the world watched in silence, he knew…
this was only the beginning—
of his reign, and of the trials that would define the fate of the Xiao Dynasty.