Huh? More points?
The thought struck him like a cold needle. He tilted his head slightly.
That's oddly satisfying but… What did I do?
Lián Xù surfaced back into the hall—and immediately felt the weight pressing against his skin.
Eyes. Too many of them. Fixed. Measuring. Interpreting.
Some wary. Some disappointed. A few already resigned.
Hmm… I wonder what could have triggered it? Damn it, I should not have spaced out just now.
He replayed the last few seconds in his mind, fast and frantic.
Did I speak out loud? No.
The tapping? Too subtle.
My breathing? My posture?
Nothing made sense.
His face remained composed by sheer instinct, but a thin, unguarded tension flickered through his eyes—a brief widening, a sharpness that hadn't been there a moment ago.
He felt it the instant it happened.
Damn it. Time to redirect.
When uncertainty threatened to spiral, Lián Xù chose the oldest survival instinct available.
When in doubt, seek the obvious.
He cleared his throat softly and lifted his gaze—just slightly—toward the Regent.
The effect was immediate.
Lián Wei caught that look and felt his chest tighten.
Those eyes…
Not confusion. Not calculation.
Desperation.
The realization struck like a blade.
So he's already this frightened, Lián Wei thought, guilt flooding in uninvited. Reduced to silently looking to me for answers… for protection.
This is all my doing. I failed him.
Lián Wei's expression hardened—not with anger, but resolve.
Before the murmurs could resurface, the Regent stepped forward.
"His Majesty will work closely with the strategic council to address this crisis," Lián Wei announced, voice firm, unyielding. "I, as Regent, will personally oversee the counsel and review all proposals."
The hall exhaled as one.
Lián Xù blinked once.
…That worked?
Judgmental eyes flicked toward Lián Xù, waiting. He remained perfectly still, silent, offering no counsel as the ministers wrestled with the immediate crisis.
A Minister of Rites cleared his throat.
"Your Majesty… the funeral ceremonies. And the mourning period—how shall we proceed?"
All eyes turned to Lián Xù again. This time, he understood. Slowly, deliberately, he nodded, letting his gaze sweep the hall as his mind ran calculations. Strategy. Words. A plan forming.
Then, an idea sparked. He spoke, calm but measured:
"We will conduct the funeral ceremonies as befitting a royal funeral."
A hand shot up. The Minister of Treasury's voice was sharp, almost accusatory.
"But Your Majesty… the royal treasury is empty."
Lián Xù tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness.
Right. The kingdom's broke. I should be compassionate.
"Is that so? Then there's no need for ceremony. Just make do with the burial."
Shock rippled through the room. Gasps, murmurs, startled glances. The court leaned forward, trying to read his expression.
Lián Xù's brow furrowed, genuine uncertainty creeping into his eyes. What he felt as confusion, the ministers saw as a frown of imperial displeasure.
"Is that not satisfactory?" he added, voice calm, almost persuasive. "At least a proper burial will be held. With the treasury depleted, this is the best we can do."
The hall fell silent.
Whispers ran like a slow tide.
"The young emperor… so cold. No respect for His Late Majesty."
"Does he even grieve?"
Each voice carried the same judgment—expectation, disappointment, doubt.
Only the Regent remained unmoved.
Lián Wei's gaze lingered on Lián Xù, quiet, unreadable.
Oh, late royal brother, I have sinned.
To the court, the young emperor's detachment was scandalous.
To Lián Xù, it was truth.
He had never been close to the late emperor. Memories were faint, distant shadows—formal bows, brief instructions, fleeting appearances. Nothing that stirred warmth or reverence.
The person who commanded his genuine respect, his loyalty, was another entirely: Lián Wei, the Imperial Uncle. Protector, guide, constant presence in a world always one step ahead.
Still, he felt the barest trace of pity for the late emperor.
Not grief. Not regret. Just… pity.
For a throne in chaos. For a funeral that would be forgotten or hastily patched together. For dignity lost to empty coffers and endless mismanagement.
He made a silent promise.
When the treasury is replenished, when the empire can afford honor…
He would give the late emperor a proper royal funeral.
For now, he bowed only to necessity.
A long pause stretched, punctuated by the faint rustle of robes.
The Minister of Rites pressed his lips together, fingers clenched nervously as he bowed. Finally, he exhaled, shoulders sagging.
"Then, Your Majesty… we shall proceed with just the burial."
A ripple of muted murmurs ran through the hall.
Eyes flicked nervously to one another—grimaces hidden behind hands, disbelief swallowed too quickly, breaths caught mid-thought. The decision had landed, but lingered, heavy and acrid, like smoke that refused to disperse.
Lián Xù's gaze swept over them, steady and unreadable. He traced each twitch of a hand, each subtle shift in posture.
His palms rested lightly on the imperial desk. He leaned back just enough to let the tension crawl over him, settle, and dissipate on its own.
He said nothing.
The silence wasn't empty. It had weight. Intention.
A minister shifted, papers rattling under trembling fingers.
"And the supply allocations, Your Majesty?"
Lián Xù's eyes flicked toward the Regent, catching the faint lift of an eyebrow, the subtlest tilt of a head.
No words passed.
The Regent moved instead, smoothing over the panic, nudging murmurs into order without a sound.
Lián Xù's reply was a small nod—barely a twitch, precise, deliberate.
Yet the room froze.
Hesitation rippled through the courtiers. Some stiffened. Some whispered. Some paused mid-thought, unsure if the motion was encouragement, approval, or judgment.
Minutes stretched.
The ministers brought up edicts, disputes, debts—petty, mundane concerns.
Lián Xù let them flow past like water over stone.
One brow lifted. A sleeve adjusted. A shoulder shifted.
Small movements carrying the authority of quiet calculation. Nothing more. No impatience. No judgment. No overt command.
The Regent's gaze never left him.
Every glance, every nuance, was tracked, mirrored, guided.
A single nod, a subtle pause—Lián Wei's invisible hand steered the chaos, bending the court without speaking, shaping order from panic.
Lián Xù remained still.
The familiar chimes rang again, bright and teasing, like tiny bells announcing a secret party in his head.
Points ticked upward, faster than his pulse could keep track.
Silence settled, but the tension lingered.
Lián Xù allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible smile.
Every glance, every misread hesitation, every whispered gasp—another point. Another step closer.
He had done nothing but sit, breathe, and nod.
And yet, the court saw fear, displeasure, and cunning all at once.
Then it hit him. The System's announcement, sharp and clinical.
Ding!
[Store Unlocked. Minimum Threshold Reached.]