The decree arrived with the impersonal formality typical of an imperial court, devoid of any genuine concern. The Emperor, through the Prince Regent, had graciously decided that the Third Prince Tang Liu, in his delicate state of recovery, would benefit from a quieter, less strenuous environment. He was to be relocated to the Azure Crane Palace, a smaller residence nestled on the western outskirts of the Imperial City. This was not a compassionate gesture; it was a gilded exile.
The move itself was a spectacle of calculated neglect. Only a barebones crew of palace eunuchs oversaw the transfer of his minimal belongings. The opulent chamber he had occupied for so long was quickly stripped of its remaining valuables, the process overseen by Minister Qin himself, his smile even more smarmy now that his previous theft had gone unnoticed. Tang Liu, still maintaining his guise of fragile weakness, observed everything from a sedan chair, carried by four grim-faced porters. He noted the chipped paint on the Azure Crane Palace's gates, the overgrown weeds in its once-manicured gardens, the pervasive silence that clung to its courtyards like a shroud. This was not a place of recovery; it was a place of abandonment.
His personal staff, already depleted, was further reduced. Xiao Qi, the treacherous maid, remained, a strategic decision by Tang Liu to keep his conduit for misinformation active. A handful of older, more loyal servants, their faces etched with worry, also stayed, having nowhere else to go. Zhao Wu, of course, was a constant, brooding presence by his side, his large frame radiating suppressed anger.
"They cut us to twenty men, Your Highness," Zhao Wu grumbled later that evening, his voice a low rumble in the otherwise silent study of the Azure Crane Palace. "Twenty men for your personal guard. The capital garrison has five thousand. This is an insult." He slammed a fist lightly on the polished desk, the wood groaning in protest.
Tang Liu, propped up in a comfortable chair, a scroll of ancient poetry open on his lap, merely offered a serene smile. "An insult, perhaps, but also a statement, Zhao Wu. They wish to see me vulnerable, forgotten. Let them." His gaze drifted over the dusty shelves of books, the faded tapestries on the walls. The study, though smaller, was still filled with the lingering essence of past occupants, scholars and minor princes long consigned to history's footnotes.
He found solace in the quiet. Here, away from the prying eyes and constant hum of the main palace, he could cultivate more freely, more deeply. The Primordial Breathing Technique hummed, drawing in the faint spiritual energy that permeated even this neglected corner of the city. His Qi Condensation continued its steady ascent, a secret river flowing beneath a frozen landscape. He was now comfortably at Qi Condensation Layer 3, the power subtly building within his ethereal dantian.
The state of his personal treasury was a more immediate concern. He had asked Zhao Wu to discreetly inquire. The report was grim. "Your Highness," Zhao Wu had said, his voice tight with barely suppressed fury, "your personal coffers are empty. 'Borrowed,' they say. By a consortium of ministers, citing 'dynastic exigencies' during your… incapacitation. The Regent's office approved it." He didn't need to name the specific ministers; Tang Liu already knew their faces, their smarmy smiles, their greedy hands. Minister Qin, naturally, was among the most prominent. It was a blatant theft, sanctioned by the highest levels of power, designed to strip him of any financial independence.
Even his kitchens were not immune. The food, though still palatable, was simpler, less varied, and delivered with a nervous alacrity by unfamiliar faces. Xiao Qi, feigning loyalty, had whispered a day earlier that one of the new cooks, a man named Li, was formerly in the employ of Grand Eunuch Wei's household. Another spy, another pair of eyes and ears. Tang Liu accepted it with a detached pragmatism. Every spy was a potential source of information, a thread in the vast web of intrigue he was slowly beginning to unravel. He simply adjusted his routines, ensuring his privacy remained impenetrable, his cultivation utterly secret.
The weight of his isolation, of his utter vulnerability, would have crushed a lesser man. But for Tang Liu, it was a crucible. Stripped bare of all external support, he was forced to rely solely on his own intellect, his own hidden power, his own ruthless will. The political undercurrents here were not merely subtle; they were a raging river, threatening to sweep him away. The Regent's faction was systematically dismantling his legacy. The Nihilist Faction, through Grand Eunuch Wei, had infiltrated his household. The Isolationist Faction, though less overt, likely approved of his marginalization, seeing it as a consolidation of clan resources away from a 'broken' heir.
He spent his days in quiet study, poring over ancient texts from the Azure Crane Palace's dusty library, absorbing not just knowledge, but also the subtle historical patterns of rise and fall, of betrayal and redemption. He practiced the Primordial Breathing Technique, feeling the subtle strengthening of his spirit, the expansion of his Radiant Soul, allowing him to perceive the world with ever-increasing clarity. His nights were long hours of silent cultivation, his body a motionless husk, his spirit soaring, refining the chaotic energy, preparing for a future he knew would be brutal.
The impending marriage to Lin Xian'er, though still months away, loomed like a distant storm cloud. It was a political anchor, binding him to the dynasty, yet also a cage, further cementing his image as a crippled figurehead. But Tang Liu saw beyond the immediate humiliation. He saw the power she represented, the influence of her sect. And he knew, with chilling certainty, that power, even borrowed power, could be redirected, twisted, and used.