[Great Qi, The Imperial Palace]
The secret report reached the Forbidden Palace of Great Qi just as the sun set like a pool of fresh blood. The Emperor looked at the news of the Prince and Princess of Zhan falling ill in their fief. He slowly set down the scroll, his voice heavy with a profound, unquestionable sorrow: "The Prince's constitution has always been frail. Now, reaching Zhanchuan, his old illness returns, and even the Princess is trapped in the plague... This child, I fear, can only be left to fate."
He let out a long sigh and turned to look out the window. The feigned grief on his calculating face vanished instantly, replaced by a twisted glint of satisfaction. If the Prince truly died in Zhanchuan, he could play the part of the grieving father to perfection; if the Chu remnant died of the plague as well, the Chu bloodline would be officially severed. The threat that had weighed on his heart for years was evaporating. He could barely suppress the curve of his lips.
Simultaneously, a secret letter reached the Preceptor's Manor. The handwriting mirrored the palace report: The Prince has relapsed; the Princess is gravely ill.
However, the Grand Preceptor tapped his fingers on the desk, his eyes cold as frost. He did not believe in such convenient coincidences.
"Truly ill? Or a golden cicada shedding its skin?" the Preceptor scoffed. He knew neither the Prince nor the Princess were types to sit and wait for death. In the bottomless depths of the Prince of Zhan's Manor, what killing intent was truly hidden? He summoned his shadow guards: "Investigate again! I want to know if the Prince and Princess are truly weak, or if they are merely wearing masks of sickness."
[Western Yan, Manor of the Fourth Prince]
The Fourth Prince of Western Yan dismissed his attendants and stood alone before a massive war map. The intelligence brought by his spies was exhaustive—Chu Yuning had vanished into the Prince of Zhan's Manor, which was now shrouded in the "breath of death" caused by the plague.
Yet, for the drama of the Great Qi imperial family, the Fourth Prince didn't even spare a contemptuous smile. The Prince of Zhan's life and the succession of Great Qi were merely trivial dust in his eyes.
He closed his eyes, and his mind returned to that day in the mines—a day that felt like purgatory. His "Black Mask Cavalry," his pride, who claimed no survivors remained under their hooves, had seemed pathetic in the face of that powerful, alien fire. He had personally witnessed a mountain mine, once easy to take and hard to hold, transformed into an iron fortress in a staggering amount of time.
Those precisely placed traps, the interlocking fortifications, and most terrifying of all—the explosives that could turn a hundred men into smithereens in an instant. This was no accident, nor was it a formation any pedantic Great Qi general could conceive.
"Chu Yuning..." the Fourth Prince murmured, his fingers tightening on the wooden desk.
He had investigated the timing. Chu Yuning's appearance in the mines coincided perfectly with those earth-shattering modifications. In his eyes, Chu Yuning was more than just the key to the Thirty-Seven Stockades; he was a Master Architect who held secret knowledge capable of overturning a war.
The technology to turn raw iron into lethal tools, the ability to make gunpowder obey one's hand—who else but the century-old military Chu family could possess such a foundation?
"The Emperor of Great Qi is a fool," the Fourth Prince let out a mocking laugh.
He finally understood why the Emperor wanted the Chu family gone at any cost. If such world-ending weapons were held by the Chus, the Xiao family would have lost the throne long ago. And Western Yan wanted that power.
The Prince stroked the short blade at his waist, the cold metal reflecting the borderline pathological fanaticism in his eyes. "Those hands that turn rot into magic... I must have them. In this world, only the strong are worthy of owning a divine weapon like you."
[Southern Tang, Prince Qi's Manor]
In the Southern Tang manor, the former prosperity had been stripped away, leaving only empty corridors and silence. Yellow Seven was about to lead Qi Hao onto the path of escape when Lin Feng, accompanied by the slightly limping Lin Jin, blocked their way.
"Princess, I wish to accompany you," Lin Feng said calmly. Behind him, Lin Jin's left leg dragged slightly—a permanent scar of the battlefield. "This is my brother, Lin Jin. I wish to take him to find a physician to heal his old injury."
Lin Feng kept his deeper thoughts hidden. Since learning that Qi Xuan (Yellow Seven) refused to enter the palace and was planning this daring escape, he had felt a surge of respect. He looked at Lin Jin's leg—the leg lost while carrying him out of a mountain of corpses—and felt a debt of honor. Moreover, as "Teacher Lin," he had grown fond of Qi Hao; the boy reminded him of his own younger brother.
But most of all, he was awed by Qi Xuan. That a mere woman could hold the line while the manor collapsed and execute such a bold "deception" made even him, a veteran general, feel inferior.
"Teacher Lin, once we leave, we may never return to Southern Tang. Do you truly have no regrets?" Yellow Seven searched his eyes.
Lin Feng gave a faint smile. In his heart, he thought: I was never from Southern Tang to begin with. What is there to miss in a foreign land? "It matters not. My brother's leg is the priority, and we two are alone in this world. The world is vast; any place can be home."
"Very well." Yellow Seven didn't hesitate. She placed Qi Hao's hand in his. "Then I trouble Teacher Lin to take Hao'er first. The merchant fleet is waiting at the docks. I will follow after I settle the final matters."
"Sister, you have to come quickly!" Qi Hao'er's eyes were red as he clung to Lin Feng's robes.
"Go." Yellow Seven smoothed her brother's hair, her gaze tender yet resolute. "Follow Teacher Lin. Sister will catch up."
As she watched the three disappear into the night, the tenderness in her eyes froze into frost. She turned and walked into the inner courtyard, personally lighting the fires she had prepared.
Flame instantly consumed the gilded cage that had held her for a year. Watching the fire sweep through the pavilions, she did not look back. She sprinted toward the docks. The river breeze was near, and the silhouette of the ship was just ahead—but three black shadows blocked her path like ghosts.
"Princess, the Master expected you to be restless," the lead man said coldly, his blade shimmering under the moon. "Please come with us. The Master says that as long as you are obedient, we will not make things difficult."
"Is that so?" Yellow Seven paused, a bloodthirsty smirk tugging at her lips. "But I happen to want to make things difficult for you."
Before her voice faded, she lunged forward like a startled swan. Though a woman, her moves were ruthless and decisive—a sharp edge honed for survival.
However, the opponents were elite Imperial guards. Ultimately, she was outnumbered. As the fight dragged on, her breathing grew heavy. Sharp pains flared in her arm and ankle where the blades had found their mark, and blood began to soak her garments.
The men did not strike to kill. Like hawks circling prey, they watched her struggle with mocking eyes. What they wanted was a living "Imperial Consort" to deliver to the palace.