MY PRINCE HUSBAND HAS SEVEN WIVES AND I AM HIS FAVOURITE!

His blade rose again, steady despite the blood on his hands. "So go, brother. Find the Prime Minister. Stop him before he takes the Jade Token. I’ll hold this rabble here."

Zhao Yan swallowed hard, his eyes bright. "Ling Xu..."

But there was no time for more words. Another wave of the Prime Minister’s men crashed over them, howling like beasts. Swords flashed. Steel rang out. The air was a blur of motion and blood.

Zhao Ling Xu turned back to the fight, his expression calm, blade moving like a dancer’s steps—deadly, precise.

Zhao Yan took one last look at his brother—at the faint smile on his lips, at the unwavering resolve in his eyes—and then he turned and ran.

The battle raged on behind him, but he didn’t look back.

He ran through the halls of the palace, each step carrying him closer to the heart of the empire’s secrets. The Jade House—the place that was said to hold the soul of the empire itself—waited in the dark.

The air outside the coronation hall was a maelstrom of noise and violence. Cries of men locked in combat, the hiss of blades slicing through the air, the clash of steel meeting steel—it all mingled in a harsh symphony of war.

Zhao Yan moved through it with a single-minded focus, his breath steady, his blade flashing in the lamplight as he cut down the men who dared stand in his path. Deng Mi and Wei Ling were right behind him, their blades moving in perfect rhythm, never missing a beat.

A few loyal guards flanked them, the last of Zhao Yan’s personal guard who had survived this long night. Their faces were hard, eyes sharp, bodies tense with resolve. Each swing of their blades was a promise—to follow their prince to the end.

They moved as a unit, weaving through the dying embers of the battle that still burned across the palace grounds.

Ahead, the path to the Jade House was clear in Zhao Yan’s mind—the hidden vault of the empire’s soul, buried deep in the mountain’s embrace at the edge of the palace. It was said that only those with the blood of the first emperor could even approach it without the weight of the empire itself crushing them to dust.

He had no choice now. He had to reach it before Pei Rong.

A soldier lunged at them from the side, his blade flashing. Wei Ling met him head-on, his saber slamming into the man’s with enough force to shatter bone. The bandit staggered, his mouth opening in a scream that never came as Deng Mi’s blade slipped in beneath his ribs, silencing him forever.

They didn’t pause. There was no time for second thoughts.

More of Pei Rong’s men tried to block their way, emerging from the shadows of the palace corridors. Zhao Yan cut them down without hesitation, each strike of his blade clean, lethal. He could feel the heat of the blood that spattered across his face, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow.

A sudden memory flashed in his mind—of a garden in springtime, cherry blossoms drifting in the breeze. He saw Hua Jing there, her laughter bright, her eyes alight with mischief. He realized, with a sharp twist in his chest, that he hadn’t said goodbye to her. Hadn’t told her to stay safe.

His steps faltered for a moment, just a heartbeat, and he turned his head.

And there she was.

Hua Jing stood at the edge of the corridor, her red robes swirling around her like flame, her eyes steady and sure. She met his gaze, and for a moment the world seemed to slow—just the two of them in that instant, a quiet understanding passing between them.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

She lifted a hand, a small wave—her lips curved in a faint, reassuring smile. And then she turned and disappeared into the shadows, without waiting for him to answer.

Zhao Yan felt the tension in his chest ease. He understood. No words were needed between them anymore. She would be safe—she would find her way.

And he had his own path to walk.

He turned back to the fight, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. He moved forward, each step ringing with purpose.

The path to the Jade House wound through the oldest parts of the palace—narrow corridors of stone, lit only by flickering braziers. Here, the air was cool and damp, the scent of earth heavy in the air.

Pei Rong’s men were waiting for them.

They were better armed than the ragged bandits who had filled the palace—these were the Prime Minister’s personal guard, men who had been trained for years in secret. Their armor was lacquered black, their blades long and curved, glinting in the dim light.

Zhao Yan didn’t slow. He raised his sword and charged.

The hallway became a tunnel of violence. Steel crashed against steel, sparks leaping into the air. Deng Mi fought like a whirlwind, his twin blades weaving a deadly pattern that left no room for mercy. Wei Ling was a wall of muscle and steel, each stroke of his saber a death sentence.

Zhao Yan moved at the center of them, his blade dancing, his breath coming in sharp, steady bursts. Each man who fell before him was another step closer to the Jade House.

One of the guards lunged at him, the tip of his spear aimed for Zhao Yan’s heart. Zhao Yan twisted to the side, the blade grazing his ribs, and brought his own sword up in a vicious arc that split the man’s throat.

Another came from the left, blade flashing. Zhao Yan parried, the force of the blow shuddering up his arm, and then he countered, his blade driving deep into the man’s chest.

As he plunged, his voice came out in a manic roar, "Aaaaah"

He never thought he would be in this situation much less in this world. He watched as the man fell down next to him blood immediately gushing out.

"Thud!"