Emperor Xiao Muo Heng lay upon the golden throne, his thin and fragile body sinking beneath the dim candlelight. The soft yellow flames danced upon the walls, reflecting long shadows that swayed like dark secrets waiting to be revealed. The air in the chamber felt damp and heavy, mixed with the fragrance of incense and melting wax, creating a suffocating sensation that pressed against the lungs of everyone present.
"Muo Yier…" The Emperor's voice was hoarse, nearly drowned between his labored breaths. "You… must guard this throne… with your heart… do not let…" His eyes met his son's, piercing deep into his soul—a mix of pride and sorrow reflected in every blink. Slowly, his eyelids closed forever, leaving behind a silence that seemed to devour both space and time.
Muo Yier bowed his head, suppressing the tremor that coursed through his body. His heart pounded rapidly, yet his steps had to remain steady. The silence in the chamber pressed down upon him, like the earth collapsing beneath his feet, while in the corridor outside, the whispers of ministers and the sound of soldiers' footsteps echoed along the cold stone walls. Every sound, no matter how faint, felt like a lurking threat hidden within the shadows.
He stepped out. His deep purple ceremonial robe, embroidered with golden thread, shimmered under the candlelight—its weight pressing not only on his shoulders but also upon his heart, now burdened with the responsibility of the throne. The cold marble floor reflected the glow of light, and each step he took echoed through the vast, silent hall filled with tension. The ministers bowed low, their faces half-hidden in shadow, concealing their doubts or ambitions. Muo Yier's gaze swept across them, sharp like a blade cutting through uncertainty—firm, leaving no room for hesitation.
"From this day forth, I—Xiao Muo Yier—accept my father's will. This empire… shall stand, and justice shall be upheld," he declared, his voice piercing through the heavy silence, echoing across the high walls of the hall. The candlelight danced upon his face, highlighting the firm jaw and eyes that held a storm of emotions within.
Yet behind those words, his heart trembled. The throne was not merely a symbol of power—it was a battlefield waiting to claim everything, including himself.
The Preparation for Ascension
The Emperor's chamber was silent. The last breath of Xiao Muo Heng still echoed in Muo Yier's ears, weighing upon his shoulders like an unseen burden. He closed his eyes briefly, feeling the chill of the marble beneath his feet before slowly stepping out toward the grand hall.
The hall was filled with a suffocating stillness. Ministers, attendants, and the remaining members of the imperial family bowed deeply, their faces hidden behind restrained grief. Only the ticking of the great clock resounded clearly, as if counting down the final moments before the fate of the empire changed forever.
General Li Zue An, the Prime Minister, stepped forward. His posture was upright, though his eyes carried the weight of deep sorrow.
"Huang Shang," his voice was firm yet gentle, "the Late Emperor has passed. To ensure the smooth transition of the throne, the ceremony of ascension must be prepared immediately. Several important matters require Huang Shang's decision."
Muo Yier looked into the faces of the ministers one by one. His breath was heavy, his pulse racing, yet he restrained every tremor of anxiety that threatened to surface. His lips felt dry, and his gaze briefly turned toward his father's body lying in honor before them. The scent of incense filled the air, mingling with the flickering shadows of candles.
"I understand. Proceed," he said, his voice slightly hoarse but resolute. He held his trembling hands still, striving to project calm authority before those who watched him.
Silence once again filled the hall. Some consorts stifled their sobs, attendants bowed their heads, and several ministers exchanged glances, aware of the heavy weight now resting upon Huang Shang's shoulders.
From the right side, the Right Prime Minister stepped forward. His tone was soft yet unwavering.
"Huang Shang, tomorrow at noon, the ascension ceremony will be held. Furthermore, the funeral of the Late Emperor Xiao Muo Heng must be prepared immediately in accordance with imperial custom."
Muo Yier lowered his head, steadying the rapid beat of his heart. His hand clutched his robe tightly, lips pressed together as he held back words that longed to break free. Yet within his eyes, determination began to take form—a vow to bear both the throne and its responsibilities.
"Prepare everything," he finally said, his voice firm and full of authority. "Tomorrow… Ben Huang shall ascend the throne before the empire and its people."
The hall fell silent again, but this time, the stillness carried not only grief—it bore reverence, expectation, and tension awaiting Muo Yier's next step. The candles flickered brighter, shadows swayed upon the walls, and Muo Yier knew—tomorrow, the throne would no longer be a mere emblem of power, but the truest test of his rule.
The Coronation of the Dragon
Dawn broke through the crystal windows of the grand hall, casting a golden glow across the polished marble floor. The scent of burning wood and candle wax mingled with the morning air, creating an atmosphere both tranquil and sacred. The hall was filled with palace officials, ministers, generals, and envoys from neighboring kingdoms, all dressed in formal silk hanfu—red for courage, blue for loyalty, and gold for power. Their faces remained composed, concealing emotion behind etiquette, while their eyes reflected respect, hope, and faint tension.
At the center of the hall, Muo Yier stood upon the marble dais, wearing a deep blue imperial robe embroidered with a golden dragon coiling across his chest, its tail encircling his sleeves. The dragon was not merely decoration; it symbolized the heavens and the divine authority bestowed upon the Emperor. In his hand, he held a golden ceremonial staff engraved with cloud patterns and a small phoenix at its base. His stance was straight, though his breath carried the subtle tremor of concealed nerves. Every gaze upon him saw not a prince—but Huang Shang, the sovereign who would bring prosperity and honor to the Xiao Empire.
General Li Zue An, clad in black with bronze-polished armor gleaming under the light, stepped forward. His voice was strong, resonating throughout the hall.
"Huang Shang, all preparations have been completed. The ministers await your final command. The people have been informed of today's ceremony, and the temporary altar for the Late Emperor's tribute is ready."
Muo Yier nodded, his eyes sweeping over the ministers kneeling before him. Each face reflected a blend of reverence, hope, and unspoken tension. He drew a deep breath, steadying the rhythm of his heart, and spoke:
"Begin the ceremony."
From the adjoining hall, the sound of ritual drums echoed softly, followed by the gentle chime of bronze bells. The imperial guards, clad in fine layered armor, stood tall at both sides, their swords glinting under the morning light. The synchronized rhythm of silk shoes upon marble echoed like a sacred cadence through the vast space.
One by one, the ministers stepped forward, bowing until their hands touched the ground as they presented documents and the imperial seals—symbols of recognition for Muo Yier's rightful ascension. Each movement followed the strict ceremonial code, from hand position to gaze direction, honoring the centuries-old traditions of the empire.
When Muo Yier signed the final document with a brush dipped in golden pigment, time seemed to slow. His gaze turned toward the temporary altar where his father's body lay in rest. A shadow of grief passed through his heart, but he straightened his shoulders, inhaled deeply, and lifted his head with the dignity of a ruler.
"By the power bestowed by Heaven, through the will of the people and the legacy of my ancestors, Ben Huang—Xiao Muo Yier—formally accepts the throne of the Xiao Empire," he declared, his steady voice reverberating throughout the hall. The morning light illuminated his robe, making the golden dragon embroidery seem alive, as though the dragon itself bowed in blessing.
Soft applause rippled among the guests and ministers, but behind the restrained celebration, Muo Yier still felt the immense weight upon him. Every word he had spoken was a vow—a promise to lead, to protect, and to continue his father's legacy with justice and wisdom.
When the ceremony ended, the ministers returned to their places, and Muo Yier stood alone upon the marble dais. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, reflecting off the polished floor, highlighting every thread of gold on his robe. He took a deep breath, allowing grief, responsibility, and determination to merge into a single, unshakable resolve.
That day, Muo Yier was no longer a prince.
He was Huang Shang—the chosen heir of Heaven's Mandate.
And though the world around him awaited his first command, in his heart, he knew—
this was only the beginning of the true test that awaited him.