The night outside the Hall of Mental Cultivation was darker than usual.
There was no moon.
Even the stars seemed swallowed by something unseen, leaving only a suffocating expanse of black draped over the imperial city. Wind slipped along the eaves, brushing the bronze bells beneath the palace roofs. They swayed gently—
—but made no sound.
A perfect night for killing.
Dark enough.Silent enough.Clean enough.
By the time Qing Tian returned from the Department of Imperial Nourishment to Tingyu Pavilion, it was well past midnight.
Fatigue clung to her bones, yet her spine remained straight, her steps measured. She removed her outer robe, fingers just loosening the knot—
When Chun Tao suddenly leaned close.
Her whisper was barely breath.
"Your Highness… someone's here."
Not a servant.
Qing Tian's heart dropped instantly.
Because it wasn't footsteps she heard.
It was—
The faintest shift of roof tiles.
Light.Steady.Without hesitation.
The sound of someone accustomed to heights.
Her fingers tightened.
She didn't even have time to turn.
A flash of cold steel tore through the window—
Straight for her throat.
Not her chest.Not her back.
Her neck.
No warning.
Only professional, precise killing intent.
Chun Tao moved on instinct.
She threw herself forward—
The blade grazed Qing Tian's neck, slicing through a strand of hair with terrifying neatness. A sharp sting followed, warm wetness blooming against chilled skin.
A thin lock of black silk drifted to the floor.
"Go—!"
Qing Tian's voice cut low and sharp.
She shoved Chun Tao toward the side door—
—and ran deeper into the inner chamber.
Not because she knew how to fight.
Not because she believed she could escape.
But because she understood one thing with absolute clarity:
She had to buy time.
The window lattice shattered completely.
The first assassin landed without sound.
Then the second.
Third.
Fourth.
Black-clad shadows moving with eerie precision. No wasted motion. No exchanged glances. No uncertainty.
They did not breathe like outsiders.
They did not move like hired blades.
Qing Tian's blood turned cold.
These were palace operatives.
Inner Court–trained shadow guards.
Not desperate killers from the jianghu.
Not expendable mercenaries.
The Empress Dowager had made her move.
Not demotion.Not exile.Not slow political suffocation.
But—
Erasure.
Qing Tian retreated into the inner room and deliberately knocked over the tea table.
Crash—!
Porcelain exploded across the floor.
The sound ripped through the deathly silence of the night like thunder.
Because she knew—
If the noise carried,
the Imperial Guards would hear.
And then—
Iron boots struck stone.
Not one pair.
But a formation.
Heavy.Rhythmic.Relentless.
The sound of authority made audible.
A voice cut through the darkness.
Low. Calm. Absolute.
"Imperial Feathered Forest Guard."
"Drop your weapons."
The air froze.
Even the assassins hesitated.
They knew what that voice meant.
The gates of Tingyu Pavilion burst open.
Torches flared.
Orange firelight flooded the courtyard, stretching shadows into monstrous shapes along the walls—like blades rising from the earth.
At the forefront stood a man in plain attire.
No dragon robe.No imperial procession.
Yet every soul present recognized him instantly.
The Emperor.
He had arrived too quickly.
Far too quickly.
Which meant—
He had expected this.
Feathered Forest Guards swarmed forward, weapons drawn. Qing Tian was pulled behind a wall of armored bodies.
Only then did she realize—
Her hands were trembling.
Not from fear of death.
But from disbelief.
Because he had come personally.
The Emperor's gaze fell immediately upon the thin line of blood at her neck.
The wound was shallow.
Barely more than a scratch.
Yet under torchlight—
It burned like a brand.
His expression changed.
Not into rage.
But into something far colder.
The look of a man who had already decided someone would die.
"Who sent you?"
No one answered.
No one dared.
He stepped forward slowly, eyes locking onto the restrained assassin pinned to the ground.
"You belong to the Buddhist Hall."
Not a question.
A verdict.
That single sentence split the silence open.
Because this—
Was beyond a consort's scheme.
Beyond palace intrigue.
This was the Empress Dowager crossing a forbidden line.
A direct challenge to imperial authority.
The Emperor raised a hand.
"Take them."
His voice was crisp. Unwavering.
"Before dawn…"
"I want their names."
Then he turned back to Qing Tian.
And for the first time—
There was something in his eyes that was no longer merely sovereign to subject.
It was fury born of a violated boundary.
"If you had died tonight…"
His voice was steady.
Deadly.
"…this palace would run with blood."
The words were not comfort.
Not reassurance.
But declaration.
From that night onward,
everyone in the Forbidden City would understand:
Qing Tian was no longer someone who could be touched at will.
Her life—
Had been claimed under the Emperor's protection.
And the consequences of forgetting that
would be written in blood.