CHAPTER 220: NO WORDS NEEDED

Zhao Yan said, his voice low and deadly.

They didn’t. They lunged at him as one.

He met them head-on, blade flashing once, twice, the air singing with the speed of it. One fell, clutching a ruined throat. The other stumbled back, blade clattering to the floor as he clutched at the gash across his belly.

And then, Zhao Yan was alone at the base of the dais, his breathing steady, his blade dripping red.

He turned his head, his eyes finding Hua Jing across the chaos—still fighting, her blade flashing as she forced another soldier back.

Their eyes met.

No words needed.

She gave a single, defiant nod.

The hall was a storm of blades and fury. Blood streaked the marble floors, the air thick with the sharp scent of iron and the bitter tang of sweat.

Zhao Ling Xu moved fast, faster than he had ever dared to before. His blade met the slash of a bandit’s sword in a shower of sparks, forcing the man back with a snarl. Another came at him from the left, and he pivoted, cutting him down with a clean, practiced stroke.

"Zhao Ling Xu!" one of the Prime Minister’s men spat, his eyes wild. "Traitor!"

Another echoed, "We should have known—the boss always said his son would turn on him!"

"Kill him!" a third screamed, voice cracking with desperation. "He’s no better than that bastard prince—he’s of no use now! Cut him down!"

Their words were little more than background noise to Ling Xu. His expression was calm, almost serene, but his eyes burned like a wildfire.

Beside him, Zhao Yan cut down a man with a vicious sweep of his sword, his cloak swirling around him like a dark storm. Blood flew in arcs, painting the walls and floor, but he didn’t falter.

Zhao Ling Xu blocked another strike meant for his brother, his blade catching the blow with a sharp crack of steel. He twisted his wrist, sending the man’s sword flying from his hands, then drove his own blade into his chest.

For a moment, the two brothers stood back to back, blades gleaming.

Zhao Yan’s voice was low, urgent. "You shouldn’t be here. This isn’t your fight."

Zhao Ling Xu laughed lightly, a breathless, almost amused sound. "Of course it is, brother. You’re not the only one with a stake in this."

He parried another blow, his movements smooth, every line of his body singing with purpose. "The Prime Minister... he’s going for the Jade House," he said, his voice grim. "He’s going to take the Jade Token."

Zhao Yan’s brow furrowed, the memory of ancient stories flickering in his mind. "The Jade Token..." he repeated, voice taut.

Zhao Ling Xu’s mouth curved in a humorless smile as he forced another of the Prime Minister’s loyalists back with a swift, brutal thrust of his blade. "You remember the tales, don’t you?"

He ducked low, driving his shoulder into another attacker’s chest and sending him sprawling to the ground. He straightened, breath ragged, and his eyes met Zhao Yan’s.

"The Jade Token... forged in the first days of the empire, in the fires of the great jade mines," he said, almost as if reciting a story he had learned as a child. "It was said that the first Emperor himself held it when he took the Dragon Throne. That whoever holds it commands not just the throne—but the loyalty of every noble house in the land."

Zhao Yan cut down another man with a swift flick of his wrist, his mind racing. The Jade Token... the heart of the empire’s legitimacy. And the Jade House—the hidden chamber beneath the palace, carved into the mountain itself, where the empire’s greatest treasures were kept.

"The Prime Minister believes that with it, no one will dare challenge him," Zhao Ling Xu said, his voice cold, blade flashing as he fought. "Even the most stubborn houses will bend. If he takes it, the empire is his."

Zhao Yan’s breath caught in his chest. "Then we can’t let him reach it."

Zhao Ling Xu’s lips quirked again, but there was no humor there. "Exactly."

A bandit lunged at them, blade raised high. Zhao Yan moved first, his sword a blur as he cut the man down. Another came from behind, and Zhao Ling Xu turned smoothly, his blade slicing through the man’s ribs.

The two brothers moved like one—two halves of the same whole.

But even as they fought, Zhao Ling Xu turned his head, his voice sharp. "You can’t stay here, brother. You have to go after him. I’ll hold them off."

Zhao Yan hesitated, his jaw tight. "Alone? You’ll be overrun."

Zhao Ling Xu’s eyes flashed, a fierce glint that reminded Zhao Yan of a time long past—of laughter under cherry blossoms and bright spring sunlight. "I’ve never cared about the throne," he said. "You know that. Let me do this."

Zhao Yan looked at him, and for a moment, he wasn’t the prince or the warrior or the man who had spent his life with a sword in hand. He was just a brother, staring at the boy he had grown up with.

"Why?" he asked, voice low. "Why are you helping me, Ling Xu? When the throne is so close—so close you could reach out and take it."

Zhao Ling Xu’s mouth twitched in that half-smile again. "Because I’ve never wanted it," he said simply. "You were always the one who carried the empire in your bones. I was content to watch from the shadows."

He turned his head, eyes bright with an old, unspoken loyalty. "Besides... don’t you remember? When we were children, you once said... ’If I must be Emperor, then let me be one who protects the people. Let me be a shield, not a tyrant.’"

Zhao Yan’s breath caught in his throat.

The memory was so vivid—he could see it now, as if it had been only yesterday. The two of them, barely boys, sitting on the low wall in the back gardens of the palace, feet dangling above the fish pond. The wind had smelled of plum blossoms, and he had spoken those words without even thinking.

And Ling Xu had laughed—laughed the way he did now, easy and bright.

"You said you’d be the Emperor the people deserved," Zhao Ling Xu said, pulling him back to the present. "And I believed you then. I still do."