CHAPTER 232: LAST TOUCHES

Wei Ling’s gaze lingered on Hua Jing, his brow creased with unease. He had seen her fight before, had watched the way she moved like a blade in the darkness, but tonight was different. Tonight, it was not palace intrigues or petty vendettas. Tonight was war—a war that could take everything from them.

"Hua Jing," he said softly, his voice edged with hesitation. "Are you sure you’re ready for this?"

He tried to mask his worry, but it was there in the tight line of his shoulders, in the faint crease at the corner of his eyes. She could see it as plainly as she saw the gleam of steel in the torchlight. She knew what weighed on him: she was a woman, the prince’s woman, and if anything happened to her tonight... how would he ever face Zhao Yan again?

For a moment, the question hung between them like the cold air. Hua Jing met his gaze steadily, her lips curving in a faint, resolute smile. "I am ready," she said simply.

It was the truth. But in the quiet space between her heartbeat and her breath, she felt the quiver of something deeper—fear. It pulsed in the shadows of her mind: the memory of Zhao Yan lying still and pale on the blood-soaked mat. The image haunted her, a wound that would never close.

To be honest, she thought as she tightened her grip on the sword at her hip, I am afraid. Afraid in a way I have never been before. She let the thought bloom in the darkness of her mind, allowed herself to feel the icy dread that twisted in her gut.

But fear was not enough to stop her.

This is war, she reminded herself fiercely. And if everything goes bad tonight... if this is where my story ends... then so be it. She would see it through. She would not turn away.

Wei Ling’s frown deepened as he watched her, but he nodded. He understood her resolve, even if it made his heart ache with worry. "Very well," he said quietly. "I will stand at your side. No matter what."

Together, they turned to the waiting soldiers, men who had fought alongside the prince in countless battles. The imperial guards, their armor dented and streaked with blood, stood ready. Their eyes shone with the same determination that blazed in Hua Jing’s heart.

"Listen up," Wei Ling called, his voice slicing through the quiet night. "The traitors are cornered in the southern wing. They think they can regroup there, rebuild their strength in the darkness. We will not let them."

The men shifted, swords and spears glinting in the flickering light. One of them stepped forward, a grizzled veteran with a scar cutting across his cheek. "What are your orders, Your Grace?" he asked, his voice low and steady.

Hua Jing lifted her chin, her expression hard. "We strike at dawn," she said. "No mercy for those who still cling to Pei Rong’s shadow. But we will not wait until then. We move now—swift and silent."

A murmur of assent rippled through the ranks.

She took a breath, steadying herself as she looked over the gathered men. These were the last loyal blades of the empire, the ones who would see this through. She owed them everything, just as she owed Zhao Yan everything.

"Tonight," she said, her voice low but unyielding, "we end this. For the prince. For the empire. For every innocent soul who suffered at Pei Rong’s hands."

A flicker of pride shone in their eyes, and they bowed their heads in unison.

Wei Ling touched her arm lightly. "I have scouted the path," he murmured. "The southern wing is old—half-forgotten. There are tunnels beneath the jade floors. That’s where they’re hiding."

Hua Jing nodded. "Then that is where we will go."

She turned to the assembled guards, her voice cold steel. "Weapons ready. No noise unless I say so. We move as one."

With that, they moved into the night.

The marble halls of the palace stretched out around them, cold and silent but for the soft scuff of their boots. The moonlight streamed through cracked windows, painting silver trails across the floors. Here and there, they passed the bodies of men who had died for Pei Rong’s ambition—silent witnesses to a kingdom reborn in blood.

Hua Jing’s heart thudded in her chest as they approached the southern wing. The corridors grew narrow, the air thick with the scent of old stone and smoke. She could feel the weight of history pressing down on her—this was a place that had seen emperors crowned and traitors executed.

As they neared the ancient wooden door that led to the tunnels, Wei Ling raised a hand, signaling the men to halt. He leaned close to Hua Jing, his breath clouding in the cold night air.

"They’re just beyond," he whispered. "I counted at least twenty men. Armed and desperate. If we strike fast, we can cut them down before they have a chance to rally."

She nodded once, her eyes narrowing. "Then that is what we will do."

Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword. She thought of Zhao Yan, of the way his eyes had looked when he spoke of the future. She thought of the oath she had whispered to herself when she first entered the palace: to protect him, no matter the cost.

This is for you, she thought fiercely. For everything you gave me.

She turned to the soldiers, her gaze steady. "This is it," she said quietly. "These men... they will not see another dawn. Do not give them a chance to beg for mercy. Do not give them a chance to run."

The men nodded, their faces grim.

Wei Ling moved to the door, his hand resting on the worn wood. "Your Grace," he said, his voice low, "are you sure you’re ready?"

For a brief moment, her heart faltered. She was afraid—of death, of failure, of the world without Zhao Yan. But she forced herself to smile, just a little. "I am," she said. "And I will not stop until they are all gone."

He met her gaze for a long moment, then bowed his head. "Then let us finish this."

Hua Jing stepped forward, lifting her hand. In the silence, she let the moment settle over them—a final breath before the storm.

Then she lowered her hand, and her voice rang clear in the cold night.

"Go."