Chapter 394 Ruthless

Chapter 394: Ruthless

The heavy palace doors opened silently behind him, letting a sliver of light spill in from the corridor outside.

He stepped out of the hall without looking back, his back still ramrod straight, holding on to the last shred of dignity befitting a prince.

Fu Quan stood with lowered hands by the door, his eyes downcast, utterly still, like a lifeless statue.

His gaze was fixed straight ahead, but it seemed to cut through the layered eaves and rooftops, landing on the towering palace walls far off in the distance.

The vermilion palace walls, under the dying glow of the setting sun, took on a somber, almost congealed dark red—like dried blood, or ashes that had cooled after burning.

Clammy sweat mixed with fresh blood, soaking into the lines of his palms.

A thin, warm trickle wound down his wrist, tracing the lines of sinew and bone before vanishing into the dark embroidery at his cuff.

He looked away, then slowly descended the tall white marble steps in front of the hall.

Step by step, one after another.

Crimson drops fell from his sleeve, blooming against the stone.

From high above in the vast sky, a hoarse, piercing eagle cry rang out.

Zhou Hao's stride hitched slightly, but he didn't look up.

A lone eagle, riding the last strong current of air at the edge of the sky, labored across the layered silhouettes of the towering palaces.

Against the darkening twilight sky, it shrank to a rapidly moving black dot.

As if trying to break free of this cage-like skyline, tearing through the thickening gloom of dusk.

The lone eagle's path flickered across the corner of his vision, gone in an instant, swallowed by the vast, unknown sky beyond the palace walls.

Zhou Hao's figure finally vanished around a corner of the palace complex, and the dark red spots on the stone steps faded completely into the twilight.

Inside the hall, Fu Quan silently relit the palace lanterns one by one.

Zhou Mingqi remained seated on the dragon throne, fingertips resting on the edge of a stack of yellowed secret memorials, motionless for a long time.

Fu Quan presented a freshly brewed cup of Junshan Silver Needle tea, its fragrance sharp and clean, as if trying to cut through the lingering smell of blood and tension in the hall.

Zhou Mingqi picked it up, took a sip, his gaze landing on Cheng Ge's signature at the end of the memorial. A cold glint flashed in his eyes, then vanished.

"Summon Wu Zhongzi to the palace," he said, setting down the teacup. His voice had regained the emperor's steady calm, betraying neither pleasure nor anger.

...

The next day at court, a censor stepped forward to impeach Chen Yuanli, a director in the Ministry of Revenue's Qingli Department, for "murky accounts and inflated conversion rates" in overseeing grain shipments for Jianghuai.

The dates, warehouse numbers, and the roster of clerks involved were laid out in meticulous detail—even old accounts that had seemed closed were dredged up with fresh suspicions.

Chen Yuanli stood in the ranks, his legs turning to jelly. He nearly stumbled stepping forward. His defense came out dry and trembling, cold sweat beading on his forehead.

Zhou Mingqi sat high on the imperial throne, his gaze sweeping over the man's ashen face. He didn't rebuke him harshly, only said evenly: "Grain supplies are the foundation of the state. Since doubts exist, a full investigation is warranted.

Director Chen, set aside your duties for now and go home to rest. Once the investigation is complete, I will make my ruling."

His tone was almost gracious, yet it stripped the man of his post on the spot.

In the current climate at court, the word "rest" was as good as a death sentence for a political career.

Then, as if the first domino had fallen.

Within days, one official after another—members of the Chen faction or those with close ties to the family—had old skeletons dragged out of the closet.

A director in the Ministry of Justice was charged with "gross negligence" in a case; a deputy director of the Court of Imperial Entertainments was accused of "passing off inferior goods" in procurement; a provincial prefect had past performance reviews flagged for "possible embellishment"...

The charges varied and the evidence differed in detail, but the precision of the timing and the razor-sharp wording of the memorials made it clear: someone had read the wind, gotten tacit approval, or even direct instructions.

In an instant, the court was gripped by fear and paranoia.

Officials who once flocked to the Chen household suddenly called in sick, stopped showing up at court, or submitted self-defense memorials, desperately trying to distance themselves.

The Chen residence, once crowded with carriages at its gates, suddenly went cold and quiet.

Letters of introduction sank like stones into the sea. Even relatives and old friends started making excuses to stay away.

The emperor hadn't launched a sweeping purge, hadn't even issued an edict reprimanding the Chen family directly.

But this precise, methodical "pruning" was more terrifying than any storm.

It sent an unmistakable signal: the emperor's favor had shifted. The Chen family had fallen.

The news spread like ink dropped into still water, rippling fast through the court and beyond.

Whispers in teahouses and taverns, hushed talks in officials' homes—all of it circled the same topic.

"Did you hear? The emperor's got his eye on the Chen family's grain route in Jianghuai..."

"Not just Jianghuai! Director Chen's been told to 'go home and rest'!"

"Is His Majesty... actually going to make a move? The Chens are the Second Prince's maternal family!"

"Shh—keep your voice down! Haven't you noticed even the old-timers who used to be close to the Chens are calling in sick? At a time like this, even brushing against it means total disaster!"

Everyone was terrified for themselves, yet everyone watched with wide eyes as that once-glorious family was stripped branch by branch, leaf by leaf, through edicts and impeachments that looked perfectly legal and proper—yet struck with lethal precision.

The monkeys that once clung to this great tree began scattering in panic. Some even switched sides, offering up "tokens of loyalty" to save their own skins.

Deep in the palace, Zhou Mingqi read yet another memorial—this one about a distant Chen relative serving in the Court of the Imperial Stud, accused of "negligent oversight of horse breeding, resulting in weak, inferior stock." He swept his vermilion brush and wrote the character for "verify."

He looked up, staring into the deep darkness beyond the window, his gaze far away.

And this autumn wind—born from the corruption in Yuanzhou, fueled by court maneuvering—was now sweeping quietly toward every root of the Chen family tree.

Zhou Mingqi hadn't charged the Chens with treason. Behind all that thunder, he'd left this seemingly lenient opening—a warning, and more than that, a final "dignity" for Zhou Hao, or rather, for the entire Chen clan.

But a starved camel is still bigger than a horse. The Chens had sunk deep roots into the court and the provinces over decades.

Though a few officials had been caught and removed, the core positions of power were still firmly in their hands.

These posts were critical, sensitive, lucrative, or tied to military command—pull one, and the whole web shifts.

Pulling out all these nails in one decisive stroke was no easy feat.

Push too hard, and a cornered dog will leap the wall. If the Chens were backed into a corner and lashed out, stirring up sudden unrest, that was the last thing he wanted right now.

The northern border was still plagued by the Di barbarians; the court needed stability.

Therefore, he chose to "trim"—a more patient, and far more ruthless, form of death by a thousand cuts.

…

Night fell, the wind was fierce, and the moon was hidden behind clouds. Inside the Palace of Eternal Spring.

Though she had been demoted to Beauty, the inner chambers of the Palace of Eternal Spring still bore traces of her former life as a Noble Consort.

On the curio shelf sat treasures she hadn't had time to remove—or perhaps Beauty Chen was unwilling to part with them.

The bed curtains had been replaced with slightly inferior fabric, yet the colors remained bright.

Even the air carried a trace of her usual, rich, cloying face powder fragrance.

Beauty Chen sat before her dressing table, facing a tarnished bronze mirror, while her old trusted maid combed through her long hair.

Her face showed a hint of weariness, and her frame had grown noticeably thinner, yet the slightly lifted chin still held a defiant arrogance that refused to bow.

"The Emperor is just angry for now!" she said to the mirror, more like reassuring herself.

"I've served him for so many years, given him sons and daughters—surely my efforts count for something!

The Chen family has... has done a lot too! How could he just throw us away?"

She slammed her hand on the dressing table, making the hairpins and ornaments rattle. "Someone must have whispered poison in his ear! Once this blows over, I... I will definitely..."

"Definitely what, Mother?" A calm, even voice came from the doorway.

Zhou Hao had entered unnoticed, waving the old maid off.

He still wore that dark, plain robe, the scar on his forehead deliberately left visible, standing out in the dim lamplight.

His steps were light, yet carried a heavy, cold seriousness far beyond his years.

Beauty Chen turned, and upon seeing her son—especially the wound on his forehead—her forced composure faltered for a moment, then gave way to even deeper pain and anger.

"Hao'er! Your wound... How could the Emperor hit you so hard! You are a prince!" She rose, stepping forward to look at it.

But Zhou Hao turned slightly, dodging her hand, his gaze sweeping the room with cool detachment: "Mother's place here is in better shape than I imagined."

The words carried no clear praise or criticism, yet they made Beauty Chen's face stiffen. She raised her voice: "I was a Noble Consort, after all!

Surely I don't have to cower in a corner like some criminal! Hao'er, you've come just in time—tell me, what's really going on outside..."

"Outside, Father's sword is hanging over the Chen family's head." Zhou Hao cut her off, his tone flat but each word piercingly clear.

"This isn't just a passing anger, Mother. Today a director falls, tomorrow perhaps a deputy minister, and the day after... it might be Uncle's or Grandfather's turn."

"He wouldn't dare!" Beauty Chen's brows shot up, her old domineering nature flaring up fully.

"The Chen family isn't that easy to bully! We have people in court, in the provinces, in the military—do we have no allies? Push us too far, and..."

"Push us too far, and then what?" Zhou Hao suddenly stepped forward, closing in on his mother, those deep, dark eyes fixed on hers.

"Mother, tell me—if pushed to the brink, would the Chen family members still in power dare to raise troops to 'clear the court,' or rally officials to force the Emperor's hand?

Do they have that courage, that confidence? Or... are they just like you now, throwing tantrums deep in the palace, smashing things, waiting for the Emperor's pity or the next harsher decree?"

His words, unhurried, struck like icy whips, shattering the false courage Beauty Chen had struggled to maintain.

She opened her mouth to retort, but found that every word her son spoke hit the Chen family's most vulnerable reality.

They seemed to still hold power, yet in truth were riddled with panic and indecision, lacking true resolve and leadership to risk everything.

"Then... then what do we do? Are we supposed to watch the Chen family crumble, watch us mother and son get butchered at will?"

Beauty Chen's voice dropped, tinged with confusion, her arrogance finally subdued by the weight of real fear.

Zhou Hao didn't answer right away. He walked to the table, where the Imperial Household Department had delivered the evening snack as per regulations—already cold.

He reached out, brushing the rim of the bowl with his fingertip; it was ice cold.

"Mother, you know? Sometimes, to make a wolf that still clings to hope strike back, you need a little... stronger push."

He spoke slowly, pulling from his sleeve an unassuming celadon porcelain bottle, setting it beside the cold soup. "For example, driving it into a corner."

Beauty Chen's gaze fell on the small bottle, and her pupils shrank sharply.

Though spoiled, she was no fool; she had seen and heard of the palace's dark tricks.

The bottle, the hidden meaning in his words—it sent a chill through her whole body.

"What... what do you mean?" Her voice began to tremble.

"This is poison," Zhou Hao's voice was as soft as a sigh, yet eerily clear in the silent hall. "Once taken, the person gradually falls ill, the pulse grows weak, seeming like a lamp running out of oil.

Even imperial physicians would find it hard to tell; to outsiders, it would seem like one had fallen ill from worry, beyond the help of any medicine."

He looked up, his gaze like an ice pick, piercing his mother. "If word then spreads from the Palace of Eternal Spring that a Beauty is gravely ill, or even dead..."

He trailed off, but the unspoken meaning slithered like a viper into Beauty Chen's mind.

Beauty Chen was the Chen family's legitimate daughter, Zhou Hao's birth mother. No matter how dire the court situation, as long as any shred of room remained, the Emperor couldn't touch her.

"You're insane!" Beauty Chen shrieked, stumbling back and hitting the dressing table, sending hairpins flying across the floor.

"I'm your mother! You'd use my life to... to force your grandfather and the others to rebel?! This is killing your own mother! Utterly unfilial!"

"Then tell me, Mother, what else can we do?!" Zhou Hao's voice suddenly rose, the carefully maintained composure cracking, a desperate frenzy rising in his eyes.

"Wait for Father to break the Chen family's bones one by one, wait for us to be completely forgotten in the cold corners of this palace, wait for a white silk cord or a cup of poisoned wine to show up silently one day?!

Father's heart has already turned cold! Gone hard! He won't show any mercy! Mother, wake up! In Father's eyes, you're worth nothing!"

He was breathing hard, chest heaving, pointing at the bottle: "This poison won't actually kill you! I'll arrange everything!

This is the only way! Only by facing death can we maybe find life! Otherwise, we're fish on the chopping block!"

Beauty Chen collapsed, her back against the cold dressing table, her ornate robes spreading out on the floor.

She looked at her son's face, flushed with agitation, then at the small celadon bottle on the table, which seemed to give off an ominous vibe.

Her former arrogance, her willfulness, her lingering fantasies about the Emperor, her reliance on family power—all shattered in that moment by brutal reality.

The hall fell deathly silent, broken only by her heavy, terrified breathing and Zhou Hao's gradually steadying, cold breaths. Outside, the wind grew fiercer, like countless wronged spirits wailing.

After a long moment, Beauty Chen let out a bitter laugh—dry, desolate, laced with endless mockery, directed at herself, at fate, or perhaps at the son who had become a stranger before her.

She didn't touch the bottle. She only raised her eyes to look at Zhou Hao, the last glimmer of light in them gone, leaving only hollow emptiness and a numb acceptance of fate.

"You... you really are your father's son," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "Just as... ruthless."

Zhou Hao closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, all emotion had been suppressed, leaving only an abyssal calm.

He picked up the porcelain bottle and walked to the bowl of now-cold soup.

This time, Beauty Chen did not scream again, nor did she stop him.

She just stared, dazed, watching the fine powder fall into the soup, watching her son lift the bowl and approach her.