The night had not yet faded.
But the blood—
—had already gone cold.
Of the assassins who infiltrated Tingyu Pavilion, only one survived until dawn.
He now hung bound to the torture rack in the Department of Internal Affairs' dungeon, arms twisted back at an unnatural angle. Yet instead of screaming, instead of begging—
He chanted.
Softly. Steadily. Devoutly.
"Namo… Amitabha…"
Gao Dequan stood nearby, his face pale.
"Your Majesty… he's been like this for hours."
The Emperor sat in shadow, gaze fixed upon the man.
"Tell me," he said calmly, "whose life were you selling your own for?"
The assassin lifted his head.
There was no fear in his eyes.
Only an eerie, unsettling serenity.
"I serve for merit."
"For the merit of the Empress Dowager's Buddhist Hall."
Gao Dequan nearly staggered.
But the Emperor merely nodded once.
"Continue."
The instruments fell.
Metal kissed flesh.
Time blurred into agony.
An hour later, the man could no longer form full sentences.
But he spoke.
Names.
One by one.
Seven in total.
Officials tied to the Buddhist Hall.
Managers of offerings.Grain bureau overseers.Incense workshop proprietors.
Positions that appeared the cleanest.The most sacred.The least likely to reek of blood.
And yet—
They were drenched in it.
Inside the Hall of Mental Cultivation.
The Emperor listened to the confession in absolute silence.
Morning light slipped through the lattice window, spreading slowly across the desk like a blade being drawn inch by inch.
Then—
He spoke.
"Shen Zhaoyi."
Gao Dequan blinked.
"Your Majesty?"
"Where was she last night?"
"…In the Empress Dowager's Buddhist Hall."
"Keeping vigil. Chanting sutras."
The Emperor smiled.
Not gently.
Not kindly.
But like a hunter who had just confirmed his prey's location.
"Excellent."
The bells of the Buddhist Hall had only just fallen silent.
Shen Zhaoyi knelt upon her prayer mat, fingers still curled around a string of jade beads, lips murmuring the final verses of the Heart Sutra.
The doors opened.
Sun Delu entered with officials from the Department of Internal Affairs.
She looked up.
And smiled.
"Director Sun."
"How unusual for you to visit so early."
Sun Delu's expression did not change.
"Shen Zhaoyi."
"His Majesty has issued an order."
Her fingers stilled.
"…What order?"
"Effective immediately."
"You are confined to your residence."
"No summons, no departure."
"You are relieved of authority over palace affairs."
The color drained from her face.
"…You dare?"
Sun Delu bowed slightly.
"It is His Majesty's verbal decree."
In that instant—
She understood.
She was being discarded.
Tingyu Pavilion.
Qing Tian sat quietly upon the couch.
Chun Tao gently rewrapped the thin wound along Qing Tian's neck—the cut that had come within half an inch of ending everything.
The blade had missed by a breath.
A heartbeat.
A fate rewritten at the last second.
The Emperor stood before her.
This time—
No attendants.
No witnesses.
"Do you know why they wanted you dead?"
Qing Tian's voice was soft.
"…Because of the grain."
The Emperor's eyes darkened.
"No."
"Because you saw."
He stepped closer.
"You saw the filth beneath their sanctity."
"They don't fear you taking power."
"They don't fear you gaining favor."
His voice dropped.
"They fear you keeping the powerless alive."
Qing Tian looked up.
Her eyes were clear.
"But those people…"
"…They are your subjects too."
Silence fell.
Heavy. Endless.
At last, the Emperor spoke again.
"Do you know what you are now, in this palace?"
Qing Tian did not answer.
"You are not merely a consort."
"Not merely a Director of Nourishment."
His gaze sharpened.
"You are the stone blocking the path of those who feast upon others."
Qing Tian's heart sank.
Not in fear.
But in understanding.
Somewhere along the way—
Without realizing—
She had stepped into the eye of the storm.
She had not fought for glory.
Nor ambition.
Nor rank.
She had fought for—
The servants who once starved beside her.
The trembling hands that clung to warmth in endless winter nights.
The nameless lives crushed beneath invisible hierarchies.
Beyond the palace walls—
The world remained calm.
Peaceful.
Unaware.
But within the Forbidden City—
The Empress Dowager had lost a piece.
The Buddhist Hall had lost its illusion of purity.
And the entire harem now understood:
Qing Tian was no longer someone who could be quietly erased.
Not without consequence.
Not without war.