The lingering scent of blood and fear permeated the opulent halls of the Min Imperial Palace, a stark reminder of Min Yulin's terrifying display of power. The screams had faded, replaced by the hushed, terrified whispers of the surviving courtiers and the frantic movements of servants attempting to clean the gruesome stains. Emperor Min Tianyou stood pale and trembling beside the hysterical Empress Han Zhenlan, who cradled her disfigured son, Min Chengyou, her wails echoing through the stunned silence. Min Cheng'an, her younger son, simply stared, frozen in terror, at the raw chaos his brother had unleashed.
Shen Zhiyu, clutching Min Haotian tightly, felt a tremor run through his body, not from fear, but from a profound mixture of shock and awe. He had witnessed Yulin's carefully constructed facade of emotionless control that was built up by many things beyond their years. The cold furry although he didn't know the reason why he knew he was safe with yulin his instinct told him he was safe since the first he locked eyes with yulin.
Haotian, sensing the easing of the immediate tension, quieted down, occasionally letting out a soft sniffle, his small face still buried in Zhiyu's shoulder. Zhiyu gently stroked the baby's back, his own heart a strange mixture of turmoil and newfound connection. He had been rescued by a force of nature, a force that was clearly willing to destroy anyone who threatened him or the innocent life nestled in his arms.
As yulin lead zhiyu and Haotian out of there the courtiers scrambled back, parting like the Red Sea, their faces etched with absolute terror. Yulin reached Zhiyu, his eyes briefly sweeping over Haotian's tear-stained face, then settling on Zhiyu's. There was no direct address, no apology for the mayhem he had caused, but a shared understanding seemed to pass between them. Without a word, he gently took Haotian from Zhiyu's arms, holding the baby close for a moment, almost possessively. Then, to Zhiyu's surprise, he placed Haotian back in Zhiyu's arms. It was a silent message: they are safe with you, and you are safe with me. A silent acknowledgment of the bond that had instantly formed between them, centered around the vulnerable baby.
"Follow me," Yulin commanded, his voice now calm and even, as if the preceding bloodbath had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience. He led Zhiyu away from the carnage, towards a private, secluded wing of the palace – a wing that was once his mother, the Empress Sen Qingyao's, personal residence. The air in this wing, Zhiyu noticed, was distinctly different; it carried a faint, nostalgic scent of plum blossoms and old parchment, a stark contrast to the stale, fear-laden atmosphere of the Imperial Hall.
The walk through the palace was heavy with the weight of shattered fear and lingering resentment. Zhiyu could feel the burning gazes of Empress Han and her surviving son, Cheng'an, on his back. He knew they would never forget this. He also knew that his very presence, and Yulin's ferocious defense of him, had thrown the entire palace into disarray. He was the catalyst, the outsider who had disrupted the fragile ecosystem of court power.
As they settled into the quiet elegance of the late Empress's chambers, Yulin assigned a small, loyal contingent of his own guards to stand watch. These were not the usual palace guards, but seasoned veterans, their faces grim and unyielding, their loyalty clearly etched in their demeanor. He also brought in a few trusted personal maids for Zhiyu and Haotian, their expressions humble and respectful, clearly intimidated but unwavering in their service to the Crown Prince.
"No one," Yulin stated, his voice cold and clear, directed at the new attendants, "enters these chambers without my direct permission. Any infringement, any disrespect... will be dealt with immediately." His words were a direct warning to the entire palace, echoing the ruthlessness they had just witnessed. He watched the maids for a moment, his gaze sharp, ensuring they understood the gravity of his decree before turning to address Zhiyu. "You are safe here. Tell them if you need anything." It was a simple statement, yet it carried the weight of a solemn vow. A vow that will tangl their life together for ever.
In the days that followed, the atmosphere in the Min Imperial Palace became a strange blend of tense quiet and simmering resentment. The official story spread by Empress Han's faction was that Crown Prince Yulin had suffered a "temporary madness" due to the trauma of his mother's death and the recent political upheavals, and that the injured courtiers and her son were victims of his "unstable mind." They began whispering about his unsuitability for the throne, subtly hinting at his cruelty and impulsiveness. They spoke of the new "Shen Omega" as a malevolent influence, a bringer of chaos who had driven their Crown Prince to such extremes.
But the fear of Yulin's ruthless efficiency ran deeper than any rumor. No one dared to directly challenge him or Zhiyu. Instead, the "whispers" of "whore" and "seductress" became more subtle, passed in lowered voices behind cupped hands, or conveyed through contemptuous glances and deliberate snubs at court gatherings. They spoke of Zhiyu as an "outsider" who had "seduced" their Crown Prince, "weakening" his resolve and driving him to such brutal acts. They insinuated that he was an ill omen, bringing chaos and violence to the peaceful Min Empire. Zhiyu felt the weight of their judgment, the burden of being the "reason" for Yulin's bloody actions. He was isolated, a prince without a kingdom, now a pariah in a new one.
Haotian, however, was his solace. The baby, now more active, would crawl around the chambers, his innocent laughter occasionally piercing the heavy silence. He continued to call Zhiyu "Mama," a tender sound that filled Zhiyu's aching heart with a fragile, precious warmth. He would spend hours with Haotian, playing simple games, sunging to him like his own mother used to, finding a profound sense of purpose in nurturing this small, vulnerable life. Haotian, in his innocence, was a balm to Zhiyu's soul, and a surprising bridge between Zhiyu and Yulin.
Yulin would visit daily, often late at night after fulfilling his duties. He would sit in silence, observing Zhiyu with Haotian, his eyes unreadable. Sometimes, he would simply observe, his gaze lingering on the interaction between the Omega prince and his baby brother, a faint softening in his intense gaze. At other times, he would pick up Haotian, his large hands surprisingly gentle, and rock him until the baby drifted off to sleep, often with a faint, almost imperceptible sigh of contentment from Yulin. It was during these quiet moments that Zhiyu began to see beyond the stone-faced Crown Prince, glimpsing the profound loneliness and burden Yulin carried.
One evening, as Haotian slept peacefully in a carved cradle beside them, Yulin spoke, his voice low and hoarse. "They deserved it," he said, his gaze fixed on the flickering lamplight, "Every one of them. They stood by. They watched. They let her die." His hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white and tears running in his chicks. "My mother... she screamed for hours. And not a single one of them came. Not the Emperor, not the physicians, not even the palace guards. They were all afraid of Lady Han, or bought by her. She poisoned her." His voice cracked, a rare, raw display of pain. "They poisoned my mother. Slowly. While she was giving birth to him." He nodded towards Haotian.
Zhiyu listened, tears welling in his eyes, feeling the raw edge of Yulin's suffering. The full horror of Yulin's past, and the depth of his vengeance, became agonizingly clear. He saw not just the act, but the decade of unaddressed grief fueling it. He reached out, hesitantly, and placed a hand gently on Yulin's clenched fist. He didn't speak, but his touch conveyed a silent understanding, a shared burden of witnessing unspeakable loss and betrayal. Yulin looked at Zhiyu, his eyes wide and vulnerable, a silent acknowledgment passing between them – two young princes, scarred by unimaginable loss, bound by a shared trauma and an unexpected alliance. Yulin's emotionless facade was slowly, painstakingly cracking, revealing the depth of his buried pain, allowing Zhiyu to witness the profound resentment he harbored against those who had wronged his mother and his family. The rage, the cold fury, was not just about control; it was about agonizing, unaddressed grief. Zhiyu felt a new kind of protective instinct stir within him for Yulin, a fierce desire to see him healed.
The palace, however, was a living entity, always shifting, always seeking equilibrium. The internal conflicts, though suppressed by Yulin's immediate brutality, simmered beneath the surface. Empress Han, enraged and humiliated by her son's disfigurement, began to subtly rally her remaining allies, feeding the whispers, turning the fear into a calculated campaign of psychological warfare against Yulin and Zhiyu. Her goal: to undermine Yulin's position, to declare him unfit, and pave the way for her remaining son, Cheng'an, or herself, to seize more power. The air in the palace grew thick with unseen plots, unseen currents of ambition and hatred.
Just as the palace seemed to be teetering on the brink of an internal explosion, a new, far more immediate threat emerged, echoing ominously from beyond the gilded walls. News began to filter in, whispers from the border guards, then offi
cial reports.