NOVEL NEXT Chapter 133: Thrones Without Crowns
The summons arrived at dawn.
A scroll wrapped in golden silk, bound with the seal of the Empress herself. When it opened, the entire Jade Hall fell silent.
Every sect heir, scholar, noble heir, and cultivator elite turned to look at the man standing in the center of the room:
Hei Long.
Unbothered.
Unmoved.
Still sipping tea.
"By decree of Her Majesty, the Imperial Banquet shall be held seven nights hence. One companion may be named to stand at your side as representative of your house and ambition."
A murmur swept through the crowd.
Everyone knew what this meant.
Not just status.
Not just symbolism.
Whoever stood at Hei Long's side that night… would no longer be just "part" of the harem.
She'd be the first.
That Afternoon – Hei Long's Courtyard
All three stood before him.
Leng Qingxue, arms crossed, sword polished, expression like sharpened ice.
Zhao Yuran, regal in violet, a phoenix hairpin glinting like warning.
Mu Yexin, coy smile hiding coiled tension, a new illusion charm resting against her wrist.
No one said a word.
Until Hei Long did.
"I've made my decision," he said simply.
They leaned forward—just slightly.
Only slightly.
And he named it.
"Zhao Yuran."
The silence cracked.
Qingxue's hand clenched around her scabbard.
Mu Yexin's fan snapped open with a sharp tch.
Even Yuran blinked once, caught between shock and pride.
"I chose you," Hei Long continued, "because you didn't ask."
Zhao Yuran stepped forward slowly, steady, graceful.
"Then I accept," she said, eyes on the other two. "With honor."
Qingxue didn't speak.
Yexin chuckled softly. "So that's the game now? Obedient silence wins favor?"
Hei Long looked at her.
"No. But your array didn't."
Later – Leng Qingxue's Sword Pavilion
She was silent for a long time.
Alone, kneeling before a practice dummy.
When she finally struck—it was with enough force to split the reinforced steel clean down the center.
"I warned them," she whispered to no one.
"I told them I was first."
Her breath misted in the cold air.
And from her belt, a hidden message talisman flickered with unread words.
She ignored it.
She didn't need a warning.
She needed a reason.
To draw blood.
Elsewhere – Mirage Pavilion Gardens
Mu Yexin poured wine into a glass… then poured the glass onto the floor.
A servant flinched.
"Clean it," she said coldly.
Then waved a hand, manifesting a dozen copies of herself from mist.
All of them smiled the same smile.
And all of them whispered:
"Let her enjoy one night. I'll enjoy the rest of forever."
Zhao Yuran – Dressing Room, Preparing for the Banquet
Her hand hovered over a hair ornament she hadn't worn since childhood.
A gift from Li Chen.
She hesitated.
Then pushed it aside.
And chose the silver pin Hei Long had returned to her after the memory fragment.
She fastened it carefully.
Then looked in the mirror and said:
"I don't care if I wasn't first."
"I'll be last."
Night Before the Banquet – Unknown Location
The wind howled through the ancient forest shrine as a fourth girl appeared — cloaked in ash-gray robes, face hidden.
She dropped to her knees before the monument of shattered jade and whispered:
"You told me to wait."
"I waited, Hei Long."
She looked up.
And her eyes were glowing.
"Now I'm coming back."
There were banquets.
And then there was the Imperial Banquet.
Held only once per generation, it was where power was paraded like silk — soft to the touch, sharp at the edges. The marble floors glowed with leyline inlays. The ceiling was illusion-forged from real starlight. The scent of spiritwine and divine lotus soup floated through the air like flirtation.
Everyone who mattered was there.
Sect masters. Nobility. Royal heirs. Pillar clan elders.
And above them all — seated beside the Empress herself — was Hei Long.
Dressed in deep black robes embroidered with silent dragons, his expression was still, unreadable. A single ring on his finger bore no family crest. His mere presence disrupted conversations, altered strategies, silenced whispers.
At his side stood Zhao Yuran.
Her gown shimmered like dawn mist, elegant and quiet. Her hair was bound with silver phoenix feathers, her posture regal. She was not smiling.
She didn't need to.
She had already won the first round.
The Room Reacted
Some clapped.
Some bowed.
Most whispered.
"He chose the alchemist?"
"I thought the sword girl was his shadow."
"What happened to the Mirage witch?"
"And who's the girl at the door...?"
Enter: The Fourth
She stepped through the grand arch of the banquet hall without announcement.
Clad in gray cultivator robes that looked far too plain for the room, but so clean they made even the nobles' silks seem pretentious.
Her black hair was tied in a warrior's knot. Her face bore no paint, no pretense — only memory.
She walked with the stillness of the battlefield.
And every step echoed like a ghost remembered.
"That's her," Qingxue muttered from the shadows above the mezzanine, where she watched from the upper balcony. Her fingers tightened around the balcony rail.
Mu Yexin, across the room, paused mid-drink.
The illusionist's eyes narrowed.
Because they all felt it.
The fourth woman hadn't come to enter the harem.
She'd come to reclaim what she never believed she lost.
Whispers Spread
"Who is she?"
"Her name's Xue Lian. Northern Wastes."
"She vanished after the Ghost War."
"They say she and Hei Long once fought side by side for a hundred days… and shared a cultivation bond under threat of death."
"No wonder he never spoke of it."
"That kind of bond... it can't be erased."
Hei Long Looked Up
For the first time that night.
And nodded.
Just once.
To the girl in gray.
And Zhao Yuran's heart froze.
Because that nod…
It wasn't affectionate.
It wasn't dutiful.
It was acknowledgment.
The kind reserved for equals.
Not lovers.
Not subordinates.
Equals.
Imperial Games Begin
As dinner courses began and music played on bone-flute strings, the first round of the evening's "entertainments" unfolded: public duels, verbal sparring, riddles of cultivation law, and the worst of them all — social maneuvering.
Three nobles approached Hei Long with carefully chosen gifts.
He rejected two with a glance.
Accepted the third.
Because it was a brush — not gilded, not enchanted, just old.
Zhao Yuran noticed the faint mark burned into the handle:
L.C.
He didn't comment.
Just set it down gently.
Across the Hall
Leng Qingxue approached Mu Yexin near the central pillar.
She offered her a drink.
Yexin accepted.
Then Qingxue leaned close and whispered:
"I saw your array notes in his study."
Mu Yexin didn't flinch. "I left them there."
"On purpose?"
"You'll have to ask him that."
"I don't need to," Qingxue said coldly. "I'll beat you without tricks."
"Then do it."
They clinked glasses.
And smiled.
Like predators circling the same prey.
Back at the High Table
Hei Long turned to Zhao Yuran.
"There will be a dance," he said quietly.
"I'm ready," she answered.
"I didn't say it would be with me."
Her throat went dry.
"Who—"
His eyes flicked toward Xue Lian, still standing quietly at the far end of the hall.
"Old threads pull hard," he said.
"But sometimes, they're just... threads."
Xue Lian Approaches the Table
She doesn't bow.
She doesn't announce herself.
She simply looks Hei Long in the eye.
And says:
"Finish what you started."
Everyone hears it.
The music falters.
A noble coughs, startled.
And Hei Long?
He rises.
Extends a hand.
The air grows still.
And he says:
"Then dance with me. If you still can."