NOVEL NEXT Chapter 292: One Body. One Throne. One Heir
The ministers had gathered outside the throne room before dawn, called together by rumor instead of the Mingyu's will.
They whispered in the outer chamber like a flock of nervous birds. Every robe smelled of incense, every voice carried the tremor of a question none of them dared put into words.
Minister Han, one of their fellow ministers, his body had been seen at the south gate. People had already been talking about how the Empress herself had killed him, slit his through without hesitation.
And by now, the rest of the city knew.
Some said the Empress had acted alone. Others whispered she had gone mad. More practical men, the kind who counted coin before loyalty, simply asked each other whether the Emperor would confirm it—or punish her for it.
Mingyu entered the council hall at a steady pace, his steps unhurried.
The Grand Secretary was first in line, brush tucked into his sleeve as if it could protect him. Revenue clutched a ledger too tightly. The Lord Censor's eyes were bright the way a hawk's get when meat is on the ground. The Minister of War sat straight-backed, jaw set. Rites' deputy knelt as though the floor might open.
Mingyu did not sit.
"Lord Han of Rites is dead," he said. "He died a traitor. He took Baiguang's coin, sold our road, and placed the heir in a coffin."
No one asked if it was true. Truth was nailed to the south gate.
Rites' deputy found a portion of courage. "Majesty, the rites—trials for ministers—records—"
"Your master made his record," Mingyu said. "It is hanging at the gate."
The deputy's forehead touched the lacquer.
"The Empress acted," Mingyu went on, "and the law moved through her hand. Note that down if you need precedent: When treason threatens the throne's line, judgment may be immediate and public."
The Grand Secretary nodded once, already shaping the sentence into something that would fit a bamboo slip.
Mingyu turned his gaze to Revenue. "Seize Han's estates. Not a banner left on a wall. Not a ring left on a finger. His nephews, clerks, and stewards are to be held in place until examined. If they knew, they will join him. If they did not know, they will be sent out of the capital with nothing but their names."
Revenue opened his ledger and wrote as if the ink itself might shield him.
"Censor," Mingyu said, "you will walk the city by noon. Slang dressed as counsel, plays with masks, market songs—pull them out by the roots. If a man prefers verses to loyalty, take away the mouth he uses to harvest attention. Post the penalty in seven characters: Treason breeds under tongues; cut them."
The Lord Censor bowed with a satisfaction he did not bother to hide. "It will be done."
"War," Mingyu said.
The Minister of War's head lifted. "Majesty."
"Bridge guards double. Lantern codes change again at dusk. Riders south and west with decoy orders. Riders north with the real ones. You will 'inspect' the river wharves with a company of your choosing; anyone who moves coin without a seal will wish they had never learned to count it. Make arrests quietly. I want fear to walk on soft feet for the next three days."
The Minister of War inclined his head. "Understood."
"Grand Secretary," Mingyu continued, "draft a proclamation for the drum readers. Short. No poems. Lord Han of Rites confessed his betrayal of the heir and was judged at the gate. Add this: The Empress's hand is the Emperor's law. Stamp it and send it before sun-high."
The old man's brush was already moving.
"Rites," Mingyu said without looking at the kneeling deputy, "your house will not choke us with incense while we clean our own. Temple offerings are suspended for seven days. Priests who complain may sweep their own altars. Rope for bells will be cut in the palace workshops and paid out under the Guard Commander's seal. No rope from the temple quarter crosses a threshold this month."
The deputy swallowed. "Yes, Majesty."
The Guard Commander cleared his throat. "East wing protocol, Sire?"
"Through Yaozu, and through you," Mingyu replied. "The corridor remains under your command. A temporary post—East Hall Custody—exists for the sake of paper and nothing else. The guardian remains where he is until I say otherwise. Those words are to be repeated exactly."
"Yes, Sire."
Mingyu let his gaze travel across them, one by one. "You will hear talk that calls what happened 'improper.' Here is the answer you will give: The heir is safe. Then you will close the door and do your work."
Not bothering to even take a seat, Mingyu dismissed the council with a flick of his hand. They filed out, heads low, suddenly occupied with tasks they should have begun days ago. War left last, satisfied to have edges to sharpen.
When the hall was empty, Mingyu poured tea he had no intention of drinking and let the steam rise, tracing its brief life. The work tasted of ink and iron. He preferred it that way.
He walked to the lattice and looked toward the south. He could not see the gate from here. He did not need to. He could feel the city already changing the way it breathed—more measured steps in corridors, fewer words spent on guesswork, shop doors opening a fraction later than usual while people looked at the road before they looked at each other.
He turned toward the east wing. That was where the truth he cared for lived.
The corridor outside the chamber was warm. Two boys carried in buckets; a maid hurried past with clean linen. Shadow lifted his head, considered Mingyu, and put his muzzle back on his paws as if to say the threshold was guarded enough.
Mingyu paused at the door. He did not enter. He was not needed inside; he had given her what she needed outside. Continuing his journey, Mingyu finally reached the study and sat. The inkstone waited, still wet. He set the brush to paper and let the strokes become law.
By midday, ledgers would freeze. By dusk, drums would speak across the wards. By morning, the only men still arguing about propriety would be doing it without teeth.
He did not think of Han again. Bodies are instructions; he had already read that one. What mattered now was the line that the city would learn to recite until it was as ordinary as breathing:
One body. One throne. One heir.