The Golden Dragon Court stood in brooding silence, the vast throne hall more a mausoleum than a seat of power.
Thick pillars of stone and gold rose like ancient sentinels, each carved with the twisting forms of dragons, some weathered, others cracked. A faint chill clung to the dark stone floor, its black sheen veined with golden lines that mirrored lightning against stormclouds. The once-bright murals above had dulled with time and smoke, now only faint depictions of ancestral triumphs and long-dead heroes.
The Imperial Throne, a seat of black jade and dragonsteel, loomed at the head of the hall, unoccupied, its presence oppressive. The dragon arch above it, cast in burnished bronze, seemed to leer down upon the court, its claws poised in judgment.
On either side of the hall, the court officials stood in two great lines, arranged by rank, sleeves folded, their expressions masks of calm — but their eyes betrayed tension, arrogance, or unease.
Then came the creak of the great doors. A low groan of iron and wood that seemed to shatter the stillness. Heads turned. Spines straightened.
And then came the Second Prince.
He walked with calm, steady steps — not the hurried stride of a child uncertain of his footing, but the quiet, composed gait of someone who had returned from the edge. The robes he wore were simple but pristine, his hair bound, his gaze distant — neither sharp nor dull, but watchful.
A whisper rippled through the left side of the court.
"So he dares show his face again…"
"Can barely lift a blade, yet wants to wear the crown…"
"They say he collapsed from grief. Or was it cowardice?"
Muted laughter, subtle smirks. They bowed, as etiquette demanded — but their heads were barely dipped.
On the right, a different tone.
"At least he has the blood of dragons. Not a merchant's coin or a warlord's ambition."
"Better an unsharpened blade of the imperial line than a pretender with no sheath."
"He may yet rise. The mountain does not judge the wind at its base."
Among them, Prime Minister Zu Reng lowered his head fully — a rare show of sincerity. Elder Bo Tian, the austere Keeper of Records, gave a solemn nod. The loyalists, however small in number, stood straighter.
In the center, those who had chosen no side remained silent, their expressions unreadable, eyes watching every step.
One muttered softly to another:
"He walks like a different man.""Or a man wearing another's skin…"
Drowning out all the gazes of judgment that pressed down on him, each one heavy with doubt, disdain, or thinly veiled contempt. He walked like a free man, each step radiating with a certain unshakable will.
"I Jin Xianyi, the Second Prince, have arrived."
The room fell silent. What had once been filled with chatter and murmured scheming faded like a breeze through open halls. Shock etched itself onto the faces of ministers and generals alike — for the boy who once stammered in front of a lowly imperial guard now stood tall, boldly announcing his presence without so much as a tremble in his voice.
A faint smile crept across Jin Xianyi's face. For so long, he had been treated like air, scarcely acknowledged even by lowly palace servants. Now, standing at the center of it all, the weight of their gazes felt intoxicating. This taste of power, new and unsteady, thrilled him. But he could not stop here. This moment had to send a message. He was no longer the meek, stumbling boy of the past. He was a man with the will to rule, and the resolve to seize everything this world had to offer. Not just to lead an empire, but to rise above all… to stand at the peak, where none could challenge him.
"With the unfortunate passing of my father and brother, I alone remain to carry the burden of rule."
He gave them no time to react, no breath, no room to protest. With steady steps, he walked toward the empty throne, the seat that had loomed over him his entire life. And without hesitation, he sat.
In that single, deliberate act, he crowned himself.
The room erupted in uproar.
Voices clashed like blades, some rising in outrage, others stammering in disbelief. Robes flared as ministers surged forward, their faces twisted in fury and panic.
"You overstep your bounds!"
"This is a mockery of the imperial rites!"
"He has no right—!"
From the far left of the hall, Minister of Rites Gao Lianhe furrowed his brow. Though a known supporter of tradition, even he looked taken aback. "Although His Highness is the rightful heir… this is far too bold," he murmured under his breath, glancing around to gauge the shifting tides.
Nearby, Prime Minister Zu Reng , ever cautious, gave a slight smirk, folding his arms. "Bold, yes… but perhaps boldness is exactly what this fractured court needs," he said to no one in particular, a spark of curiosity flickering in his eyes.
Among the neutrals, murmurs broke out, not of anger but amusement.
"So the silent prince finally roars," someone whispered.
"Maybe he does have teeth after all," chuckled another.
Even some who had long dismissed him as a shadow began to watch with wary interest, their dismissive gazes turning speculative.
And yet, amidst the rising chaos and fractured opinions, Jin Xianyi remained unmoved, seated atop the throne as if he had always belonged there. His back straight, his eyes cold and unwavering. Let them rage. Let them doubt. He had stepped into the dragon's seat not with permission, but with will — and not a single one of them could pull him down.
A few of the younger officials glanced around nervously, unsure whether to speak or stay silent. Among the neutral ministers, murmurs spread like wildfire. Some hid amused smiles behind their sleeves.
"He's grown bolder," one whispered. "Still the Second Prince… but he no longer trembles."
"Bold, yes," muttered another. "But boldness is not leadership."
Even within his own faction, voices were uncertain.
"Though he is the rightful heir," said Minister of Rites Gao Lianhe, stroking his beard with furrowed brow, "this move… it is too brash. The court may not forgive such arrogance."
But beside him, General of the Northern Frontier Nie Baotian gave a slow nod of approval. His eyes, scarred and steely from decades of war, locked onto the young man now seated upon the Dragon Throne.
"He reminds me of the old days," the marshal murmured. "When men seized fate by the throat. Let the boy try."
Then, stepping forward, Prime Minister Zu Reng's voice sliced through the noise like a drawn blade.
"Sitting on the Dragon Throne does not make one a dragon," he said, every word cold and deliberate. "We do not deny your bloodline, Your Highness, but legitimacy must be earned — not claimed by theatrics."
Jin Xianyi sat tall, back straight, hands calmly resting on the throne's gilded arms. His expression did not waver beneath the weight of their gazes.
"You speak of law, Chancellor," he replied, voice clear. "Then test me. Judge me. But know this — when my father and brother were murdered, none of you stepped forward to lead. I have not come to wear the crown out of desire. I come because this empire demands someone to take the burden."
That silenced many. The air grew thick.
"I have lived in this palace ignored," he continued, eyes sweeping across the assembly. "Treated like mist, passed through as if I were nothing. But no longer. The throne is not a trophy, it is a vow. And I intend to fulfill it."
Prime Minister Zu Reng softened his eyes.
"Then prove your vow with more than words," he said. "There will be a Court Trial one week from now. Before the eyes of the ministers, generals, and elders, you will demonstrate not just your resolve but your ability. Diplomacy, martial command, governance. All shall be tested. If you succeed, none shall oppose your claim. But if you fail…"
The Prime Minister paused.
"…You will abdicate. Will you accept this challenge?"
The throne room held its breath.
And Jin Xianyi, seated on the Dragon Throne for the first time, did not flinch.
"I accept."
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The candle burned low, its wax pooling like blood along the rim of the iron holder. Inside the study, the silence was complete — no rustle of court robes, no whispers behind fans. Just the soft, steady sound of turning pages.
Jin Xianyi sat cross-legged on a cushion, his posture upright despite the weariness in his limbs. Before him lay a spread of open tomes: texts on military logistics, treatises on imperial law, records of past reigns — what they did right, how they fell. Beside those, a stack of scrolls: dry writings on tax code, the balance of sect tithes, the true cost of war when fought over supply chains instead of banners.
He didn't skim. He read.
Not like a student cramming for lessons — but like a man trying to understand the skeleton of a beast he must soon ride into battle.
His eyes, still sharp despite the hour, lingered on a passage about the last dynasty's collapse. "Power without reform breeds rot. Reform without force dies in infancy." He read it twice, then closed the book.
There was a knock at the door. Not loud. Measured.
"Enter," he said.
A servant stepped in, bowing low. Xianyi looked up, the faintest glint of command already settled in his gaze.
"Three things," he said. "First — have a copy of The Twelve Principles of Imperial Command fetched from the restricted archives. Not the commentary version. The unabridged one."
The servant bowed. "Yes, Your Highness."
"Second — bring me the Heavenly Dragon Vein Scripture, Dragonbone Tyrant Manual and Imperial Spear Arts of the Nine Banners. And my father's and brothers' cultivation insights. If it's sealed, find who holds the key."
The servant hesitated, then bowed lower. "Yes, Your Highness."
Xianyi's eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing. Instead, he moved on.
"Third, I'll need a proper medicinal batch. No more calming teas and funeral tonics. Something that supports marrow recovery and blood strengthening. Speak to the inner physicians. Tell them… the prince will be training again."
The servant paled slightly. "At once, Your Highness."
He left.
When the door closed again, Xianyi allowed himself to breathe — not deeply, but just enough to let the fatigue seep through his ribs. His limbs still ached. The soul inside him still chafed against the edges of his own. But that would pass. Pain was a tide. Let it crash. He would remain.
He reached for another book, this one a faded manual on city provisioning during siege. Dull, but necessary. He forced his eyes to track every word.
Because the throne demanded more than fire in the heart. It demanded precision. Ruthlessness. Knowledge.
And he would have all three.