The silence in the **Hall of Echoing Virtue** curdled after Xiao Hong's retreat. Emperor Feng hunched on the **Dragon Throne**, transfixed by the single strand of the envoy's hair lying beside the wilted chrysanthemum petal Yan Ling had caught. One severed by impossible power, the other saved by a dying man's trembling hand. Fear, cold and greasy, coiled in the Emperor's gut. His gaze finally lifted, skittering past pale, trembling courtiers, landing on his son.
**Yan Ling stood alone.** Not just physically, isolated in the vast hall's center, but profoundly *separate*. He leaned heavily on his lightning-struck plum wood cane, breathing shallow rasps audible in the stillness. A fresh smear of blood darkened the corner of his thin lips. He looked like a man in his mid-thirties ravaged by decades of wasting sickness – skin translucent over sharp bones, stark white hair a shocking cascade against imperial yellow, eyes like deep, frozen lakes holding an ageless weariness that clashed violently with his apparent years. He was a ghost haunting his own life.
Chancellor Bo, revived and clutching a servant, hissed to hawk-nosed ministers, *"See? The Empress Dowager was right! An ill omen! Born as the heavens *shattered*! They say the sky wept blood the night Concubine Ling died birthing him! Bad luck clings like rot!"*
An elderly minister murmured, *"Poor soul... his mother was gentle as spring rain. The Emperor... well, grief makes men see phantoms. He saw only her death in the babe's face."*
A jade-dripping young noble sneered, *"A ghost-prince! No consort, no heirs, not even a proper estate. Just that crumbling pavilion. They say the servants draw lots to avoid taking him his meals!"*
**Zhi'er**, pressed against the lattice screen, absorbed the whispers. *Shattered heavens? Mother died birthing him? Ignored by his father?* It painted a picture of profound isolation. Yet... it clashed violently with the terrifying, silent blade that had erased Xiao Hong's feather. How could a cursed ghost wield such power?
Emperor Feng finally spoke, his voice a reedy quaver avoiding the word 'son'. "Yan Ling. What... what *was* that?"
Yan Ling slowly raised his head. His ancient eyes silenced the whispers. "A torn page, Father," he rasped. "Nothing more. A memory... best forgotten." He coughed, a wet sound making courtiers flinch. "May I... return to my cage? The chrysanthemums need tending."
He didn't wait. He turned, a slow, agonizing pivot, and began the long, shuffling walk out. The crowd parted wider, fear radiating not just from *him*, but from the ancient rot clinging to his shadow. No guard moved to escort him.
---
### **Scene 2: The Gardener's Burden (Deepening Lore & Relationships)**
Back in the **Tea-Cooling Pavilion**, Yan Ling sank onto a worn cushion, exhaustion a physical weight. He stared at his blood-stained palm. *Too much. Too soon.* He dipped a cloth in rainwater, wincing as he dabbed his lips.
**Zhi'er** materialized in the doorway, hesitating. He held out a small steaming clay cup. "M-Master Luo... he said this might help. Ginseng and ghostberry root?" His voice was small.
Yan Ling's gaze flickered to him, then the cup. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Old Luo remembers the recipe." He took the cup. "Sit, thief-boy. You've earned a moment's respite."
Zhi'er sat cautiously. "Are you... really an ill omen?"
Yan Ling sipped the bitter brew. "Omen? Perhaps. But not *ill*. The heavens *did* shatter the year I was born. And my mother... **Concubine Ling**... did die bringing me into this decaying world." His voice held no self-pity, only a bone-deep weariness. "The Emperor saw his beloved consort gone and a child... changed." He gestured vaguely at his white hair, his thin frame. "He saw an omen. The court saw a convenient receptacle for their fear of a world growing dimmer, bleaker. I became the 'Child of the Shattered Star.' A story simpler than truth."
**Info Dump Through Personal Revelation (Revised):**
> "My 'brothers' see a political irrelevance," Yan Ling continued flatly. "My 'sisters' avoid my shadow. The Empress Dowager truly believes the stars wept poison for me. The only one who dared look past the story..." He paused, his gaze drifting to a small, meticulously kept chrysanthemum in a blue-glazed pot. "...was my uncle. The Emperor's younger brother, **Prince Jian**." A flicker of warmth touched Yan Ling's icy eyes, gone as quickly as it appeared. "He saw a boy who loved stillness and the stroke of a brush. He taught me that art could be a sanctuary... and a silent language more powerful than swords. He died ten years ago. A hunting 'accident'." Yan Ling's gaze hardened. "Convenient, when he began questioning why **Vermilion Bird Sect** envoys rode our borders like conquerors."
Zhi'er absorbed this. Not just a ghost, but a *scapegoat*. A mask for something deeper. "The painting she tore... you weren't attacking her."
"Containing," Yan Ling corrected softly. "Binding. The world is fractured, Zhi'er. Like a cracked mirror reflecting broken pieces of something vast and lost. Some shards are sharp. Some are... loud. My paintings hold the shards in place. They keep the nightmares from spilling into the light." He looked at his trembling, ink-stained hands. "And when a fool shatters the frame... the darkness bleeds."
As Yan Ling spoke, Zhi'er noticed the prince's free hand unconsciously touch a small, worn jade locket hidden beneath his robes – a gesture fleeting but filled with an immeasurable sadness. He said nothing about.
In the **Hall of Heavenly Strategy**, Emperor Feng paced before his council. Chancellor Bo wrung his hands.
"Majesty! The envoy was humiliated! The Celestial Peaks *will* retaliate! Prince Yan Ling is the source! Send him to them! Let them have their cursed relic!"
General **Tie**, a grizzled veteran loyal to the empire, slammed his fist. "Sacrifice the Emperor's blood? Cowardice! That power *protected* the court! It struck only the feather! It was precise! It could have unmade us all!"
"It protected *himself*!" Bo shrieked. "He is a danger! Remember the orchids in General Hu's eyes?!"
" Tie growled, "stole a painting depicting the **Siege of Fallen Cranes**! It was a sealed memory of a massacre from the *Time Before*! He pried at a scab and found rot! Prince Yan Ling has lived here ignored for thirty years! Has he *ever* acted against the court? He tends flowers! He paints! He bleeds! And now, when outsiders demand his head, you would hand it to them? Where is Lóngxīa's spine?!"
Emperor Feng moaned, sinking down. "He frightens me, Tie. He always has. That stillness... those eyes that see *through* you. And now... this power." He shuddered. "But you are right. Sending him to the Peaks feels like surrendering... something. Even if it's cursed. And they might destroy us anyway." He looked lost. "What do we do?"
Chancellor Bo seized the moment. "A compromise, Majesty! We *relocate* him. Somewhere secure. Distant. The **Summer Palace at Blue Mist Lake**? Fortified, isolated... If the Peaks come... the destruction would be... contained."
Tie looked sickened but silent. It was cowardly, but safer than sacrifice.
Feng nodded weakly. "Yes... the Summer Palace. Prepare his escort. Immediately. Tell no one."
*Back in the pavilion, Yan Ling finished the ginseng brew. He placed the cup down gently, his fingers brushing the hidden jade locket beneath his robes. "They will come for me, Zhi'er," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "Not the Peaks. Not yet. My own blood. To move the ghost to a quieter cage." He touched a fragile white chrysanthemum petal. "The gardener tends his flowers... but who tends the roots of the past?"*