MY PRINCE HUSBAND HAS SEVEN WIVES AND I AM HIS FAVOURITE!
Chapter 218: I don’t know, your majesty

Chapter 218: I don’t know, your majesty

Zhao Yan’s eyes darkened. He shoved him back, blade slicing across Pei Rong’s shoulder. The Prime Minister howled in pain, staggering as blood stained the rich red silk of his robe.

Outside the hall, the sounds of battle were louder now. The gates had fallen, Zhao Yan’s men flooding the courtyards, driving the Prime Minister’s bandits back step by bloody step.

Inside, the last of Pei Rong’s men were dying—bodies crumpled across the marble floor, their blood pooling around the dais steps.

But Pei Rong didn’t yield.

He lunged at Zhao Yan again, blade slashing down with savage fury. Zhao Yan caught it on the flat of his sword, the impact jarring up his arm, but he didn’t falter.

Around them, Hua Jing and Zhao Ling Xu fought on, blades a blur, cutting down the last of the Prime Minister’s personal guard. There was no time for hesitation, no space for doubt—only the clash of steel, the hiss of breath, the sharp scent of blood.

The empire’s fate was being decided with every stroke of their swords.

And as Zhao Yan forced Pei Rong back another step, Hua Jing’s eyes met his across the chaos. She smiled—fierce and sure.

This was the moment.

The battle had only begun!

...

The great doors of the ceremonial hall had barely swung shut behind Zhao Yan and Pei Rong’s clash when the chaos of battle spilled out into the palace beyond.

The corridors of the imperial palace—once places of quiet beauty and measured steps—had become rivers of blood and echoes of steel.

The grand courtyards were no longer tranquil gardens. They were battlegrounds.

Soldiers clashed in the moonlit courtyards, the flags of the empire—deep purple, bright red—trampled underfoot in the melee. Screams rose with the smoke from overturned braziers, the golden glow of the palace lamps casting long, wavering shadows.

The air was thick with the stench of sweat and fear.

The once-grand pavilions, where musicians had played and poets had strolled, were now scenes of desperate struggle. Zhao Yan’s loyal soldiers moved like a flood, pressing forward with relentless purpose, each blade stroke measured and final.

Among the chaos, the nobles who had once watched the coronation with smug satisfaction were now fleeing like startled deer. Silken robes that had shimmered in the light of the ceremonial fires now snagged and tore as they scrambled to escape the slaughter.

A young noble from the Northern Province, dressed in a robe of green and gold, ran down a side corridor, breath ragged, his eyes wide with terror. Behind him, two of Pei Rong’s bandits gave chase, swords wet with blood. He stumbled once, his foot catching on a broken piece of lattice, and that was all it took—the bandits fell on him in a flash of blades, his scream cut short by the wet gurgle of a slit throat.

Elsewhere, Lady Han, a cousin of the late Emperor, pressed herself against a marble column, her jeweled hairpins clinking together as she tried to quiet her breath. Her eyes were wild, darting from shadow to shadow. When a figure moved at the end of the hall, she let out a choked sob and bolted in the other direction, her slippers slipping on the polished floors.

In the confusion, the former Empress was dragged by two of her ladies-in-waiting through a side door. Her face was pale, lips trembling as she cast frantic glances over her shoulder. Once, she had commanded the entire court with a single look. Now she looked like a ghost, robes of white and blue torn and stained with soot.

"Faster!" one of her ladies whispered, voice shaking. "They’re coming!"

The Empress stumbled, her beaded headdress clattering to the ground. She didn’t stop to retrieve it. They pushed her forward, slipping through the narrow servants’ halls, the clamor of battle a constant, unrelenting roar in their ears.

Not all were so lucky.

A group of minor lords from the Western territories tried to force their way to the rear gates, their guards forming a tight knot around them. But the bandits who had once served Pei Rong were everywhere, blades flashing in the darkness. The nobles fought back with shaking hands, more used to holding wine cups than swords. They fell one by one, cut down with brutal efficiency, their blood painting the white stones of the garden paths.

In the east wing, the Empress —once so serene, so poised—was running for her life.

She had been smiling only an hour ago, her veil delicately pinned, her eyes downcast in false humility. Now her face was pale and streaked with sweat, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she fled down the servants’ passageways.

Her red robes—once the mark of her triumph—now tangled around her ankles, slowing her steps. She stumbled once, catching herself on the wall, her hands leaving bloody smears on the white plaster.

Around her, the palace echoed with the clash of swords, the screams of the dying.

"Where—where is the Prime Minister?" she gasped to the maid who had not left her side, voice breaking.

The maid shook her head frantically, tears streaking her cheeks. "I don’t know, Your Majesty—I don’t know!"

The Empress pressed on, her eyes wild. She had been so close—so close to everything she had wanted. Now it was slipping away, the empire’s splendor replaced by the cold taste of fear in her mouth.

She rounded a corner and nearly ran into a group of soldiers—Zhao Yan’s men, their armor dark and bloodied. Their eyes found her at once, narrowing.

She turned on her heel, running the other way, but she was too slow—one of them grabbed her arm, yanking her back hard enough to make her cry out. She fought, nails scratching at his wrist, but he only snarled and pushed her to the ground.

"Enough!" he barked, his sword at her throat.

The empress saw this and shivered. This was the very first time someone had treated her this way.

Instead of begging for mercy, her ego inflated,

"Do you know who I am?"