MY PRINCE HUSBAND HAS SEVEN WIVES AND I AM HIS FAVOURITE!
Chapter 222: I have heard the stories

Chapter 222: I have heard the stories

The corridor was slick with blood, the air thick with the sharp, metallic tang of it. But they didn’t stop.

Zhao Yan could feel the pull of the Jade House, the weight of it in the stone beneath his feet. The empire’s heart—it was so close he could almost taste it.

A guard lunged at Deng Mi, blade flashing. Deng Mi caught it on one of his blades, twisted, and cut the man down in a single, fluid motion.

Wei Ling slammed his fist into the face of another, the crack of bone loud in the narrow space. The man fell, and Wei Ling didn’t even pause—he brought his saber down, ending him in one brutal stroke.

The loyal guards behind them moved like shadows, blades flashing, shields raised. They fought with the quiet determination of men who had chosen their path and would see it through, no matter the cost.

Step by step, they carved their way through the darkness.

Zhao Yan’s breath came faster now, but he didn’t slow. He could feel the empire’s fate balanced on the edge of his blade.

The last of the guards tried to block the final archway leading to the Jade House. He was a giant of a man, his armor black as midnight, his eyes hidden behind a lacquered mask. He raised a massive blade, the edge catching the light of the flickering lamps.

Zhao Yan didn’t hesitate.

He lunged forward, his sword meeting the guard’s in a clash that echoed through the corridor. The force of it jarred his arms, but he pressed on, driving the man back step by step.

The guard swung again, the blade a blur. Zhao Yan ducked low, the strike whistling over his head, and then he rose, driving his blade up under the guard’s ribs.

The man let out a choked gasp, the massive blade falling from his hands with a hollow clang. Zhao Yan twisted the sword free, the man crumpling to the ground at his feet.

For a heartbeat, there was only the sound of their breathing—ragged, hard, but alive.

Zhao Yan looked at the great doors of the Jade House, their surface carved with ancient dragons, the stone cold and unyielding.

Deng Mi and Wei Ling stepped up beside him, bloodied but unbowed. The loyal guards stood at their backs, blades ready, eyes steady.

The last of Pei Rong’s men lay dead at their feet.

Zhao Yan raised his head, his eyes bright in the flickering light.

"The Jade House," he said softly.

And with that, they stepped forward, ready to claim the soul of the empire.

The doors of the Jade House swung open with a soft, echoing groan, and Zhao Yan stepped inside.

Immediately, the world seemed to shift.

The air was colder here—thicker, as if time itself had slowed to a crawl. The flickering lamplight behind them cast long, uncertain shadows across the polished jade that made up the walls, the ceiling, even the floor. Every inch of this place was carved from the same luminous green stone, veins of deeper color running through it like the blood of the earth.

Zhao Yan took a deep breath, the scent of the place sharp and ancient. It smelled of earth, of rain-soaked rock and the faint, sweet tang of incense that must have been burned here centuries ago.

It was as if the very stones themselves were watching him.

He had been here once before—a lifetime ago. He had been a boy, no more than ten, brought by the Emperor himself to this hidden sanctum deep beneath the palace. He remembered how his small hands had trembled as he reached for the jade token, the Emperor’s gentle hand on his shoulder, his voice low and grave.

"This is where rulers are chosen," the Emperor had told him. "The Jade Token holds the empire’s soul. If it accepts you, then the throne is yours to claim. But if it does not... then your fate is already sealed."

That memory had faded with time, buried under years of duty and blood and the cold steel of his sword. But here, standing once again in this timeless place, it returned to him with the force of a thunderclap.

He stepped further inside, the soft scuff of his boots against the jade floor the only sound. Deng Mi and Wei Ling followed close behind, their eyes wary as they took in the room.

The chamber was circular, the ceiling a dome that seemed impossibly high, every inch of it carved with dragons that coiled and twisted in eternal flight. Their scales shimmered in the faint light, their eyes glinting like living things.

Columns of jade ringed the room, each one carved with scenes of emperors past—men whose names had been sung in ballads and cursed in hushed whispers. Their faces were worn smooth by centuries, but their presence was unmistakable, a silent testament to the weight of the empire’s legacy.

At the very center of the chamber, on a low pedestal of purest white jade, sat the Jade Token.

It was smaller than he remembered—no bigger than the palm of his hand, a simple disc of deep green stone carved with a single character: 帝 —Emperor.

But there was nothing simple about it. The air around it seemed to hum with a low, resonant power, like the murmur of a thousand voices in the darkness. Zhao Yan could feel it against his skin, a prickling heat that raised the hairs on his arms.

The Jade Token was alive in a way that defied reason. It was said to be the soul of the empire itself—carved from the heart of the first jade mine discovered when the empire was young, blessed by the high priests and sealed with the blood of the first Emperor.

He moved closer, drawn to it by something deeper than duty, older than fear.

The light of the torches danced across its surface, revealing tiny imperfections in the stone that seemed to shift and flow as he looked at them. As if the token itself was watching him back.

Deng Mi let out a low breath beside him. "So this is the Jade Token," he said, his voice hushed. "I’ve heard the stories... but seeing it—"