Chapter 700 --700

Chapter 700: Chapter-700

The aristocratic faction beamed. They whispered to one another, practically vibrating with triumph. The Emperor’s favor was clear. Their power was absolute. The Empress was the undisputed master of the inner court, and by extension, they were the masters of the empire.

More gifts followed. There were ancient, illuminated scrolls of poetry recovered from lost dynasties. There were massive, glowing night-pearls the size of melons. There were bolts of silk woven from the threads of mythical snow-spiders, so fine they could be pulled through a gold ring.

Every gift was a carefully calculated bribe. Every bow was a demonstration of the Empress’s sprawling, cancerous root system within the government.

Heena watched it all with a detached, clinical fascination. The sheer scale of the corruption was breathtaking. She took another slow sip of her sweet wine, her eyes drifting upward to the imperial dais.

The Emperor was currently accepting a toast from the Minister of the Left. As the Emperor raised his heavy, white jade cup, his gaze casually swept across the sprawling pavilion. For a fraction of a second, amidst the laughter, the music, and the blinding glow of a thousand lanterns, the Emperor’s eyes met Heena’s.

The mask of the benevolent, doting husband fractured just for her.

In the Emperor’s dark eyes, Heena saw an abyss of apocalyptic, world-ending grief and homicidal fury. He was looking at the Assistant Prime Minister. He was looking at the Empress. He was looking at the entire court of parasites who had murdered his unborn child, poisoned his reign, and made a mockery of his life.

Heena gave a barely perceptible nod, tilting her gold cup slightly in his direction in a silent, chilling toast of solidarity.

The Emperor blinked, the flawless mask slamming back into place, and he turned back to his Empress with a loving smile.

The night wore on. The giant wax candles burned lower in their bronze sconces, casting long, dancing shadows across the painted ceiling. The air grew thick and heavy with the scent of spilled wine, roasted meats, and the heady, intoxicating perfume of blooming night-jasmine wafting in from the imperial gardens. The nobility grew louder, their strict aristocratic manners fraying at the edges as the fermented peach wine took its toll. Laughter echoed off the cedar pillars.

It was a portrait of a dynasty at the absolute peak of its arrogance. They were fat, happy, and entirely ignorant of the blade hovering inches from their necks.

Heena felt the Vitality Booster thrumming fiercely in her chest, a relentless, burning drumbeat counting down the minutes of her life. She didn’t care. She sat back against her silk cushions, her dark eyes reflecting the flickering lantern light, savoring the profound, beautiful tragedy of their ignorance. The party was magnificent. It was the perfect, golden stage for the end of the world.

The final notes of the zithers drifted into the smoke-filled air, swallowed by the boisterous laughter of the drunken court. The presentation of the aristocratic gifts had concluded in a tidal wave of sycophancy, leaving the center of the polished jade stage empty.

The head eunuch stepped to the edge of the imperial dais. He cleared his throat, his voice nervously cracking as he unfurled the last section of the golden registry scroll.

"The Vanguard Marquisate," the eunuch announced, the words echoing sharply through the cavernous pavilion.

The laughter died. The clinking of jade cups and silver chopsticks ceased instantly. The massive hall went so completely quiet that the crackle of the burning wax candles sounded like roaring bonfires. Hundreds of pairs of eyes shifted, pinning their collective gaze onto the isolated mahogany table where Heena sat.

They expected the dying Madam to politely decline from her seat, or perhaps offer a token chest of gold to fulfill her obligatory duty.

Instead, Heena stood up.

She stepped out from behind the table, the heavy, vibrant crimson silk of her skirt sweeping across the floorboards. She did not walk with the fragile, measured steps of a noblewoman, nor the sluggish shuffle of the terminally ill. Propelled by the burning, god-like fire of the Class-S Vitality Booster, she glided toward the center of the jade stage with the terrifying, silent grace of a leopard stalking through high grass. The slit of her skirt parted with every step, the stark contrast of her black top and pale skin making her look like a living, breathing weapon forged in the dark.

She stopped in the exact center of the stage, surrounded by the sea of corrupt ministers. She looked up at the golden throne, her dark eyes completely unreadable. ℯℯ𝑙.

"Madam Vanguard," the Empress smiled, her voice dripping with maternal warmth and practiced condescension. The pearl tassels of her Phoenix Crown swayed gently. "We are truly touched that you mustered the strength to join us tonight. The throne requires no material gift from the Vanguard house; your family’s past loyalty is treasure enough."

"Past loyalty," Heena repeated softly, the words rolling off her tongue like smooth glass. She tilted her head, her unnaturally vibrant eyes locking directly onto the Empress. "How perfectly phrased, Your Majesty. But the Vanguard Marquisate has never been one to arrive empty-handed to a celebration."

Heena reached into the subtle folds of her crimson skirt. The aristocrats held their breath, some of the military officials instinctively shifting their weight. But she did not draw the sword strapped to her thigh.

Instead, she pulled out a small, unadorned box of pitch-black ebony wood. It was entirely plain, lacking any gold inlay, silk ribbons, or imperial crests. It looked stark, heavy, and deeply out of place in the opulent pavilion.

She held it out on the flat of her palm.

A palace eunuch scurried down the steps of the dais, taking the black box from her hand with trembling fingers. He carried it up the marble steps and presented it to the Empress.

The Assistant Prime Minister, sitting at the forefront of the noble tables, narrowed his eyes. "A rather... bleak presentation, Madam Vanguard. One hopes the contents are more fitting for a birthday than the casket it arrives in."

Heena didn’t look at him. She kept her eyes pinned to the Empress. "Open it, Your Majesty."

The Empress maintained her serene, benevolent smile. She reached out with graceful, jade-ringed fingers and unlatched the small iron clasp. She lifted the lid of the ebony box.

The Empress’s smile froze.

The warm, maternal light vanished from her eyes, instantly replaced by a flash of profound, naked horror. Her perfectly manicured fingers jerked back as if the box contained a coiled viper.

Inside, resting on a bed of raw, unbleached hemp, was a single, pure white mourning hairpin made of cheap, unpolished bone. Beneath it was a folded piece of thick, coarse parchment.

In the Great Dynasty, presenting a white bone hairpin at a birthday celebration was not just an insult. It was a formal, undeniable declaration of death. It was the absolute, highest form of treason.

"How dare you!" the Assistant Prime Minister roared, violently overturning his mahogany table. Jade plates shattered across the floor, wine spilling like blood as he leaped to his feet. "Treason! The Vanguard Marquisate dares to curse the Mother of the Empire! Guards! Seize this lunatic!"