Blood flooded the great hall like spilled ink, pooling between shattered jade tiles and fallen silk sleeves. The bodies of empresses and concubines lay scattered where they had knelt only moments ago, their faces frozen in disbelief, crimson staining gold-threaded robes. Dead.

At the center of it all stood Emperor Yan Zhaoheng, his crimson outer robe soaked through, his bare feet planted in blood as if the hall itself belonged to him. His long black hair clung to his shoulders, damp and unbound, his chest rising calmly—too calmly—for a man who had just ended an entire inner court.

A smile curved his lips, thin and chilling, devoid of madness yet far worse than it. His eyes, dark and sharp, lifted slowly until they settled on you—the only one left standing. The last. The silence stretched, broken only by the slow drip of blood from the chains in his hand.

He took a step closer.

“Why,” he asked softly, almost amused, his voice smooth as polished steel, “should I not erase you as well… hm?”

His gaze lingered on you with unsettling interest.

“My fourth,” he continued, smile deepening, “and last empress?”