Zhou Wangshu only nodded in response as Wu Yingyue strode away.

After bidding farewell to Wu Yiming as well, Zhou Wangshu left for the General's residence.

For the next three weeks, he had no contact with Wu Yingyue, only occasionally visited by Wu Yiming.

"Sigh"

"Why are you sighing like that, Your Highness?"

Wu Yiming leaned back, his fingers idly tapping the armrest. "You know, ever since I returned, my brother has been avoiding me."

Zhou Wangshu glanced at Wu Yiming, studying his expression. The crown prince rarely voiced complaints, much less about his own brother.

"I'm sure he's busy,"

Wu Yiming let out a short laugh, though it lacked humor. "Busy avoiding me, perhaps."

Zhou Wangshu said nothing. He wasn't sure if he was meant to respond.

Wu Yiming exhaled softly, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. "He wasn't always like this, you know. When we were younger, he used to follow me everywhere—like a shadow that refused to be left behind." His voice carried an odd lightness, but Zhou Wangshu caught the weight beneath it.

"Then one day, he just... stopped."

Zhou Wangshu hesitated before speaking. "Maybe there are things he can't say to you."

Wu Yiming's fingers brushed against the rim of his cup, though he made no move to drink. His voice softened, carrying a quiet frustration.

"I get what you mean, Wang Ge, but still... after I became crown prince, it's as if everything changed between him and me."

Zhou Wangshu remained silent, waiting for Wu YiMing to complete his words.

"It's not just the titles or the responsibilities,"

"It's like—suddenly, we were standing on opposite sides of something I don't quite understand."

He let out a quiet chuckle, "I suppose I should have expected it. Power divides more than it unite."

"If you truly believe that, then why does it still bother you?" he asked.

Wu Yiming sighed. "Because he's my brother."

Zhou Wangshu exhaled quietly, studying Wu Yiming's expression. The crown prince, always composed in court and fearless in battle, now wore a look that was almost... lost.

"You are just seventeen this year, You should worry less about these matters."

"Seventeen or not, does it make a difference? The moment I became crown prince, I lost the right to think like a child."

He paused and continued,

"Hey, Wang Ge... if someday you had to choose between me and my brother, who would you choose?"

Zhou Wangshu didn't hesitate. "Of course, you, Your Highness. You are the destined heir our family chose to support."

Wu Yiming was quiet for a moment before a faint smile tugged at his lips. "I'm glad to hear that."

Time passed after that. Zhou Wangshu, who had been away from the capital for a time, began integrating with nobles and officials upon his return.

With only the eldest prince and the crown prince remaining in the line of succession—and the eldest prince having long given up the throne, choosing instead to act as a lazy, indifferent royal—no one openly challenged Wu Yiming's authority.

But soon, this illusion of peace shattered.

It was the day he had left the Zhou estate to venture to the borders of the capital, intending to oversee the army's training. Night had already fallen by the time the drills ended, and rather than making the long journey back, he chose to rest in the military quarters.

He had just begun to settle when the hurried footsteps of a messenger echoed through the quiet halls. The doors burst open, and a soldier dropped to one knee, his breath ragged from the ride.

"Your Grace!" the man panted. "Urgent news—a fire has broken out in Madam Zhou's courtyard!"

He rushed on his horse in the middle of autumn not caring of changing his night dress.

The moment his eyes landed on the raging flames swallowing his grandmother's courtyard, his breath turned shallow.

He ran barefoot across stone and soil.

"Grandmother—!"

Before he could reach the burning halls, which had already turned to skeleton of wood, rough hands seized him, eight or nine soldiers blocking his path. He struggled, kicked, fought with all the strength he had.

"LET ME GO!" His voice cracked, raw with panic. He struggled, kicked, fought with everything he had. "MOVE! I SAID MOVE!"

A voice, strained and filled with grief, spoke beside him.

"My lord... Madam has already passed away. Her room—collapsed. We... We were too late. Please don't go inside!"

At that time, something inside him broke.

Despair, Agony.

He lost the only family who had ever truly loved him.

Before he had the chance to repay a single ounce of filial piety—

Zhou Wangshu became a sinner.

He couldn't repay to anyone not his mother, not his father, not even his beloved grandma.

The courtyard that once smelled of medicinal herbs and the faint fragrance of tea now reeked of ash and death. His grandmother's voice, always so steady, so patient, would never call his name again.

He was too late.

Too late to save her.

That night, Zhou Wangshu stood beneath the burning sky, powerless.

That night, he lost the only warmth he had left in this world.

And in its place, only cold, unforgiving guilt remained.

At that moment, a shadow flickered at the edge of his vision—just beyond the burning courtyard, slipping into the darkness.

Someone was there. Watching.

Zhou Wangshu's blood ran cold.

Without thinking, he tore free from the hands restraining him, snatching a sword from a guard. His feet barely touched the ground as he bolted after the figure.

The shadow moved fast—too fast.

Zhou Wangshu lunged.

Clang!

Steel met steel. Sparks flared. The force rattled through his bones.

The figure twisted, slipping through his strike like water.

Zhou Wangshu gritted his teeth. Not an ordinary assassin.

He struck again.

A step, a slash, a thrust—each attack faster, fiercer.

The figure parried. Matched him. Moved with him.

Damn it.

Zhou Wangshu's fury spiked. He turned left, then spun—his blade a blur—

The figure swayed back. Dodged by inches.

And in that moment—

As if something clicked.

Zhou Wangshu's breath caught in his throat.

That stance. Those movements. The way the figure fought,

A shiver crawled down his spine. His chest tightened.

He had seen this before.

His stomach turned to ice.

No. No. It couldn't be.

His grip on his sword tightened, his breath turning ragged.

His gaze flickered downward.

And there, barely visible beneath the moonlight—

Blood.

The assassin was already injured.

Wu Yiming.

His pulse pounded in his ears.

Zhou Wangshu moved without thinking, his sword striking again—sharp, relentless.

The figure staggered.

Just for a breath, just for a second.

It was enough.

Zhou Wangshu surged forward, slamming his blade down. The assassin barely blocked, but the impact forced him back. His feet slid against the dirt. His balance wavered as he fell crashing on the ground.

"Take off your mask."

The assassin didn't move. Didn't speak.

Zhou Wangshu's grip tightened around his sword. His breath was ragged, heart pounding against his ribs.

"Take it off!" His voice came sharp.

A long silence stretched between them.

Then, the assassin's fingers moved and,

Before he could react, dirt was thrown into his eyes. His vision blurred. He staggered back, sword raising instinctively.

By the time he blinked the dust away, the shadow had vanished into the night

Just then, his eyes caught something in the dim firelight.

A flash of green.

Slowly, his fingers picked up the small jade pendant lying in the dirt.

The edges were smooth, worn from years of touch. The faint carvings still visible beneath the layer of dust.

Zhou Wangshu's chest tightened.

He had given this to Wu Yiming when they were children.

Wu Yiming had never taken it off.