Chapter 45 - The Emperor’s Final Breath
The square of the Heavenly Realm was a kaleidoscope of celestial light and mortal yearning. Thousands of lanterns drifted upward, their soft glows reflecting in the ripples of the Dragon Lord Pool like fallen stars. Leng Jing stood at the water’s edge, his expression unreadable as he watched the silk ribbons—each inscribed with a desperate prayer—sink slowly into the depths. It was a strange sensation, standing amidst a crowd that deified his name while remaining utterly oblivious to his presence.
Beside him, Leng Qingqing was far more occupied with the sensory delights of the festival. He held a skewer of spirit-fruit glazed in honey, his eyes wide with the simple joy of the spectacle. To him, the "Dragon Lord" was not a legend or a pillar of the Three Realms; he was simply the young man who shared his meals and occasionally indulged his whims.
"Look, Jing-er! They’ve even made little clay figurines of you," Leng Qingqing chirped, pointing toward a stall. "Though, they made your nose a bit too straight. And the dragon form looks more like a very angry carp."
Leng Jing offered a thin, sardonic smile. "The world prefers a hero of stone and ink over one of flesh and blood. A statue doesn't demand payment, and a legend doesn't talk back."
Their quiet observation was shattered by a commotion near the palace gates. A procession of celestial guards cleared a path, their golden armor clattering with an urgency that dampened the festive mood. At the center was the Crown Prince, his face pale and his robes disheveled. He looked less like a future sovereign and more like a lost child.
"The Dragon Lord!" the Prince cried out to the crowd, his voice cracking with desperation. "Is there anyone here who knows the path to the Ends of the Sea? My father... the Emperor... he calls for the Dragon Lord!"
The revelers fell silent, exchanging uncertain glances. To them, the Dragon Lord was a mythic figure who had vanished five millennia ago. Seeking him was like asking for the moon to descend and offer counsel.
Leng Jing watched the Prince’s frantic search with a cold, analytical gaze. He felt a tug on his sleeve. Leng Qingqing was looking at him, the honeyed fruit forgotten. "He looks very sad, Jing-er. And the old Emperor... he was kind to us once, wasn't he? In that way old people are before they forget who they're talking to."
Leng Jing sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of ages. "He is a man who has outlived his era. There is no dignity in lingering when the soul has already departed."
Despite his words, Leng Jing stepped forward. The crowd parted instinctively, not because they recognized him, but because of the sudden, suffocating pressure of his aura. It was as if the very air had turned to liquid gold. The Crown Prince froze, his eyes locking onto the youth in the simple white robes.
"You," the Prince whispered, trembling. "Your eyes... they are exactly as the chronicles described."
"Lead the way," Leng Jing said, his voice a calm command that brooked no argument. "The Emperor does not have much time, and I dislike being kept waiting by the dying."
The journey to the inner sanctum of the palace was a blur of gilded hallways and hushed whispers. Inside the imperial bedchamber, the air was thick with the scent of medicinal herbs and the stagnant musk of impending death. The Heavenly Emperor lay amidst a mountain of silk pillows, his skin like yellowed parchment stretched over bone.
As Leng Jing approached the bed, the Emperor’s clouded eyes suddenly cleared. A spark of recognition, ancient and profound, flickered in those depths. He reached out a withered hand, his fingers trembling in the air.
"You... you came," the Emperor wheezed, a ghostly smile touching his lips. "I feared... the world had finally bored you into permanent slumber."
Leng Jing took the old man’s hand. His touch was not that of a healer, but of a witness. "The world is never boring, old friend. It is merely repetitive. You have held the heavens together for five thousand years. It is a long time to go without sleep."
"The boy..." the Emperor gestured weakly toward the Crown Prince, who was kneeling at the foot of the bed, weeping silently. "He is... soft. The Three Realms are shifting. The Rift... the shadows... he cannot face them alone."
"I am not a nursemaid," Leng Jing replied coldly.
"No," the Emperor coughed, a spray of golden blood flecking his chin. "You are the storm. Teach him... how to survive the rain."
With a final, shuddering breath, the light in the Emperor’s eyes extinguished. The celestial resonance that had sustained the palace for millennia shivered and broke. A profound silence fell over the room, followed by the tolling of the great funeral bells that signaled the end of an era.
The Crown Prince collapsed in grief, his forehead pressed against the cold floor. Leng Jing stood over him, his shadow long and imposing in the candlelight.
"Stand up," Leng Jing commanded.
The Prince looked up, his face tear-stained. "He is gone. I am... I am nothing compared to him."
"You are the Emperor now," Leng Jing said, his eyes narrowing. "And if you wish to remain so, you will need more than tears. I will stay, and I will teach you. But understand this: my time is the most expensive commodity in the Nine Heavens and Ten Earths. You will pay for every lesson in gold, in spirit stones, and in absolute obedience."
The Prince stared at him, stunned by the bluntness of the demand amidst the sanctity of death. But seeing the iron resolve in Leng Jing’s gaze, he bowed his head once more. "I accept. Whatever the cost."
Leng Jing turned to Leng Qingqing, who was awkwardly trying to hide his half-eaten snack behind his back. "Pack the bags, Qingqing. It seems we’ve moved from the festival to the classroom. And make sure the Prince knows—I charge double for weekend sessions."
