The distant, frantic scream that echoed through the Min Imperial Palace in the previous chapter was, in truth, the first tremor of a cataclysm unfolding hundreds of li away, within the venerable walls of the Shen Imperial Palace. For Shen Zhiyu, then eight years old, that fateful night began with a strange, unsettling stillness. The usual bustling sounds of the palace, the murmur of servants, the distant laughter of court ladies, had faded into an unnatural quiet. It was the kind of quiet that spoke of held breaths and impending doom, a silence so profound it vibrated with unspoken dread.
Zhiyu, a precocious and observant child, felt it first in the sudden disappearance of his usual retinue of eunuchs and maids. Then came the hushed whispers, the frantic, wide-eyed glances exchanged between the few servants who remained. He was in his studies, poring over ancient texts on governance and diplomacy, duties he had been raised to embrace as the Crown Prince of Shen, an Omega heir destined to rule with wisdom and grace. His father, Emperor Shen Wenzhao, had always instilled in him a profound sense of responsibility, a belief that a true ruler, regardless of their secondary gender, served their people with their mind and spirit.
The first clear sign of disaster was the distant clang of steel, sharp and incongruous, followed by a guttural roar that sliced through the palace's eerie silence. It was the sound of battle, raw and brutal, echoing from the palace gates. Zhiyu's heart hammered against his ribs. He sprang from his seat, rushing to the antechamber where his personal guard, a grizzled veteran named Old Hu, usually stood vigil. But Old Hu was gone. The antechamber was empty, abandoned.
Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at Zhiyu. He could hear shouts now, closer, more distinct – not the disciplined cries of imperial guards, but the chaotic roars of intruders, mixed with the terrified screams of women. Betrayal. The word, a concept he had only known from history scrolls, slammed into him with the force of a physical blow. He remembered his father's cautious words from weeks ago, a fleeting worry about the growing ambition of his younger brother, Shen Weisheng, who felt his own claim to the throne was stronger. Weisheng, always resentful, always scheming, dismissed by Emperor Wenzhao as a mere annoyance. It seemed the annoyance had festered into a deadly poison.
A small, shaking hand grabbed his arm. It was Mei-Li, his favorite handmaid, her face chalk-white, her eyes wide with terror. "Your Highness! You must hide! His Majesty... His Majesty is under attack!" Her voice was a terrified whisper.
Before Zhiyu could fully comprehend, the doors to his private chambers were violently flung open. Not by his father's guards, but by rough-looking soldiers, their armor unfamiliar, bearing the insignia of the Shen clan, yes, but not the imperial crest. These were Weisheng's men. At their head stood a sneering, thick-necked man, a captain in Weisheng's newly emboldened ranks. "There he is! The little Omega prince! Bring him!"
Mei-Li, with a gasp, pushed Zhiyu behind her, a futile gesture of defiance. "Run, Your Highness!" she cried, sacrificing herself. But Zhiyu, despite his tender age, was a prince, and he had been trained. He knew retreat was paramount for survival. He bolted through a hidden side door, a secret passage his father had shown him, leading into the labyrinthine gardens. He heard Mei-Li's scream, cut short. He dared not look back.
He ran, his silk robes catching on rose bushes, thorns tearing at the delicate fabric and scratching his skin. The sounds of the coup intensified – the clash of swords, the guttural shouts of men, the desperate cries of his loyal palace guards being overwhelmed. He heard the unmistakable, booming voice of his uncle, Shen Weisheng, somewhere close, shouting orders, his voice thick with triumph. And then, a sound that froze Zhiyu in his tracks: a piercing shriek that could only belong to his mother, Empress Ji Lianhua, followed by a sickening thud. It was a sound that would haunt his nightmares for years to come. He bit back a cry, tears streaming down his face as he stumbled through the moonlit garden, his heart a cold, aching void. His parents. Gone.
He ran until his lungs burned, until his legs ached, until the sounds of battle began to recede, replaced by the crackling of distant fires. He found himself at the edge of the royal hunting grounds, a place he knew well. He was contemplating seeking refuge in a remote ranger's hut when he heard them – the heavy tread of soldiers, their voices growing louder. He scrambled to hide behind a thicket of overgrown bushes, pulling his knees to his chest, trembling uncontrollably.
"The Emperor and Empress are dead," a gruff voice announced. "Weisheng is on the throne. Now, to find the little Omega. Haoran wants him for his concubine."
Zhiyu stiffened. Shen Haoran, his cousin, a man 8 years his senior, always with a condescending smirk. Haoran, who used to intentionally trip Zhiyu during games, who would subtly mock his scholarly pursuits, who always seemed to relish putting Zhiyu in his place, despite Zhiyu being the Crown Prince. A shiver of revulsion, colder than the night air, crawled up Zhiyu's spine. His cousin's concubine? The humiliation. The sheer, utter degradation. He, a prince, raised to rule, to be reduced to a plaything. Never.
But his defiance was met with harsh reality. The soldiers, systematic in their search, soon found his trembling form. He fought, a desperate, childish flailing, but it was useless. He was small, frail, and outnumbered. They dragged him back, his face pressed into the dirt, the rough fabric of their uniforms scratching against his skin.
He was thrown into a dark, dank cell deep beneath the palace. Two days. Two days without food, without water. His throat was raw, his stomach a hollow ache. His body protested, but his spirit, forged in the fires of royal pride, refused to break. They wanted him to surrender, to accept his fate. He wouldn't. He was an Omega, yes, and Omegas were prized for their gentle nature and fertility, often married off for political alliances. But he was also a prince, trained in statecraft, in diplomacy, in the art of war from a strategic standpoint. He would not yield.
On the third day, the heavy wooden door creaked open, admitting a sliver of light and the noxious smell of stale air and fear. Xie Wanqing, his aunt, his mother's sister, stood there, her face a mask of false sympathy. Her eyes, however, gleamed with an avarice that chilled Zhiyu to the bone. She was Weisheng's wife, and now, no doubt, the new Empress.
"My dear Zhiyu," she purred, her voice dripping with saccharine concern. "Such a foolish boy. Why resist? It's just a marriage in name. You will be safe, and your lineage preserved. Haoran is your cousin, after all. He will be kind."
"Kind?" Zhiyu croaked, his voice hoarse from disuse. "He wants to make me a concubine! I am the Crown Prince! I am Shen's heir!"
Xie Wanqing merely laughed, a brittle, unpleasant sound. "Crown Prince? There is no Shen Crown Prince anymore, only a defeated omega. Your father was a fool, clinging to outdated notions. Now, you will serve the new order. Your position, my dear, will be to bear strong Alpha sons for Haoran. That is an Omega's true purpose, isn't it?"
Her words, spoken with such casual cruelty, twisted the knife in Zhiyu's heart. He remembered his father's gentle guidance, his mother's fierce love. They had taught him that an Omega could be a ruler, a scholar, a beacon of wisdom. But in their eyes, he was just a vessel. He saw the way she looked at him, the way Haoran's men had looked at him – not as a person, but as property, a means to an end. An omega, yes, but also a prince. He knew the difference in those gazes. He remembered how his cousin used to deliberately place his training sword just a fraction of an inch lower than it was supposed to be during practice, always implying Zhiyu was weaker, less capable. Now, there was no one to protect him. He couldn't protect himself. He would be easily outnumbered.
Later that evening, they returned, pulling him roughly from the cell. He stumbled, his legs weak from hunger and thirst. They forced him to wash, then to wear a red wedding robe, several sizes too large, hanging loosely on his emaciated frame. A concubine couldn't have a real wedding, they sneered. No elaborate rituals, no grand procession. Just a discarded prince, dressed for his humiliation. The silk felt like a shroud, suffocating him. He was shoved into a chamber, dimly lit by a single, flickering lamp. It was sparsely furnished, a bed draped with red hangings, but otherwise bare. No celebration, no guests. Just a lonely room, waiting for his defiler.
The air grew heavy with anticipation. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle outside the door, sent a jolt of terror through him. He pressed himself against the furthest wall, his heart hammering. He had made up his mind. He would not submit. If this was his end, he would face it with whatever shred of dignity remained.
The door creaked open slowly, agonizingly, revealing the hulking silhouette of Shen Haoran. He stepped inside, his eyes gleaming with a sickening triumph, a disgusting smugness twisting his features. He savored the moment, his gaze taking over Zhiyu's trembling form, taking in the ill-fitting robes, the fear in Zhiyu's eyes. He began to walk, slowly, deliberately, closing the door behind him with a soft click that resonated like the final nail in a coffin. Each step was a hammer blow against Zhiyu's eardrums, drawing closer, closer.
Zhiyu's vision blurred with tears, but his resolve hardened. His hands, searching blindly, found something – a small, sturdy wooden stool, an overlooked piece of furniture in the sparsely decorated room. With the last bit of his strength, a desperate surge born of sheer terror and defiance, he gripped it.
Just as Haoran's hand reached out, a predatory smile twisting his lips, Zhiyu, with a guttural cry, brought the stool crashing down, aiming for his cousin's head.