After saying this, Chen Mo fell unconscious. He felt himself sinking.
All around him was endless darkness, cold and clammy, like he was submerged in deep water. He wanted to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt as heavy as lead. He wanted to move, but his limbs wouldn't obey.
Only his mind was clear.
Clear enough to feel the agonizing pain in his chest—the bones there were broken, and might have pierced his lung. Every breath felt like a knife twisting into him. His left arm hurt too, bent at an unnatural angle. It must have been dislocated and broken.
Strangely, though, all that pain felt far away, as if separated from him by some kind of barrier.
What felt close was that voice.
"Chen Mo... Chen Mo, wake up..."
Ning Rongrong's voice.
Trembling and hoarse, choked with tears.
He tried to answer again, but his lips wouldn't move.
Then the darkness suddenly split apart.
A beam of light stabbed through, making his eyes ache. He instinctively shut them. When he opened them again—
He found himself standing in an unfamiliar place.
Mountains stretched endlessly all around him, shrouded in mist. A stone path covered in fallen leaves lay beneath his feet. In the distance, he could just make out the outlines of buildings, their soaring eaves and upturned corners like palaces from ancient times.
Where was he?
He looked down at himself—his injuries were gone. His chest no longer hurt, and he could move his left arm. His clothes had changed too. He was no longer wearing the casual shirt stained with blood, but a long, blue-green robe.
He froze for a moment, then suddenly heard someone calling from behind him:
"Your Highness."
Your Highness?
Chen Mo turned around and saw a young man in armor kneeling on one knee, his hands clasped in salute.
"His Majesty has summoned you to the palace. He has an important matter to discuss."
Chen Mo stared at the man. He didn't recognize him, but there was something vaguely familiar about his face.
"His Majesty?" he asked. "Which Majesty?"
The man looked up, a flicker of confusion in his eyes, then quickly lowered his head again. "Your Highness, you... What's the matter? His Majesty is your father."
His father?
Chen Mo's mind was in chaos. He thought of his own father—the man who had died when Chen Mo was seven. Quiet and taciturn, he had spent most of his life on the road. He had nothing in common with the words "His Majesty."
But just then, a stream of unfamiliar memories surged into his mind.
He was the crown prince of the Great Zhou Dynasty. Brilliant from childhood, he had joined the army at fifteen and won great military honors. At twenty, he had taken charge of the government, managing state affairs with impeccable order. His father was old and in poor health, and people at court were beginning to stir...
No.
These weren't his memories.
Chen Mo shook his head violently, trying to throw them off. But the memories grew clearer and clearer, as if they had always been part of his mind.
Suddenly, he remembered what Ning Rongrong had said—
"He'll show you the thing you fear most. The person you fear most, the thing you fear most, the ending you fear most."
An illusion.
This was an illusion.
He bit the tip of his tongue. The taste of blood spread through his mouth. It hurt.
But the mountains were still there, the messenger was still there, and the palace remained in the distance.
It didn't work.
He took a deep breath and said to the soldier, "Lead the way."
The soldier led him forward.
They crossed a long stone path and passed through one palace gate after another, finally stopping before a grand hall.
Its doors stood open. Within, he could vaguely see a figure seated high above on a dragon throne.
Chen Mo walked inside.
A middle-aged man sat on the dragon throne, dressed in a bright yellow imperial robe and wearing a crown with hanging beads. His face was imposing, but weariness and illness showed between his brows.
He watched Chen Mo enter, his expression complicated.
"Mo'er," he said, his voice hoarse. "You've come."
Chen Mo stood in the middle of the hall and looked at the man who claimed to be his "father." He said nothing.
The middle-aged man sighed and waved his hand. A nearby eunuch carried a tray down toward him. On it sat a cup of wine.
"His Majesty has bestowed this upon you," the eunuch said in a shrill voice.
Chen Mo looked at the cup and suddenly understood.
"You suspect me of rebellion?" he asked.
The middle-aged man's gaze flickered, then turned resolute.
"I don't suspect you," he said. "I know it."
Chen Mo was silent for a few seconds, then suddenly laughed.
"Even a tiger won't eat its cubs," he said. "You're worse than a beast."
The middle-aged man's face changed. He sprang to his feet and pointed at Chen Mo. "You—!"
But before he could finish, a commotion erupted outside the hall.
"Your Majesty! Your Majesty! Disaster! The crown prince's forces have surrounded the palace!"
The middle-aged man turned deathly pale and sank back onto the dragon throne.
Chen Mo froze.
He hadn't done it.
But the illusion didn't care.
The doors crashed open, and a group of armored soldiers rushed inside. At their head was a young general—the very man who had delivered the message to Chen Mo earlier.
He looked at Chen Mo and dropped to one knee. "Your Highness, I have fulfilled my duty. All the traitors in the palace have been captured. Please pass judgment."
Chen Mo looked at him, then at the middle-aged man sitting on the dragon throne, his face ashen, and finally at the cup of wine on the tray.
Was this asking him to kill his own father with his own hands?
Even if this "father" was false, even if everything here was an illusion—
He couldn't bring himself to do it.
Just then, a voice came from behind him:
"Chen Mo!"
It was Ning Rongrong's voice.
Chen Mo spun around and saw Ning Rongrong standing in the doorway.
But she wasn't alone. She held a baby in her arms, and beside her stood a woman whose face he couldn't make out. For some reason, the woman's figure seemed strangely familiar.
Ning Rongrong looked at him, her eyes filled with terror and pleading.
"Chen Mo, you can't kill him. If you do, we'll be finished."
Chen Mo froze.
Kill whom?
He followed her gaze. She was looking at the middle-aged man.
But what did that man have to do with him?
Just then, the woman with the indistinct face spoke, her voice as gentle as water:
"Mo'er, he's your father. You can't do this."
Chen Mo shuddered.
That voice—
He remembered.
It was his mother's voice.
The last voice he had heard from her, at the funeral home when he was seven.
He stared fixedly at the woman's face, trying to see what she looked like. But it remained blurry, as if hidden behind a veil of mist.
He took a step forward.
The woman stepped back.
He took another step.
She retreated again.
She always kept her distance. He could never make out her face.
Chen Mo stopped and looked at the blurry figure. Then, suddenly, he said:
"You're not her."
The figure paused.
"My mother," he said, "died when I was seven. As she was dying, she held my hand and said something."
He looked at the figure.
"She said, 'Mo'er, live well.'"
"You wouldn't say something like that. You're not her."
The figure suddenly laughed.
The laughter was shrill, nothing like his mother's voice.
Then the blurry face began to twist, transforming into someone he had never seen before—a wizened old man in gray-white robes, his face as withered as a corpse.
It was Shi Nian.
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