The throne room did not settle after Lián Xù left.
If anything, it erupted.
Voices clashed beneath the gilded pillars, robes swirled, sleeves snapped against marble pillars. Ministers argued over one another, outrage stacking atop outrage until the air itself felt heavy with frustration and disbelief.
At the heart of it all, stood just below the Dragon Throne, Lián Wèi remained silent.
He watched.
He listened.
He let them burn themselves out.
Only when the noise crested—when the arguments began to loop back on themselves—did he raise a single palm.
The gesture was small.
The effect was immediate.
One by one, voices fell. Sleeves lowered. Breaths steadied. The court returned to uneasy order, all eyes turning toward the Regent.
Lián Wèi spoke, he raised his head slowly.
"Ministers," he said evenly, his voice neither loud nor soft, yet carrying to every corner of the hall. "His Majesty is still young."
A few officials frowned. Others stiffened.
"I implore you," Lián Wèi continued, gaze sweeping across familiar faces, "grant him time to adapt."
Murmurs stirred, but he pressed on.
"For now, I propose we reschedule morning court to the afternoon," he said calmly. "It will better accommodate His Majesty's… condition."
That did it.
The Minister of Rites stepped forward, face flushed, hands clenched within his sleeves.
"Regent," he said sharply, bowing only out of formality, "you must not indulge His Majesty!"
A ripple of agreement followed.
"If this continues," the minister went on, voice tight with restrained anger, "this—this irresponsible conduct—will bring the kingdom to the brink of collapse!"
Lián Wèi did not bristle.
Instead, he inclined his head slightly.
"I understand the court's concern," he replied. "Truly."
His gaze hardened just a fraction.
"But you all know the truth."
The hall quieted.
"His Majesty was born weak," Lián Wèi said plainly. "Frail. Without cultivation."
A few ministers shifted uncomfortably.
"The late emperor," he continued, "never intended for His Majesty to rule directly. Nor did anyone expect the Dragon Throne to choose a mortal as emperor."
That final sentence fell like a stone into water.
Whispers broke out immediately.
"A mortal…?"
"Never in history—"
"The Dragon Throne has never—"
It was true.
Throughout Azure River's long history, there had never been a mortal emperor. Never a ruler without cultivation. The Dragon Throne had always chosen strength.
Until now.
No one had anticipated that the weakest emperor would possess the thickest bloodline.
Lián Wèi allowed the whispers to run their course before lifting his hand again.
"Enough."
Silence returned.
"For the time being," he announced, "all memorials will be submitted to me. I will oversee court affairs and personally guide His Majesty in reviewing them."
It was a concession.
A compromise.
One the court did not like—but could not refuse.
With no further room to argue, the ministers bowed stiffly and filed out, their dissatisfaction heavy in every step.
When the great doors finally closed, the throne room felt cavernous and hollow.
Lián Wèi exhaled.
He glanced toward the empty Dragon Throne, its golden surface catching the light, majestic and unforgiving.
"Xu'er," he murmured quietly, more uncle than regent in that moment, "this is the least I can do for you."
His sigh echoed softly through the hall.
Outside, the court simmered.
Inside the palace, plans shifted.
And somewhere beyond their sight, the so-called useless emperor was already laying the first stones of a path no one believed he could walk.
********************
Lián Xù stood before the full-length mirror in his private chamber, the morning light spilling through the latticed windows and casting soft patterns across the floor.
He was bare-chested, the pale skin of his torso stretched over a frame too thin, too fragile. No trace of muscle. No hint of strength. The kind of body that seemed designed to break with the slightest pressure.
"Shit," he muttered, voice low, more to himself than anyone. "This is disappointing."
He flexed his fingers, then his arms, then the tiniest curl of his bicep. Nothing. Weak. Frail. Utterly useless.
"The only good trait I have right now," he continued, a faint bitter laugh escaping him, "is that I'm… good looking. What do you think, System?"
[Nothing good comes with beauty.]
The cold, emotionless reply made him frown.
He exhaled sharply, shoulders slumping. The mirror reflected more than his pale, slender body—it reflected a vessel unprepared for what lay ahead.
Birth had left him a "leaky vessel," the system had said before, clogged with impurities from food, air, and worldly indulgences.
A vessel incapable of containing Qi.
He ran a hand over his chest, over his ribs that pressed sharply beneath the skin. He knew the truth: to cultivate, to rise even a fraction above his mortal frailty, he first had to temper the vessel itself. A body unready could never hold the power of the heavens.
Lián Xù moved to his desk and opened the Azure Imperial Breathing Techniques—Beginners' Manual. The pages smelled faintly of ink and old paper, steeped in the history of countless cultivators.
He skimmed through the first chapter, muttering the words as he read. "Right… body tempering. Before one can even hope to cultivate Qi, the body must first endure…" He paused, eyes narrowing. "…three processes."
He read aloud for clarity, as if speaking it would make it simpler:
"First… External Tempering."
Lián Xù's eyes moved steadily across the page, his lips shaping the words as he read aloud, as if testing their weight.
"Methods…" He inhaled. "Brute-force training. Foundational martial stances. Impact conditioning—sparring meant to harden the skin, thicken muscle, temper bone."
He paused, gaze lifting from the manual as the implications settled in.
"And… environmental hardships." His brow creased. "Training beneath waterfalls. Enduring extreme heat. Freezing cold. Cliff faces. Heights."
Silence followed.
Lián Xù slowly lowered the manual.
"Build resilience," he murmured, almost to himself. "Balance. Endurance. Strength."
The words felt less like instruction—and more like a warning.
He glanced down at his own slender frame, pale and untested, and let out a quiet breath.
"…They really don't expect anyone to survive this, do they?"
His thin shoulders tensed involuntarily. The thought alone made him shiver. Brutal, relentless. And this was only the beginning.
"Second," he continued, "Medicinal Assistance. Herbal baths. Rare herbs infused in water after a day of punishment… repair micro-tears in muscles, purge impurities, infuse the body with spiritual energy. Or medicinal liquors and pills… strengthen bones, cleanse blood, nourish from within…"
He paused, swallowing hard. "Sounds… painful. And expensive."
"The third," he muttered, eyes tracing a faint line on the page, "Internal Tempering. Breathing techniques… visualization… guiding spiritual energy into the body…"
He frowned. "Hey… that's odd. I tried the breathing techniques earlier… nothing happens."
[Your body constitution is too weak to use the breathing techniques.]
Lián Xù's lips pressed into a thin line.
[Also, to smoothly proceed, one needs a Spiritual Root.]
He raised an eyebrow, irritation and disbelief mingling. "I know about this. So… if I want to cultivate through Internal Tempering, I need a Spiritual Root?"
[Correct. A Spiritual Root allows a cultivator to sense, attract, and absorb the spiritual energy of Heaven and Earth. It transforms raw energy into Qi.]
"Is there… any chance I could have one?"
[Spiritual Root is innate. ]
Lián Xù blinked slowly. He rubbed his chin, pensive, jaw tight. "What are you implying?"
[In short… you lack talent.]
Lián Xù stumbled back, collapsing onto the floor in disbelief. The words struck harder than any blade. He exhaled through his nose and rose to his feet, slow and deliberate.
"Thanks for the cold truth, System."
[Glad that transparency helps]
Gods! Why do I even bother…
The jade tiles were cool beneath his bare soles as Lián Xù began pacing before the mirror, his reflection following him with every step.
"None of this…" he murmured, voice low, nearly swallowed by the stillness of the chamber. "…is easy, is it?"
The words weren't a complaint.
They were an acknowledgment.
His gaze lingered on his own eyes in the mirror—tired, sharp, and quietly burning. Beneath the frailty of his body, beneath the useless emperor's mask, something stubborn refused to bend.
A spark.
Small, perhaps—but unyielding.
Weak as he was, he refused to surrender.
"Hey… System," Lián Xù muttered. His eyes gleamed with a mixture of hope and determination. "Can I… buy a Spiritual Root from the system store?"
A brief pause stretched, long enough to make his pulse thrum in anticipation. Then, in its usual cold, emotionless tone, the system replied:
[You can.]
Lián Xù froze for a heartbeat, then a grin spread across his face—slow, deliberate, sharp with mischief and excitement.
"Excellent," he said, voice low, almost reverent. "Open the store. I'm going to get my hands on the best Spiritual Root this realm has ever seen."