Chapter 568: Chapter-568
Heena walked slowly toward the center of the Great Hall, the heavy, champagne-colored silk of her robes trailing behind her like liquid gold. She stopped directly in the middle of the jade floor, the golden light of the chandeliers illuminating her sharp, striking features.
She did not signal the royal musicians to play. Instead, she looked around the silent, expectant room.
"This might be a dance," Heena’s voice rang out, clear and steady, "but it is also an untold story. One that I believe no one in this hall has ever heard."
She turned her back slightly on the civil officials and looked directly at the Vanguard tables. A profound, shared understanding passed between her and the scarred, hardened men of her family.
"But you might have," Heena said softly to the generals. "And because this is not a dance I can perform alone, I will, of course, need your support."
General Lin and General Zhao exchanged a look, their boisterous smiles fading into expressions of deep, solemn reverence. They nodded.
"Let us begin," Heena announced, her eyes flashing. "The Red Moon Hunt."
Heena raised her arms, the wide sleeves of her robes sliding down to reveal her pale wrists. The heavy gold bangles on her arms slid down with a sharp, melodic clink, setting the initial rhythm.
She began to dance.
At first, the movements were incredibly simple. To the highly cultured eyes of the civil court, who were used to gravity-defying ribbon dances and complex footwork, it looked completely ordinary. Perhaps even a bit inferior. It was graceful, certainly, but it lacked the blinding, theatrical flair of the courtesans and noble daughters.
The scholars exchanged disappointed, mocking glances. ’Is that all?’ they whispered to one another. ’Just basic steps?’
But then, a low, rhythmic sound began to echo from the Vanguard tables.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
General Lin had picked up his heavy wooden chopsticks and was tapping them against his ceramic wine bowl. General Zhao followed suit, striking his knuckles against the wooden table. Within seconds, every single Vanguard soldier in the hall joined in, using their bowls, glasses, and the hilts of their daggers to create a deep, pulsing, synchronized heartbeat that filled the Great Hall.
The moment the military beat dropped, Heena’s dance transformed.
It was no longer just movement; it was completely alive. She seamlessly transitioned into a pantomime of overwhelming joy and warmth. She smiled brightly, her footwork light and airy, moving as if she were completely intoxicated by happiness. She twirled, looking down at the empty air beside her as if someone were kneeling on the ground, proposing to her.
She reached out with infinite tenderness, taking an imaginary flower from the invisible figure, and carefully tucked it behind her ear.
The entire Great Hall fell completely silent. The mocking whispers died in the scholars’ throats. The illusion was so flawlessly executed, so terrifyingly real, that the audience felt as if they were hallucinating. They could literally see the ghost of a second person dancing right there beside her.
And then, the tragedy struck.
Heena violently stumbled. The small silk fan in her hand slipped from her grasp, fluttering uselessly to the ground.
She collapsed onto the cold jade floor, landing hard on both hands. Her head whipped toward the towering red doors of the Great Hall. She grabbed the fabric over her chest, her fingers digging painfully into her own collarbone as she let out a silent, agonizing scream. She reached one trembling hand out toward the doors, her fingers desperately grasping at the empty air, begging for someone who was already gone.
The rhythmic tapping from the generals instantly ceased.
The hall was plunged into a suffocating, absolute silence. The sheer, raw devastation radiating from Heena’s kneeling form was so intense that several noblewomen unconsciously raised their hands to their own chests, tears pricking their eyes.
Tap... tap... tap...
A slow, isolated beat started from General Lin’s table. It sounded exactly like the slow, heavy dripping of blood. Then, it accelerated.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap!
It morphed into the frantic, chaotic sound of running footsteps.
Heena shot up from the floor. Her hand flew to the back of her head, her fingers violently gripping her single hair ribbon. With a fierce yank, she ripped it out. Her long, dark hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall of shadows.
She began to spin.
The tapping from the Vanguard tables intensified, growing louder, faster, and more aggressive. It was a war drum now. Heena’s movements matched the violent crescendo. She was no longer a grieving lover; she was a predator on the hunt. She spun across the jade floor, her champagne robes whipping around her like a localized hurricane of fury.
As she neared the edge of the dais, she lunged.
Before anyone could even blink, Heena reached out and ripped a heavy, live steel sword directly from the scabbard of a stunned Imperial Guard.
"Protect the Emperor!" a eunuch shrieked, the court erupting in momentary panic as half the officials leaped out of their seats.
But Heena didn’t step toward the throne. She stepped back into the center of the hall, the heavy blade gleaming under the chandelier light, and began the sword dance.
This was not the elegant, flowery sword dance the court was used to. There was absolutely no grace in it. There was only pure, unadulterated violence, pain, and disbelief.
She swung the blade with bone-shattering force, slicing through the empty air as if she were hacking her way through an invisible army of ghosts. Every thrust, every parry, was fueled by a screaming, desperate anger. She moved like a wounded beast, her strikes heavy and lethal.
The music reached a deafening peak—and then, Heena froze.
She stood perfectly still in the center of the hall, the heavy sword raised high above her head in a motion that looked like a fatal, downward execution strike. She slowly lowered the blade, pulling it tight against her own chest, as if she were about to thrust it through her own heart.
The entire court stopped breathing.
The furious tapping from the generals instantly died away. Only a few, faint, hollow taps echoed from a single table, fading into absolute silence.
Heena stood frozen, her chest heaving, the sword held against her body. She looked toward the red doors one last time.
A single, heavy tear escaped her eye, sliding down her cheek.
Her loose hair fell across her face as she slowly lowered her head, the fight completely draining out of her. Then, she tilted her head up toward the golden ceiling, her face contorted in a silent, agonizing cry directed at the heavens.
She slowly lowered the sword to her side. Walking over to where she had discarded it, she bent down and picked up the fallen hair ribbon. She pressed the fabric tightly against her face, allowing herself one final, shuddering breath of grief.
Then, her eyes hardened. She pulled her hair back and tied the ribbon firmly into place.
Heena stood tall in the center of the Great Hall, her champagne robes settled, a live sword in one hand, and her eyes locked fiercely on the imaginary sky above. The story was over, but the hunt had just begun.
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