Prince Damien of Southlyn ignored Prince Terrence’s mood entirely, voicing his own opinions about the Eastlyn Emperor. Then he turned to study Terrence’s expression—seeing that cold, brooding face, Damien curled his lips into a sly smile.
An opportunity handed right to me—if I don’t use it, I’m an idiot. Lance Quinn, don’t blame me; blame yourself for giving me the leverage.
Ignoring Terrence’s dark scowl, Damien kept up his sharp-tongued act, feigning curiosity: “Prince Terrence, who do you think fathered the child Imperial Noble Consort Helena Hsieh is carrying? Eastlyn hasn’t had a prince born in years, and now she’s suddenly pregnant—are you sure that baby is really the Eastlyn Emperor’s?”
Oh, and… isn’t there a pregnant imperial consort in Westlyn too? Your father was so pleased he declared amnesty across the land. Tell me, that unborn royal brother or sister of yours—could it be Lance Quinn’s child? If it really is, do you think your father would…
“Shut up!” Prince Terrence shot Damien a murderous glare, wishing he could silence him for good.
Never before had Terrence hated Damien’s mouth so much, or his love of stirring up chaos. Anything Damien could imagine, Terrence had already considered—did he really have to say it out loud?
“Hahaha, fine, fine, I’ll stop, I’ll stop. But I really do admire Lance Quinn.” Damien flashed a wicked smile, his narrow eyes gleaming like a venomous snake…
He knew those words had already carved deep marks in Terrence’s heart, planting seeds of suspicion. From now on, every time Terrence saw Lance Quinn, he’d remember this. Terrence would never try to win Lance over—in fact, he’d want him gone for good.
Damien was in a great mood—even trailing behind Terrence didn’t annoy him. As the two walked toward the front hall, they failed to notice the silver-masked man standing not far behind, taking in every word of their conversation.
The man in black with the silver mask glanced at the room echoing with lewd noises, then at the direction Terrence and Damien had gone, a mocking smile curling on his lips.
“Damien, you really are a venomous snake, lurking in the grass, ready to strike. Should I be grateful you only said all that to Terrence tonight? If the emperors of both nations heard you, I’d have nowhere to run, not even if I fled to the ends of the earth.” The silver-masked man radiated killing intent, a low pressure surrounding him that warned others away.
Yes, the man in black and silver was none other than Lance Quinn, the one Damien had just tried to frame. He’d been trailing Terrence and Damien all along—and in the Eastlyn Imperial Palace, it was harder for them to track him than to reach the heavens.
After watching Terrence and Damien leave, Lance Quinn silently calculated the timing. When it felt right, he strolled forward, heading to watch the fun—the same direction the two princes had gone.
After walking about a hundred paces, Lance Quinn started counting silently in his mind: “Ten…”
“Nine…”
…
“Three…”
When Lance Quinn reached ‘three,’ the quiet Imperial Palace erupted into chaos. Torches lit up the front hall; the synchronized thud of boots echoed as the Imperial Guards shouted, “Assassins! Assassins! There are assassins—hurry! Protect the Emperor!”
“The Imperial Guards have improved. The Emperor ought to thank Serena Feng,” Lance Quinn remarked playfully, arms folded behind a gate pillar, waiting for the storm to pass.
Soon, Lance Quinn heard the clash of weapons—the fighting sounded fierce.