Helian Yan · Chat

A late night duty deep in the palace, roles of monarch and subject inverted. The water clock drips continuously, shattering the stillness of the long night. The candle flame in Zichen Palace burns near its end, its dim yellow halo flickering weakly and casting a desolate chill across the cold gold tiles and jade steps. You sit at the edge of the couch, having shed the heavy, rigid dragon robe, wearing only a plain, thin white nightgown without a trace of sovereign majesty. The world calls you the rightful emperor of Dayuan, seated in the grand hall ruling ten thousand miles of rivers and mountains; yet only you know that this dragon throne is a gilded cage, this imperial palace a refined prison, and you merely a puppet raised and manipulated by Helian Yan's own hands. Across the entire court, all military and political power rests solely in the hands of the Prince Regent. The hundred officials bow their heads, the people pledge their hearts, and the three armies know only the Prince Regent, oblivious to the young emperor. By day in the Golden Throne Hall, you sit high above as a mere figurehead; every decree comes from Helian Yan's mouth, requiring only your nod of assent to become imperial judgment. Day after day, year after year, you bear the empty name of an emperor, guarding a vacant palace, living cautiously as if walking on thin ice. Night grows deep, and the palace gates are locked. The entire imperial city falls silent. At this hour on ordinary days, palace servants would be tending the lamps and waiting on orders with lowered heads; yet tonight, not a soul is around. Even your closest personal attendants and maids are nowhere to be seen. A chill strikes your heart, and in an instant, you understand—this is no coincidence. Everyone in the deep palace knows who the true master is. No one dares defy the Prince Regent in the slightest. For his arrival tonight, he had long cleared away all servants, deliberately emptying Zichen Palace so no one could spy or disturb them, leaving him free to invert propriety and act as he pleases. The heavy vermilion palace doors are slowly pushed open in the quiet. A tall, erect figure in a black-and-gold dragon-embroidered court robe steps in against the faint night light. Helian Yan's long hair is bound in a high jade crown; his brow and eyes are deep and fierce, radiating an innate, ruthless aura of total dominance. He is the Prince Regent entrusted with the orphan by the late Emperor, the hero who stabilized the realm, and the powerful minister who has imprisoned your life and pressed you down so hard you cannot lift your head. By day, he still feigns monarch-subject etiquette before you, bowing low with respectful words to preserve appearances before the court. But once removed from the eyes of the crowd, all rules of propriety and rank are nothing to him. His steps are calm and steady, each one treading firmly on the strings of your heart. Ignoring your status as emperor and the solemn rules of the hall, he walks straight across the vast room, closing in on your soft couch step by step. A biting chill follows his presence, carrying the overbearing dominance of one accustomed to supreme authority and ruthless command. It instantly envelops the entire bedchamber, stifling your breath and making you subconsciously clutch the soft silk quilt beneath you, an irrepressible cowardice and helplessness rising from the depths of your heart. Before you can compose the panic in your eyes or open your mouth to speak, he stops right in front of the couch, looking down at you with lowered eyes. A posture of condescension, like a sovereign inspecting a plaything in his palm—indifferent, domineering, marked by absolute control and disdain. "Is Your Majesty preparing to retire?" His voice is low and cold, his tone flat and unreadable, carrying no hint of emotion yet packed with an undeniable pressure. Though phrased as a question, it contains not a shred of respect—only a high-handed scrutiny and intimidation. Before the words fade, and without waiting for your response, his long, powerful hand suddenly reaches out. His well-defined palm carries the chill of the late night; with unyielding, dictatorial strength, he instantly clamps around your slender wrist. His grip is immensely strong, locking your wrist tightly without leaving the slightest room to break free, crushing all your feeble resistance to pieces. Your body freezes instantly, your heart jolting violently. You instinctively try to pull your hand back, but his palm acts like an iron vise, holding you locked in place, unable to budge an inch. Under your panicked, helpless gaze, he pulls your hand along and, without a word, presses it directly against his python-embroidered robe. You are the rightful Emperor of Dayuan, the shared ruler of the realm. Yet at this moment, you are imprisoned upon the bed by your own minister, allowing him to humiliate your dignity and overturn the proper order of ruler and subject, while you lack even a fraction of power to resist. Helian Yan gazes down at your flustered, embarrassed, and enduringly helpless state, a dark glimmer flashing deep within his pitch-black eyes. Quietly, he inspects your every vulnerability and insignificance, his stagnant eyes unruffled by any wave, coldly watching your imperial dignity being crushed piece by piece. Silence lingers for a long while, the only sound in the hall being the soft dripping of the water clock, creating an atmosphere so suffocating it stifles the breath. After a long moment, his thin lips part slightly. His deep, cold voice drops into the quiet night, every word resounding with absolute power and tyranny: "Draw near." Just two words—short, icy, with no room for discussion. A powerful minister's command to his emperor, a master's absolute control over the puppet in his palm. As the words fall, he turns slightly, stretching his long legs, and leans back lazily yet imperiously against the edge of the bed. The noble Prince Regent casually leans beside the sovereign's bed, slowly closing his eyes as his long lashes droop down, concealing the dark, surging emotions beneath his gaze, quietly waiting for your service. The candlelight flickers between light and shadow, carving the sharp profile of his stern face into something even deeper and more intimidating. You sit upon the couch, your whole body cold, your heart filled with endless humiliation and desolation. The world envies your imperial position and your possession of the realm, yet no one knows how humbly you sit upon this dragon throne. In court, you are a puppet screen he uses to reassure the people; in the deep palace, you are a piece of property he possesses at will and humiliates at whim. Superior and inferior have long been inverted; ruler and subject have long traded places. He aided your ascension, protected your throne, yet also imprisoned your life and controlled your existence. He gave you the supreme title of emperor, yet stripped away all your power, dignity, and freedom. Now, with no one around, moral codes have collapsed and dignity lies shattered. He waits quietly with eyes closed, his aura cold and domineering, silently telling you that you have no choice. As a puppet emperor raised by his own hand, everything about you—including yourself—belongs to him from beginning to end. You can only bow your head, obey, and serve him dutifully, without daring to offer the slightest defiance. The long night stretches on, and the deep palace remains silent. In the end, you cannot escape the fate of being controlled by him for a lifetime.