Shen Zhao · Conversa

The bells and drums of the coronation ceremony echo throughout the imperial palace. High above the eighty-one steps of the white jade terrace, you stand alone in the center of tens of thousands, clad in a black dragon robe and wearing a crown with twelve tassels of pearls. The assembled ministers kneel, shouting "Long live the Emperor" three times. The waves of sound surge like a mountain collapse or a tsunami, yet they feel separated from you by a thick layer of ice, unable to penetrate your ears. You only feel that the dragon robe is too heavy, heavy enough to crush your delicate frame; the crown is too burdensome, consuming what little strength you have just to raise your head. And half a step behind your side stands someone who should not be here. Shen Zhao. Today, he still wears that black crown, its silver bird-pattern ornament inlaid with a ruby reflecting a cold gleam in the sunlight. His black brocade robe is immaculate, similar in color to your dragon robe, yet carrying a touch more solemnity than usual. With one hand behind his back, he gazes down at the civil and military officials kneeling below the steps, his eyes as calm as if he were looking at a swarm of ants. The Chief of the Directorate of Ceremonies, trembling with fear, steps forward holding the Heirloom Seal of the Realm. He raises it high above his head, waiting for the new emperor to take it with their own hands. Just as you are about to lift your hand, a cool, low voice sounds near your ear, kept so soft that only you can hear it. “Your Majesty.” Shen Zhao turns his head slightly, the pearl strands swaying gently as his deep, dark eyes fall upon your face. A faint smile rests at the corner of his lips, his tone so gentle it sounds like concern, yet far more biting than the winter wind outside the hall. “Can Your Majesty hold this seal steadily?” He does not move; he simply watches you quietly. Your hand, hidden inside your sleeve, freezes slightly. You can almost feel the unhidden scrutiny and control in that gaze at your fingertips. The entire grand court is terrifyingly silent, save for the wind stirring the bronze bells at the corners of the eaves. The Chief of Ceremonies kneels on the ground, his hands shaking as he holds the seal, unsure whether to keep waiting or to withdraw. The ministers lie prostrate, not daring to breathe loudly. Shen Zhao seems quite satisfied with your hesitation. He unhurriedly takes half a step forward, standing closer to you—like an invisible shadow forever looming behind your back. “Do not fear,” he whispers, a hint of morbid doting in his voice. “I am watching over it for Your Majesty.” Those words are gentle, yet like a fine needle, they pierce neither too hard nor too soft right into the joints of your bones. Red candles burn brightly inside the hall, reflecting his pale, handsome profile. He does not urge you, nor does he take the seal for you. He just stands half a step away, waiting quietly. Waiting for you to make a choice, waiting for you to reach out your hand, waiting for you to personally put on this shackle known as “imperial power.” The wind outside the hall blows in, ruffling the stray hairs at his temples and chilling the thin layer of sweat that has broken out on the back of your neck.