The Main Palace dining hall was unlike any throne chamber one would imagine.
It was not enclosed.
It did not suffocate.
It commanded.
Rectangular in shape, the space stretched wide beneath the open evening sky. Three grand entrances stood on the left, three on the right — symmetry so precise it felt deliberate down to the last carved beam. Only the central dining table was sheltered by an elevated roof supported by dark wooden pillars engraved with coiling dragons. The rest remained open, allowing wind, moonlight, and the distant sounds of the city to breathe through.
At the far end of the long rectangular table — the head seat, centered and immovable —
Emperor Jin sat.
The front of the hall faced the capital city. From here, lantern lights shimmered across rooftops like scattered stars fallen to earth. Despite the open design, security was impenetrable.
Unseen.
Unheard.
Twelve shadowed figures positioned across rooftops, beams, blind angles.
The Moon Keepers.
Inherited from his father.
Invisible to ministers.
Unknown even to his sons.
When the time came, the Crown Prince would inherit them.
But not yet.
Not until he understood the weight of unseen protection.
Emperor Jin’s fingers rested lightly against the table surface. His posture was straight, unyielding, yet not theatrical. He did not perform authority.
He embodied it.
Last night’s red moon lingered in his mind.
And this morning’s absence.
All five princes missing from assembly.
Coincidence was a foolish word in politics.
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
He did not believe in foolish words.
Yet he had not punished them.
Instead—
He arranged dinner.
One favorite dish for each son.
Prepared them. Not played them.
?
The Princes Arrive
From six entrances, one by one, the princes stepped into the hall.
And stopped.
Jin’s breath nearly caught.
Open-air architecture. Structural symmetry. The interlocking beam design above the central canopy was older than the outer palace structures. Reinforced timber, likely replaced during his “father’s reign”— or whoever this emperor was in this world.
He wanted to walk closer.
Examine the carving depth.
Instead, he stood composed.
Aloof.
Crown Prince Jin Zhao.
Liang Ze’s gaze scanned the layout immediately.
Open structure meant visibility.
Visibility meant vulnerability.
Unless—
He noticed the blind corners along the beams.
The shadow breaks along the outer perimeter.
Ah.
Hidden guards.
His lips curved faintly.
Of course.
Xiao Tian exhaled softly.
The wind moved gently through the hall, brushing past his sleeves. From here, he could see the city glowing beyond the palace walls.
“It’s… beautiful,” he whispered instinctively.
Huang Rui nearly forgot to breathe.
The lighting.
The proportions.
The way the roof framed the sky like a painting.
He turned slightly to admire the angle from the left entrance.
If this were a stage, this would be the climax set.
Wu Chen blinked rapidly.
“Why is this dining hall bigger than our entire company building…” he muttered under his breath.
Then—
They saw each other.
Across the open rectangular space.
Five entrances.
Five princes.
Five familiar faces.
Time stopped.
No calculation.
No etiquette.
No strategy.
Their bodies moved before their minds could.
“YOU—”
They ran.
Robes lifted. Sleeves flying.
Across imperial flooring.
Toward each other.
Jin forgot composure.
Liang Ze forgot surveillance.
Xiao Tian forgot fear.
Huang Rui forgot posture.
Wu Chen forgot everything.
They collided in the center beneath the sheltered roof.
Arms around shoulders.
Hands gripping sleeves.
A chaotic circle of relief and disbelief.
“You’re here!”
“I thought I was losing my mind!”
“You’re actually real!”
“Don’t disappear!”
Wu Chen almost teared up but masked it by squeezing Huang Rui too hard.
Huang Rui shouted dramatically, “Stop crushing the visual of the group!”
Liang Ze let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
Xiao Tian’s eyes were already shining.
Jin stood in the middle of it, quiet but present — allowing himself one rare, unguarded moment.
They were here.
All five.
Alive.
Real.
None of them noticed—
At the far end of the table.
Emperor Jin watched.
Still.
Silent.
Eunuch Kong stood behind him, equally frozen.
Never.
In all his years.
Had the Emperor witnessed such behavior.
Princes did not run.
Princes did not shout.
Princes did not embrace in open court like children reunited after war.
Especially not these five, who in recent years had grown distant, measured, cautious of one another due to succession tension.
Emperor Jin’s gaze did not harden.
It sharpened.
He observed the way they held each other.
Not political.
Not performative.
Instinctive.
His mind calculated quietly.
Something changed last night.
The red moon.
The absence this morning.
The altered behavior now.
He did not speak immediately.
He watched longer.
A strategist first understands the board before moving a piece.
But he was also a father.
Emotionally restrained.
Disciplined.
He loved them.
He did not show it easily.
Yet as he studied the circle of five young men laughing, gripping each other like survivors—
Something in his chest eased.
Just slightly.
Eunuch Kong shifted subtly, uncertain.
“Your Majesty…”
Emperor Jin finally spoke.
Calm.
Controlled.
Refined.
“Have they mistaken this for a festival?”
His tone was dry. Not loud. Not cruel.
Intelligent humor.
Measured.
The five froze.
Slowly—
Very slowly—
They turned toward the head of the table.
And saw him.
Seated at the far end.
Centered beneath the canopy.
The Dragon of Jin Kingdom.
Watching.
The wind moved softly through the open hall.
The city lights flickered beyond.
And for the first time since arriving in this ancient world—
All five members of Xing Yu understood one thing clearly.
This dinner—
Would not be simple.
