MY PRINCE HUSBAND HAS SEVEN WIVES AND I AM HIS FAVOURITE! Chapter 178: A picture of chaos and beauty

Zhao Yan didn’t even blink. His sword lowered slightly as he scoffed, "What is this, another ambush? Are we calling this ’Ambush 2.0’ now?"

The Pri Minister chuckled, stepping just a fraction forward. "A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do... to take back everything that belongs to him."

His voice rang with dangerous intent.

From where she crouched behind a crumbled pillar, Hua Jing’s breath caught in her throat.

The Pri Minister’s voice rang sharp through the air, every syllable laced with venom and intent: "...to take back everything that belongs to ."

The words echoed in her mind like a chi of doom, chilling her more than the night air ever could. There was no mistaking it now—the look in his eyes, the sheer conviction in his voice. That wasn’t the threat of a man caught in a corner. It was the proclamation of soone who had long since crafted his rebellion in shadows, and now simply waited for the curtain to rise. She had heard that tone before—in her father’s court, from generals about to go to war.

Sothing about the way he said it—it pulled at threads she hadn’t realized were fraying. Just what had happened between the Pri Minister and the Crown? What had he lost to fuel such obsession, such reckless boldness? To summon the Seventh Consort, to attack the Crown Prince in broad light, in the presence of loyal n? That wasn’t just ambition. That was fury. That was desperation.

Her thoughts spiraled, each question birthing a dozen more, dragging her to the edge of truths she wasn’t ready to na.

But before she could fall too deep into the web of speculation, the sound of clashing steel yanked her back.

The battle had resud with renewed intensity.

Wei Ling and Deng Mi had joined the fray, leaping into action like twin storms unleashed. With fluidity born of long companionship, their movents synchronized in a deadly rhythm. Wei Ling’s fighting style mirrored Zhao Yan’s—precise, elegant, but every blow carried a silent weight, a hidden force honed by countless drills and shared duels in their youth.

Deng Mi, on the other hand, fought like a tempest—unpredictable and wild, but every strike was grounded in lethal intent. Where Wei Ling carved through enemies like flowing water, Deng Mi was fire and wind, roaring and slashing.

Together, they painted a portrait of chaos and beauty. Their blades sang through the air, catching moonlight and firelight, reflecting off tal and crimson.

Swords clanged, sparks danced like fleeting stars, and bodies fell like broken feathers. The ground beca a mosaic of steel and blood.

Enemies lunged, only to be t with lightning-fast parries. One attacker aid for Wei Ling’s side—he turned, blade sliding beneath the strike, and with a flick, disard and cut the man down. Deng Mi leapt from a toppled crate, his sword spinning as he brought two n to their knees in one sweeping arc.

Hua Jing’s eyes widened. She had known they were trusted, yes. But this? This was art.

Within minutes, the ring of the Pri Minister’s forces had crumbled. Only one man remained—the burly brute who had first charged at her earlier. Now he faced Wei Ling and Deng Mi together, his chest heaving, his movents slower, dragged by pain and blood loss.

But even then, he fought. His massive blade cleaved the air with desperate swings, each one blocked, turned, countered. Gashes adorned his shoulders and arms, and finally, with one final shout, he lunged forward—only to falter. Deng Mi’s sword slid between his ribs, and Wei Ling’s blade followed through his back.

The man stilled, then collapsed.

Silence followed.

All that remained was the Pri Minister, standing calmly amidst the wreckage of his ambition. He looked around—the bodies, the blood, the crushed hopes—and still, he smiled.

Clapping slowly, he said, "Impressive. Impressive indeed. The Crown Prince has truly shown his abilities today. I have often wondered how you fight, I must say... beautiful swordsmanship."

Zhao Yan, bloodied and breathing heavy, didn’t wait.

"You talk too much," he said coldly.

In a flash, he lunged—blade extended, a blur of silver.

But before the strike could land, a figure materialized from the shadows, impossibly fast. A swirl of black robes, a gust of wind—and the Pri Minister was gone, yanked into the night. Zhao Yan’s sword sliced only empty air.

"Damn it!" he hissed, spinning.

The last echo of the Pri Minister’s voice floated from the darkness:

"We will et again, my dear Prince. And the next ti we et, you will be the servant, and I will be the master. I look forward to that day. I hope you do too."

Then—nothing.

No trace. No sign. Only the remnants of a battlefield, and the sound of a fire cracking in the distance.

Zhao Yan stood still for a mont, eyes scanning the shadows. But there was no pursuit to be made. Not tonight.

He turned sharply and strode toward Hua Jing.

She was still slumped behind the pillar, blood-streaked, her eyes dazed. The mont his arms encircled her, she sagged into him completely.

Zhao Yan crushed her against his chest in a hug so tight it threatened to steal the breath from both of them. Her fingers clutched the fabric of his robe, her body trembling, and for the first ti that night, a sob escaped her lips.

"You ca," she whispered.

"I always will,"

Zhao Yan murmured.

And for a long mont, neither of them moved.

Above them, the moon glowed cold and white.

But the warmth of his arms, the steady thrum of his heartbeat, reminded her—she was still alive.

And so was he.

The storm had passed.

But, for how long?

...

From a few paces behind, Wei Ling turned sharply, scanning the eerie calm that had settled over the ruined estate. His hand remained on his sword. His eyes narrowed.

"Your Majesties," he said, bowing swiftly. "We need to leave. I have a bad feeling about this place."

Zhao Yan looked toward him, and for a brief mont, their eyes locked in mutual understanding. Sothing was not right. Sothing still lingered in the shadows.

He glanced down at Hua Jing, her face pale and streaked with blood and sweat, and yet still so fiercely beautiful it made his throat tighten. She was watching him, lips parted, eyes searching.

He gave a small nod. "Let’s go."