Around the hour of Yin, rain suddenly began to fall. Chen Yang was washing up in the hall, finishing his face when he saw the misty rain outside, mingled with sparse snowflakes.
“Tell the kitchen to start heating the stoves,” Chen Yang instructed his attendants. “Bring the warming medicine while it’s hot, and prepare ginger broth. Have the governor’s ceremonial robes steamed and ready to deliver. With rain and snow today, the ground will be slippery—everyone must watch their steps while serving, so as not to lose decorum.”
Before dawn, the courtyard staff had already stirred. Chen Yang opened his umbrella and headed to the kitchen to check on breakfast. Seeing him, the cooks hurriedly summoned the attendants with the meal boxes.
“Last night we heard the governor was ill, so we prepared fish soup early, with some light side dishes, rice porridge, and honeysuckle rolls,” the cook said, handing the boxes to Chen Yang. “This is for the gentlemen—after standing watch all night, a bit of warmth to fend off the cold.”
Chen Yang touched the boxes and smiled. “Good. Also prepare some liquor for Gu Jin; I thank you on his behalf. Send the master’s breakfast promptly—I’ll attend to him myself.”
The cook escorted him out, but Chen Yang declined further assistance, hurrying back through the courtyard under his umbrella.
For these guards, no one else could touch their meals—they had to retrieve them in rotation, a strict rule established when stationed in the north.
Once in the courtyard, Chen Yang called the other three down. They opened the boxes and ate together.
Ding Tao bit into a bun, glancing at the building. “The master is awake.”
Gu Jin asked, “Are the carriages ready? We’re a bit late today.”
Chen Yang nodded. “Didn’t expect the rain. When the master goes to the palace to sign today, he’ll get drenched. The governor won’t recover from this cold quickly—won’t he ask for leave?”
Who was he asking?
Ding Tao and Gu Jin exchanged glances, both looking at Qiao Tianya, who had joined them for breakfast.
Qiao Tianya drank his porridge in one gulp, raised a finger. Before he could speak, the other three said in unison, “Swallow it first!”
He obeyed. “He doesn’t dare take even one day off. The master’s still new to his post—how could he claim leave over someone senior? Even the commandant isn’t that free.”
Ding Tao muttered, “You imperial guards are hopeless—illness doesn’t excuse rank!”
Qiao Tianya said, “We have no choice; eyes are everywhere.”
As they ate and spoke, the doors opened. Maids carried trays in and out.
Shen Zechuan, having been held by Xiao Chiye all night, was sweating heavily, the rash on his neck still visible.
Xiao Chiye, now dressed, saw Shen Zechuan’s still-weak state and pressed a fingertip to his forehead. “Medicine’s on the table—drink it while it’s warm.”
Shen Zechuan kicked off his boots, took the medicine, and got dressed. They stood back-to-back at the mirror, the rustle of clothing filling the room.
Shen Zechuan fastened his belt, opened the window, and said, “This rain comes at the worst time.”
“Last night was quiet. If we clear the drains quickly today, it’ll still be manageable.”
Xiao Chiye leaned closer; the maid couldn’t reach to adjust his crown, so Shen Zechuan helped. Standing at the window, Xiao Chiye watched as Shen Zechuan placed it on his head, eyes meeting.
“A bitter taste,” Xiao Chiye remarked.
“Come closer,” Shen Zechuan said, “the flavor gets stronger.”
The nearby maids bowed low, silent.
When they were about to leave, Qiao Tianya had already opened an umbrella. As Shen Zechuan stepped down, Tan Taihu hurried over. Though still pale, he saluted Shen Zechuan and quickly climbed the steps.
“Tiger!” Chen Yang greeted. “What’s happened?”
Xiao Chiye had already emerged. Gu Jin draped a cloak over him; he looked at Tan Taihu without speaking.
Tan Taihu dropped to one knee, urgently reporting, “Governor! The patrol on East Dragon Street just sent word—the Lotus Flower Tower has collapsed!”
Shen Zechuan stopped, waiting for details.
Wiping rain from his face, Tan Taihu continued, “The collapse crushed Xi’s second young master, but—who would’ve thought—the Emperor was inside as well!”
Xiao Chiye’s gaze sharpened. Rain and snow thickened around them.
Shen Zechuan strode out of the office; Ge Qingqing was already waiting at the steps. As he secured his waist badge, he said, “Explain everything to me in detail.”
The imperial guards followed briskly. Ge Qingqing held her sword low, whispering, “The Emperor snuck out secretly. When the building collapsed this morning, no one knew. When the maids were pulled out, the Eight Battalions were still worried about Xi Hongxuan. Nobody expected the palace to be in session—the eunuchs lifted the curtains and found the Emperor had already left! At first, they searched Caiwei Palace, asking Consort Mu what had happened, but she didn’t know either. Chaos ensued. Only when the Empress Dowager and Miss Hua San were summoned and the palace maids interrogated under torture did they discover—last night the Emperor disguised himself as a eunuch, insisting on going with Xi Hongxuan to the Lotus Flower Tower.”
Shen Zechuan’s face darkened. “The inner palace has layers of security. Without help, he couldn’t have even crossed the Mingli Hall threshold.”
“That’s the strange part,” Ge Qingqing whispered. “When I checked, the guards said no one went in or out all night.”
Shen Zechuan’s expression remained cold. He watched the Eight Battalions’ formation pass by. All were braving the rain, no umbrellas, faces dark as storm clouds, tense as if mourning.
Hai Liangyi and Xiao Chiye stood before the collapsed building. Lotus Flower Tower had fallen, taking down the neighboring crowded shops and pavilions. Waste water overflowed, and the entire East Dragon Street reeked in the pouring rain; people had to wade through it.
Pan Xiangjie, Minister of Works and head of one of the Eight Great Families, trembled in panic. Though sharing a surname with Pan Rugui of the Xian De era, he was from a different branch. A contemporary of Hai Liangyi, he had never dared make mistakes in this position. Planning a quiet retirement, he had his son in the Ministry of Revenue. Yet he had barely slept—upon waking, the sky collapsed!
Pan Xiangjie could barely stand, hands shaking. “Quick! Dig! The Emperor is still inside!”
Hai Liangyi’s face remained calm in the rain. He hadn’t expected Li Jianheng to play so recklessly. Wiping rain from his face, as if tears, he told Xiao Chiye, “Dig—rescue the Emperor first!”
Xiao Chiye removed his cloak and waded in to assess the situation. The current commander of the Eight Battalions was Han Jing, brother of Han Cheng, who rolled up his sleeves and followed him into the water.
“Governor,” Han Jing shouted in the rain, “the lower levels have been hollowed out—we dare not dig!”
Not only hollowed—the floors were lined with jars. No one dared mention that when the building collapsed, jars were broken. If Li Jianheng was trapped beneath, he’d be lost! History had never seen an emperor crushed while sneaking off—no historian would dare write it down.
“The Emperor slept above last night,” Shen Zechuan said, stepping into the water. “The depth isn’t too bad.”
“Afraid of further collapse,” Xiao Chiye raised his head. “Call the Works Department!”
Cen Yu arrived. Shen Zechuan turned to Hai Liangyi. “Minister, the drain must be cleared today—this rain won’t let the water escape.”
“The river behind is connected to the Kailin!” Cen Yu added. “I just saw—the buildings along the banks have collapsed, foundations rotted! How long since those stone embankments were repaired? If the water rises later, half the capital will flood! What have the Works Department been doing all these years? Pan Xiangjie, you’ve been negligent! How many times have I warned you?!”
Pan Xiangjie fell to his knees with a thud, hair half white, wailing. “What can I do? Can I be blamed? The Ministry of Revenue is full of senior officials—this issue was raised eight hundred years ago. No funds, no manpower—what can I do? Cen Xunyi, what can I do?!” He clawed at the wastewater, sobbing, banging his head on the ground. “We must pay with our lives!”
“Elders of the current court, what decorum is this!” Hai Liangyi barked. “The Emperor’s life is uncertain. Now is critical—stop shirking and bickering until he’s out! Draft eight hundred men from the Imperial Guards, clear the drains immediately with the Works Department, demolish all illegally occupied houses, and quickly account for treasury silver. Gather the displaced at the Temple of Punishment for relief. Eight Battalions patrol every city gate; entry and exit require orders. This is urgent—unite and stabilize the situation!”
Hai Liangyi suddenly turned to Shen Zechuan.
“The Imperial Guards protect the inner palace—do not let outsiders cause trouble. Anyone rebellious shall be executed on the spot by my order!”
Amid the storm, the fear in men’s hearts stilled at these orders. Hai Liangyi removed his official hat in the rain.
“The Emperor is the Son of Heaven,” he said firmly, water streaming down his face. “Our Great Zhou’s fate has lasted a hundred years—it is not yet the end.”
Li Jianheng was trapped beneath broken beams, face down. Cold water poured over his neck, waking him. Breathing was difficult; his chest felt constricted, ribs aching.
He coughed hoarsely. “Help—help!”
His voice was faint against the downpour.
Moving his gaze, he saw the women beside him, cold and lifeless. Gray flesh pressed against broken walls, hair stained with blood. Trembling, he barely recognized the beauties from last night’s revelry.
“Help.”
He lowered his head, struggling to speak.
“Help.”
A choking cough came from below—Xi Hongxuan, half-submerged, leaning against a jar, his back a mass of blood and flesh. He gasped, “Your Majesty… don’t shout, I can’t hear.”
Li Jianheng, in despair, pushed at the beams with his elbows—useless. One shoe lost, face pale with cold, he murmured, “Someone will surely come to save me…”
“Indeed,” Xi Hongxuan muttered with a dry laugh. “You are the Emperor, after all.”
Li Jianheng snapped, “What’s so funny?”
Xi Hongxuan spat some sand. “I laugh at life… isn’t it strange, man repeating cycles?”
Li Jianheng lifted his eyelids—saw nothing—and said gloomily, “No… there is no cycle…”
“Your Majesty’s birth mother, Lady Le,” Xi Hongxuan struggled to move, “drowned.”
Splash.
Foul water splattered over him. Li Jianheng swallowed hard, memories flickering—childhood glimpses surfacing. He looked at the gray flesh, seeing his mother.
A woman pressed into a waste bucket, fingers clawing the ground, bleeding. Water splashed across his face. Li Jianheng saw her gray neck and arms.
She drowned.
Tears welled in his eyes. He covered his face with his hands, screaming in anger, “Silence! Be silent!”
Xi Hongxuan fell quiet.
But Li Jianheng couldn’t bear the sight. He cried, cursing, filthy words spilling. “Don’t mention her— I am the sovereign, I—”
Panting, fingers twisted, face contorted.
“My mother is the current Empress Dowager!”