In the sixteen years since ascending the throne, this was the first time Emperor Tiānshòu had fallen ill with anything more serious than a mild cold or a bout of diarrhea. The Imperial Medical Bureau had long been accustomed to his robust health. The moment they heard the emperor had collapsed, the entire bureau was thrown into chaos.
The Chief Imperial Physician, the deputy, and several highly respected senior physicians all rushed over as if riding wheels of fire. Along the way, they learned from the eunuchs that His Majesty had fainted after flying into a great rage. Hearing that, they felt a measure of relief.
A faint with a clear cause was always better than one without. Perhaps the emperor had simply been too angry, his emotions knotted within his chest, and in a moment of carelessness, he had collapsed.
But when they arrived, the Chief Physician stepped forward, examined the emperor’s complexion, pried open his eyelids to inspect his pupils, and finally reached out to feel his pulse.
The conclusion he reached made the old man’s face turn pale with terror.
This… this was the pulse of impending catastrophe!
Very well—now the entire palace descended into chaos.
…
About an hour later, news that Emperor Tiānshòu had suffered an acute episode and fallen unconscious finally reached Mèng Xīzhāo. By then, the Imperial Medical Bureau had exhausted every method at their disposal and managed to stabilize his condition—yet he still had not awakened.
Such sudden illnesses could be either minor or fatal. Some people died on the spot after a single episode. In this era of limited medical knowledge, anyone who dropped dead suddenly was simply categorized as having died of “sudden death.”
…
Others, however, could survive the initial attack, though they would almost certainly be left with lingering aftereffects.
The physicians of the palace were undoubtedly skilled, but only a few were truly devoted to medicine. When faced with such a situation, most of them first thought about how to preserve their own lives.
Thus, no one dared speak in absolutes. They busied themselves running between the Imperial Medical Bureau and Huáníng Hall. In winter, Emperor Tiānshòu usually rested in the Warm Pavilion, where the temperature was kept around thirty degrees, but it was too small to accommodate thirty physicians, twenty eunuchs, twenty guards, and several consorts all at once. So Qín Fēimáng made the decision to move the emperor to the more spacious Huáníng Hall—the proper imperial bedchamber.
As for why Qín Fēimáng made the call…
It was because, in this vast palace, once the emperor collapsed, there was not a single person able to step forward and take charge.
The Empress Dowager had long since passed away. The Empress was gone as well. The only remaining elders were a few retired senior consorts, but they had withdrawn from court affairs years ago. Even being asked to preside over ceremonial gatherings made them reluctant—how could they be expected to manage a crisis like this?
If not the consorts, then the Crown Prince should have been the one to take charge. Yet the moment people considered seeking his direction, they all hesitated.
What if the emperor woke up…
No, better find someone else.
Qín Fēimáng understood his own position well. He was only a eunuch, and not even a fully empowered one. He could not command everyone indefinitely. If he overstepped, then once the civil and military officials reacted, he would be the first to be brought down.
So after briefly stabilizing the situation and confirming that the emperor’s life was not in immediate danger, he quickly dispatched a trusted subordinate out of the palace to summon Prince Liáng—to serve as a pillar of stability.
Emperor Tiānshòu did have biological brothers, but after taking the throne, he had sent most of them off to their fiefs. Only one had been allowed to remain in Yìngtiān—and not out of affection. That brother had been too frail; the journey would have killed him. To avoid accusations of cruelty, the emperor had reluctantly kept him behind.
Even so, that brother had not lived up to expectations—he had died seven years ago.
With no brothers to rely on, they could only turn to cousins. Most people saw no issue with Qín Fēimáng’s decision.
Except Gān Tàishī.
He found it utterly baffling.
The emperor was ill, yet that eunuch did not come to him—the Grand Preceptor—to take charge of affairs, and instead summoned some distant Prince Liáng. Had his brain been kicked by a donkey? Did he not fear the emperor settling accounts with him later?
Among everyone present, Gān Tàishī was the one who most desperately wanted the emperor to recover. At least until the Sixth Prince came of age, the emperor had to remain alive and well. The moment he heard the news, he did not even care about his own osteoporosis. He abandoned his sedan chair, had a carriage prepared, and rushed into the palace to prevent any “unscrupulous elements” from stirring trouble.
By “unscrupulous elements,” he naturally meant the Crown Prince, the Mèng faction, and their allies.
But when he finally arrived and prepared to drive out Prince Liáng—who stood one degree removed from the emperor—he suddenly realized that someone had arrived even earlier than he had.
And it was someone he had never expected.
The Eldest Princess of Chǔ, Cuī Yǒngshàn.
…
The princess had been widowed for a full year and had only recently resumed her public appearances. A year ago, Gān Tàishī had barely taken notice of this princess destined for a political marriage. But now, seeing her again, he knew he would never forget her face.
Composed and regal, radiating authority—more imposing than any prince. Standing outside Huáníng Hall, she thanked him gracefully, then informed him that His Majesty’s health was of utmost importance and too many people entering would disturb him. Moreover, given his age, if he were to catch any illness, it would be most unfortunate—and surely His Majesty would not wish to see his loyal old minister overexert himself.
Gān Tàishī: “…”
In the entire Qi dynasty, there was only one Grand Princess.
Her rank was equivalent to that of a prince. She was the emperor’s own daughter, and having been married, she now headed her own household. Prince Liáng might be somewhat removed, but no one was more suited than her to step forward at this moment.
And if Gān Tàishī wished to argue based on status—then as the emperor’s father-in-law, he was merely an external relative.
In terms of closeness, he ranked even further than a daughter.
Grand Preceptor Gān was blocked by her, caught in an awkward position—unable to advance, yet unwilling to retreat. Just then, the Eldest Princess of Chǔ’s reinforcements arrived. Chancellor Sītú and Chancellor Yán hurried into the palace. They had learned of the news later than Gān Tàishī, and by now, night had already fallen.
The moment they saw the situation, the two exchanged a glance and, with perfect tacit understanding, adopted the exact same stance:
The night is deep, the dew is heavy, the roads are slippery, Grand Preceptor—you are advanced in years, you should hurry back home.
If Gān Tàishī showed any reluctance to leave, these two seasoned foxes—only about ten years younger than him—would immediately put on expressions of near tears and heartfelt anguish, as if every moment he remained here was a torment to their conscience.
Gān Tàishī’s temples throbbed with anger, but two fists could not fight four hands. In the end, he was forced out by them. The moment the old fox left, Chancellor Sītú and Chancellor Yán immediately shifted a large step away from each other, mutual disgust plain on their faces.
…
They were not doing this for the Grand Princess, nor for the Crown Prince, nor because they knew Mèng Xīzhāo’s plan.
They were simply acting out of self-preservation.
If the emperor was fine, at worst they would face a reprimand. But if something truly happened to him, then by being here, they effectively controlled the palace—and would not allow that old fox Gān Ruì to scheme behind the scenes.
Of course, if you asked Mèng Xīzhāo, he would say:
You are all overthinking it.
…
He, too, would have loved to anger Emperor Tiānshòu to death in one stroke.
But first, that would be letting him off too easily. And second, the Crown Prince’s wings were not yet fully grown. If the emperor died now, it would leave behind a complete mess—and worse, it would give Gān Tàishī and his faction a chance to take desperate risks.
Even a centipede does not stiffen immediately after death. And Gān Tàishī was very much alive, still at the height of his power. Unless absolutely necessary, Mèng Xīzhāo had no intention of experiencing what it meant to fight a succession war.
So, Emperor Tiānshòu would definitely wake up.
And if he did not—then Mèng Xīzhāo would bring Téng Kāngníng into the palace, present him as a miracle physician he had painstakingly found, and have him cure the emperor.
Ordinary minor officials did not yet know the emperor had fallen ill. High-ranking officials, however, upon receiving the news, had all entered the palace to await updates.
Sū Ruòcún attended to Emperor Tiānshòu without even removing her outer garments. She had not slept the entire night, and faint dark circles lingered beneath her eyes.
Among the palace consorts, there were only two of high rank.
Consort Dé, in her thirties, had long since devoted herself to a life of quiet devotion, rarely competing for favor or appearing in public. She now stood like a wooden figure—only moving when instructed.
The other, Consort Shū, had been newly married to the emperor the previous year, when he felt there were too few high-ranking consorts. She was about the same age as Sū Ruòcún. Before Sū Ruòcún entered the palace, the emperor would visit her two or three days each month, out of regard for her family background.
Now, even those days were gone.
She had always disliked Sū Ruòcún—found her frail, willowy demeanor and constant habit of cooking personally for the emperor unbearable. She could not quite explain why, but every time she saw that act, she had the urge to beat her.
…If she knew the term “white lotus,” she might not have been so confused.
Consort Shū tried to snatch Sū Ruòcún’s duties, hoping the tale of devoted bedside care would fall to her instead. Sū Ruòcún merely raised a brow and did not compete, quietly stepping aside.
Yet after some time, Consort Shū realized that Sū Ruòcún only yielded when no one was watching. The moment others were present, she would step forward again, unobtrusively taking on the dirtiest and most exhausting tasks.
In the end, everyone praised Sū Ruòcún, while Consort Shū—sweating from exertion—did not even merit the role of a supporting character.
Consort Shū: “…”
I knew it—this little vixen is nothing like the devoted woman she pretends to be!
While the palace women schemed against each other, the men outside were no less active.
On the second day, Mèng Xīzhāo entered the palace carrying a Buddhist scripture he had copied earlier for calligraphy practice. Aside from the two chancellors and a handful of top-ranking officials, no one else was permitted inside the hall. So Mèng Xīzhāo stood outside, crying pitifully, putting on a full display of anxiety and concern.
Then he sighed, wiped his tears, and prepared to leave.
Because he frequently visited the palace, he had cultivated good relations with the eunuchs. One of them stepped forward to hand him a handkerchief. Mèng Xīzhāo thanked him, then delivered the line he had prepared long in advance:
“Many thanks, sir. As the Crown Prince’s attendant, I must go and see His Highness. Alas, His Majesty has fallen into such a state—the Crown Prince is so pure and filial, who knows how deeply worried he must be.”
Hearing this, the eunuch sighed as well. “Last night, His Highness stood vigil here the entire night. His appearance became haggard, and he did not take even a sip of water. At dawn, Chancellor Sītú urged him to return, and only then did he rise unsteadily. But after keeping watch all night, His Highness could not stand firm and collapsed to the ground. When we helped him up, he began coughing uncontrollably—and even coughed up streaks of blood. Lord Mèng, you must persuade His Highness to take care of his health!”
Mèng Xīzhāo: “…………”
This was not part of his script.
His voice turned faint. “…Streaks of blood?”
The eunuch nodded miserably. “His Highness has always been in poor health. Now, after such a shock… ah, His Highness is truly filial.”
Mèng Xīzhāo cast a quiet glance at the sighing young eunuch. After thanking him again, he left.
He made his way to the Eastern Palace with practiced familiarity. Seeing Yù Fúlán and Zhāng Shuògōng standing guard in the front corridor, both looking calm, he knew nothing serious had likely happened.
But until he saw Cuī Yě with his own eyes, he could not settle.
Without a word, he strode to the door. Yù Fúlán moved to open it for him, but Mèng Xīzhāo stopped him—then kicked the door open with a loud bang.
Yù Fúlán: “…”
Zhāng Shuògōng: “…”
Inside, Cuī Yě—who had been pretending to nap while waiting—snapped his eyes open at once. Turning his head, he saw that it was only Mèng Xīzhāo at the door, and the sharpness in his gaze immediately melted into a moment of blank surprise.
Closing the door behind him, Mèng Xīzhāo strode straight over. In just a few steps, he reached him and immediately demanded:
“Where did the blood come from?!”
Cui Ye opened his mouth. He had already realized that things had gone very wrong, but after nearly a full day and night without sleep—and with the person he loved standing right in front of him, someone he never guarded himself against—his mind could barely function. Even if he tried to think, it moved sluggishly, leaving him to answer on instinct.
“I bit my tongue and faked it.”
Meng Xizhao said, “The divine physician told you there are three taboos during detoxification. What are they?”
Cui Ye: “…First, no heavy tonics. Second, no extreme anger. Third, no injury.”
Meng Xizhao glared at him furiously. “You knew that and still did this?!”
Cui Ye looked at him silently. After a long pause, he cautiously pointed out, “But Erlang… biting my tongue doesn’t really count as an injury.”
Meng Xizhao slowly lifted his eyelids, then erupted even more angrily, “You still dare argue with me?!”
Cui Ye: “…………”
Outside the door, Yu Fulan and Zhang Shuogong exchanged a glance, then quietly turned their heads away.
They hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but the wooden palace didn’t block sound well—and with Meng Xizhao in a rage, his voice carried clearly.
Yu Fulan hadn’t intended to say anything, but after listening for a while, he couldn’t help defending Cui Ye. “When the divine physician said ‘injury,’ he meant serious physical wounds. His Highness just bit his tongue to make things more convincing—just a little blood. It’s nothing serious. People bleed all the time. In hot, dry weather, who doesn’t get a nosebleed now and then?”
After speaking, Yu Fulan shifted his stance, feeling uncomfortable standing like that. But just as he moved, he suddenly sensed something. Turning his head, he saw Zhang Shuogong staring at him with a look that clearly said, Are you out of your mind?
Yu Fulan: “……”
He snapped, “What kind of look is that?!”
Zhang Shuogong fired back immediately, “What kind of brain is that?! Do you think everyone’s like you—bleeding all over and no one cares? His Highness’s blood is far more precious than yours! He’s already in poor health—taking even a drop of blood from his tongue is like taking heart’s blood from you! And instead of persuading him, you’re encouraging this—you’ve got some nerve!”
Yu Fulan paused for a second. Instead of getting angry, he suddenly pointed at Zhang Shuogong and burst out triumphantly, “Ah-ha! You called His Highness King Zhou—I heard it! As soon as Lord Meng leaves, I’m telling him!”
Zhang Shuogong: “…………”
A careless mistake.
＊
As for the chaos and groveling at the Crown Prince’s side, there was no need to elaborate.
That evening, the Emperor of Tianshou, with over a dozen needles still in his head, finally woke up. The moment he did, he realized he had no strength at all. His right hand was completely numb—even lifting it was difficult.
Seeing him awake, the dozens of imperial physicians were nearly in tears with relief. Another round of frantic activity followed. Only when the moon stood high in the sky did the Hall of Huaning finally quiet down.
The two chief ministers and the Grand Princess had already left. Of the thirty physicians, only the two most skilled remained; the rest had gone back to burn incense and thank the heavens for sparing their lives. Su Ruocun and the other consorts, after weeping profusely, had also all been dismissed by the Emperor.
Only Qin Feimang, the person he trusted most, remained to recount everything that had happened during the day and night he had been unconscious.
When he heard that the Crown Prince had worried so much he vomited blood, the Emperor showed no reaction.
When he heard that Su Ruocun had tirelessly attended to him, still no reaction.
When he heard that the Princess of Chu had stepped forward decisively to stabilize the palace, still nothing.
But when Qin Feimang mentioned that Grand Tutor Gan had rushed to the palace the night before, been sent back, returned again in the morning, been sent back again, and then came a third time before the Emperor regained consciousness—only leaving on his own—
At that, the Emperor’s motionless eyes finally trembled.
Since waking, he had not spoken. When he finally opened his mouth, he realized even speaking had become difficult.
“Send… send him back!”
“And those… those poems—bring them to me!”
Qin Feimang blinked, completely unable to understand what kind of dangerous content those poems contained. They had already angered the Emperor into illness, yet now, even in this state, he still wanted to read them.
After a brief pause, Qin Feimang bowed deeply. “Yes, this servant will fetch them at once.”
If the physicians had been present, they likely would have refused to bring those offending poems and would have advised the Emperor against it. But unfortunately—they weren’t there.
…
Soon after, the poems—carefully gathered by Qin Feimang after the Emperor collapsed—were brought in.
Most eunuchs were illiterate, to prevent leaks of sensitive information. Qin Feimang, as the head eunuch, naturally could read—but he understood that sometimes ignorance was safer. In this palace, if there was written text, he avoided reading it whenever possible. Even the Analects—he would not spare them a glance.
He respectfully placed the box before the Emperor.
Because his right hand was useless, the Emperor tried several times before reluctantly using his left hand. Qin Feimang attempted to help, but was stopped—almost as if accepting help would cost the Emperor his dignity.
Finally retrieving the yellowed sheet of paper, the Emperor struggled to sit up, leaning against soft cushions, and—almost like self-torment—continued reading the poem.
After such a serious illness, much of his vitality had dissipated. He could no longer summon the same fury as before. Instead, he was able to look at the poem more calmly.
“Jade Palace” referred to the heavenly court—but here, it symbolized the imperial palace.
“Welcoming letter” was the final step of the traditional marriage rites—the groom would prepare it in advance and read it aloud to the bride on the wedding day.
“Brocade splendor” referred to the wedding gown. A bride would begin embroidering it a year in advance, and the wealthier the family, the more elaborate it would be, filled with rich silk threads. Calling it “brocade splendor” was entirely appropriate.
The “Three Stars” refers to the stars appearing above the household—commonly known among the people as an auspicious wedding date. “The Three Stars passing by” means that their originally chosen good day had already slipped away.
Like the Three Stars, wild geese and peach blossoms all symbolize the union between a man and a woman.
The Emperor of Tianshou’s expression remained calm, but his heart felt as though a massive hole had been torn open in it—and cold wind was howling through that hollow.
Every line on that page—every single line—felt like a blade stabbing into his heart.
He still clung to a sliver of hope: perhaps this wasn’t real, perhaps this wasn’t written by Gan Jingyue. But the handwriting… he knew it too well. And the meaning behind the words was far too clear.
Especially the phrase: “This bond is mistaken; wolves are cruel.”
Two years of tenderness, day and night entwined together—he had even considered killing the Empress for her—and in the end, this was how she described him? A wolf?
If it was a mistake, then why didn’t she say so earlier?!
—Wait.
The Emperor’s eyes suddenly went rigid.
It wasn’t that Consort Gan had never shown signs. When she first entered the palace, she had been distant, cold—her gaze toward him like that of an enemy. Later, her attitude changed, and in his joy, he had cast aside all those earlier slights.
Now, he remembered everything.
…So that was the reason?
Because her heart already belonged to someone else, she had treated him coldly at first. And later, when she appeared affectionate—was it only because the Ping family had been driven out of Ying Tian Prefecture, leaving her with no hope, forcing her to feign devotion?
The poem never said any of this.
But in his mind, the Emperor pieced it all together until it felt completely logical.
His useless right hand began trembling again.
Qin Feimang, seeing this, realized he could no longer ignore it. He stepped forward with feigned concern. “Your Majesty, your hand—”
The Emperor finally noticed it—shaking like a claw. He reflexively clenched his fist, but it was limp, powerless.
Fury. Humiliation. And a raging fire in his chest.
He took a deep breath and gave an order:
“Summon Wen Shiji.”
“Investigate! Turn Ying Tian Prefecture upside down if you must—find the truth for me!”
Qin Feimang glanced at his almost feral expression and dared not provoke him. “Yes,” he answered immediately.
Outside, Grand Tutor Gan was once again driven away—but this time, it was by the Emperor’s direct order.
A deep unease rose in his heart.
As he lingered, Commander Wen Shiji arrived. Without even glancing at him, Wen Shiji strode straight into the Hall of Huaning. Watching his back, the old Grand Tutor’s already aged face grew even more troubled. Yet there was nothing he could do but return home in anxious silence.