Because the Tian Shou Emperor had come to recognize the threat posed by Crown Prince Cui Ye, before the sacrificial rites, he frequently summoned the prince to his side, making him listen to Buddhist scriptures together with him. In truth, it was simply a way to keep him under watch—mocking him with veiled barbs while preventing him from contacting court officials.
It was not that the Tian Shou Emperor had failed to notice that the Crown Prince was gradually slipping out of his control. But he had also begun to realize that he himself was, in some ways, losing control as well.
His body was failing, and he trusted almost no one around him. When his half-damaged mind began to act up, he could not stop himself from probing and belittling those around him. Even when he later realized he should not have done so and felt regret, the next time, he would still repeat the same behavior.
One of the aftereffects of a stroke is a drastic change in temperament. In his case, it was relatively mild—some people changed so much they could not even recognize their own mothers. The Tian Shou Emperor, at most, had simply let his true nature show.
Right now, he felt deeply insecure—like a restless beast that had lost its ability to hunt. He urgently needed some kind of action to assert his status, to confirm that he still held the supreme imperial authority firmly in his grasp.
Insisting on personally conducting the sacrifice to Heaven was only the beginning. Once his confidence swelled again, and he realized that no matter what he did, those beneath him would continue to flatter and accommodate him, he would begin proposing even more absurd ideas.
For example—launching a campaign against Dali.
Yes… he had not forgotten about that at all.
Inside Huanning Hall, invited monks from outside struck their wooden fish instruments one after another. The entire hall was thick with smoke, filled with the scent of incense. Cui Ye sat silently to one side, occasionally glancing at the Tian Shou Emperor, who had his eyes closed, swaying slightly, seemingly fully immersed.
Cui Ye had been playing along with him for many days now—from the twelfth lunar month until the present. A person’s patience has its limits. He could act, but unlike Meng Xizhao—who seemed to light up at the mere mention of putting on a performance—he truly had no desire to do so.
Forcing himself to suppress the waves of anger rising within him, Cui Ye curled his lips slightly, maintaining an expression that no one could fault, as he watched those bald monks.
Amid the sound of firecrackers, the seventeenth year of Tian Shou arrived quietly.
Across the entire state of Qi—no, among all the nations and peoples who knew of Qi—there was a shared sense of amazement at this era name.
Who would have thought that the reign title of Qi would ever reach the number seventeen?
They could not help but sincerely marvel—this emperor of Qi was truly good at staying alive.
…
The first day of the new year was the day of the sacrifice to Heaven.
By this time, it was already the Spring Festival, unlike in earlier calendars such as the Yin and Zhou systems, where the new year fell on the winter solstice. When spring arrived and farming could begin, the emperor would then lead another grand ritual.
With the New Year and Spring Festival combined, it was more convenient for the emperor—he only needed to conduct one major ceremony each year.
In the north, everything was still wrapped in silver, the rivers frozen solid without the slightest sign of thaw. But here in Ying Tian Prefecture, the winter jasmine was already on the verge of blooming.
Seventeen years into his reign, aside from his first year, this was the first time the Tian Shou Emperor had taken the sacrificial rites so seriously. Early in the morning, without needing Qin Feimang to wake him, he rose on his own, then solemnly donned the black dragon robe hastily completed by palace embroiderers, and put on the twelve-beaded crown symbolizing the Son of Heaven. Supported by Qin Feimang, he made his way outside the hall.
…
One might ask—why go through all this trouble? Wearing such an outfit that weighed dozens of pounds, he could barely even walk.
After growing accustomed to being emperor, the Tian Shou Emperor rarely wore the ceremonial crown. Like a scholar, he usually wore ordinary caps and headgear. Only on major occasions, or when receiving foreign envoys, would he dress properly. After falling ill, with his health much diminished, he had worn it even less.
Now, as he suddenly put it on, he actually felt his head growing heavier and heavier…
How could it not be heavy? One imperial ceremonial crown alone weighed several jin. It was made of solid gold and silver—heavier than the ones worn by princes and imperial relatives.
And more importantly, Tian Shou Emperor’s injury had been to his head. At this moment, it truly felt like a burden too heavy for life itself to bear.
Seeing him gritting his teeth and enduring it, Qin Feimang wanted to advise him to turn back. But the Tian Shou Emperor was extremely sensitive about this matter—anyone who tried to dissuade him would immediately become an eyesore in his mind.
Grand Councillor Yan had once been injured at home for three days, then returned to preside over court affairs while still wounded. At first, the emperor had felt a bit guilty and treated him more kindly. But soon after, the more he looked at him, the more irritated he became. He even forgot his earlier guilt, instead concluding that Yan Shunying was deliberately parading himself in the palace in such a condition just to show him disrespect.
As for those days, how bitter Yan the Grand Councillor’s experience had been… ah, there was no need to mention it. Even Meng Jiuyu and Situ Huan had stopped targeting him as much, finding him simply pitiful.
There are always people whose confidence is excessively inflated—who believe they are number one in the world, capable of handling anything. Only when the moment truly comes do they suddenly wake up and realize they are, in fact, completely inadequate.
That kind of fool—was exactly Tian Shou Emperor.
…
After half a month of eager preparation, only at this moment did he realize that what the two Grand Councillors had said was correct. Yet he had no pressing obligation forcing him forward. He even began seriously considering whether to simply turn back and cancel this year’s sacrificial rites altogether.
And yes—he had not even thought of handing the responsibility to someone else. Not to the Crown Prince, not even to another imperial prince. After all, all under Heaven were supposed to rely on the emperor to communicate with Heaven itself and pray for a year of favorable weather and smooth harvests.
Perhaps in modern eyes, this was utter superstition and ignorance. But every era had its limitations. The common people here truly believed the emperor was appointed by Heaven, and that his words mattered more than anything else.
They stood humbly at their doorsteps, asking for nothing more than peace of mind.
Even this—Tian Shou Emperor did not take to heart. In his eyes, the sacrificial rite was merely a day for him to display his grandeur. If he did not wish to do it, then he simply would not.
Outside, civil and military officials were already waiting. The sun slowly rose higher. Meng Xizhao lifted his head—he had now adapted to the temporal system of this era. Though he could not yet tell the exact time at a glance, he could estimate it fairly accurately.
…What is he up to now?
He could not help feeling worried that the emperor might simply refuse to come out. But his rank was too low to enter and urge him. He stretched his neck slightly to look forward—and just then, he met eyes with Grand Councillor Situ.
He froze for a moment, unsure why Situ the Grand Councillor was looking at him. They had no real dealings with each other, as far as he could recall.
Even his elder brother only occasionally moved within Minister Jiang’s circles and had no direct contact with Situ the Grand Councillor.
Just as he was wondering, Situ the Grand Councillor calmly turned away again and said a few words to Grand Councillor Yan beside him.
Yan Shunying showed a reluctant expression. But after considering that the old fox might have a point, he did not immediately refuse—rather, he turned and quickly pulled in another person to share the burden.
After the death of Grand Preceptor Gan, the emperor had not appointed a new one. The foremost position in the front row remained vacant, but the one who stepped into prominence was not Meng Jiuyu—it was Geng Wenjin.
Meng Jiuyu still stood in the second row, though fortunately—or perhaps deservedly—he now occupied the foremost position of that row.
…
Grand Councillor Yan exchanged a few more words with him. Meng Jiuyu, unlike Yan Shunying, showed less resistance. After some thought, he nodded.
And so, these three top officials of the court entered together to check on the situation. As for Shang Xiguan and Geng Wenjin, they were not even considered.
Everyone had selfish instincts. Even someone as upright as Grand Councillor Situ would unconsciously favor civil officials and not think to include military officers in everything.
Besides, those two were not in the mood to analyze affairs anyway. The deaths of Cui Shuming and Grand Preceptor Gan had left them feeling a chill down their spines, as though some unseen hand was quietly settling accounts.
As if so-called retribution was truly unfolding step by step.
If they had not known that Zhan Buxiu was behaving quietly in Ying Tian Prefecture and lacked the ability to orchestrate everything, they might have suspected it was his doing.
…
The two men who normally fought like roosters locked in battle had not clashed once since Grand Preceptor Gan’s death.
The emperor still had not appeared, and the officials outside were becoming restless. They whispered among themselves. Meng Xizhao did not join them—he continued staring ahead.
The Crown Prince was also inside and not waiting with the crowd.
After a while, footsteps finally came from within, growing closer and clearer.
Before the sacrificial rite, the emperor was supposed to walk out in front of the officials and say a few words of encouragement, then board the imperial carriage and proceed to the altar outside the palace. The officials, of course, would not be allowed to ride—they had to walk.
And now, the Tian Shou Emperor, forced out after persuasion from the three great ministers, wore an expression of utter unwillingness. The Crown Prince followed behind them at a distance, silent.
From far away, Meng Xizhao could not even see the Crown Prince’s face. Yet the moment that figure shifted slightly, he knew—he was looking in his direction.
Meng Xizhao smiled faintly toward that silhouette, not caring whether it could be seen.
Then he turned his gaze to the Tian Shou Emperor.
No matter what, he would not allow the emperor to complete this Heaven-sacrifice smoothly.
If the emperor was ill, then he should be lying in the palace recovering properly—not going out to perform grand displays of presence.
Blind loyalty was everywhere. He did not want to see those once-dimmed hearts rekindled, their resolve shaken, only to return once again to serving the Tian Shou Emperor.
Meng Xizhao watched his steps carefully. They were slow—painfully slow. He worried briefly that the plan might fail, but the emperor’s gait was also unsteady, trembling slightly. That might only make things easier.
Silently counting the steps in his mind, he finally saw the Tian Shou Emperor step onto the designated stone slab first.
The stone slabs had been coated with oil. In this era, oil types were limited—animal fat would solidify and turn white in cold weather, and although vegetable oil was slightly better, on a cold morning of the first day of the new year, it would still behave the same way.
And at that moment, no one noticed that oil had been applied to the surface. Not even the faint sheen that normally appeared when oil was present could be seen on that stone slab—it showed almost nothing at all.
Because of that, no one realized that this single slab might very well be what killed the Tian Shou Emperor.
In addition to the stone slab, Meng Xizhao had also arranged for the Crown Prince to bribe one of the imperial palace embroiderers and make a small alteration to the emperor’s new shoes.
Footwear worn by nobles at this time were silk shoes, with soles made of silk. As everyone knew, silk was extremely slippery. To prevent slipping, the nobility used various methods—layering multiple sheets to increase friction, or tearing silk into strips and sewing them back together in different directions to create more grip.
What Meng Xizhao had required, however, was simple: the stitching should remain as usual, but the grain direction of the sole had to be unified into a single direction…
As for whether this would cause the emperor to fall to his death—Meng Xizhao honestly did not care very much. If he truly fell and died, that would not be bad either. A ridiculous emperor ought to have a ridiculous end. If he did not die, that was fine too. At this point, everything was ready—only the final push remained.
Under the watchful eyes of the crowd, the Tian Shou Emperor stepped onto that stone slab with a belly full of resentment. Suddenly, his foot slipped.
His entire body pitched backward uncontrollably. His eyes flew wide open in terror as his lower body slid forward while his upper body bent backward into a highly unnatural arch.
In this feudal era, the imperial family had strict protocols regarding their sacred status. One rule was that when walking, no one was ever allowed to be in front of the emperor.
If not for that rule, this plan would have been far more difficult to carry out.
Watching the emperor freeze in a posture resembling a captured comedic snapshot, Meng Xizhao could not help himself—he let out a soft “pfft” of laughter. Fortunately, no one around noticed him, and he quickly suppressed it.
In an instant, everyone rushed forward.
Among them, the Crown Prince was the fastest.
The Tian Shou Emperor’s already fragile head struck again, and he immediately lost consciousness. The Crown Prince hurriedly supported him, then very casually sat down on that same stone slab, leaning against him while calling out “Father Emperor” in a grief-stricken voice. At the same time, he made various involuntary movements—lightly shaking him, shifting restlessly—ensuring that any remaining oil on the slab was thoroughly transferred onto his own robes.
…
What a situation—one crisis after another. On the first day of the new year, something like this had actually happened. Everyone was thoroughly shocked. Some even began whispering whether this was an omen from Heaven.
As the Imperial Secretariat rushed to summon imperial physicians, the Crown Prince stood up and declared that he would personally escort the emperor back to Huanning Hall. The officials each harbored their own thoughts, but at this moment, none of them voiced them aloud.
Except for one person.
Meng Xizhao, who had kept a low profile for several months, finally chose not to remain silent. Standing outside the circle, he raised his voice so that everyone could hear:
“Your Highness! The sacrificial rite to Heaven must not be canceled!”
Who said it was being canceled?
No one had said that. The emperor was being taken back for treatment first. Once the situation was assessed, the ritual could still proceed in the afternoon. After all, this was already the third time the emperor had fainted. Who knew whether he would even survive? If he did not, there would be no need for a sacrifice at all—everyone might as well prepare mourning garments and begin crying in the palace.
Under normal circumstances, this would be the logical conclusion. But this was a sudden incident, and everyone had been caught off guard. Without a central authority, when someone suddenly spoke with certainty and force, human psychology would cause most people—eighty percent of them—to unconsciously follow that line of thought.
Even if they had not yet agreed, the mere act of considering it was enough. And in that short window of hesitation, the idea had already begun to solidify into reality.
The Crown Prince clearly showed hesitation as well. At this moment, a discerning person could already see through him—he was not nearly as concerned about the emperor as he pretended to be. But who cared?
The sacrifice to Heaven was a major state affair. Those who had already aligned themselves with the Crown Prince—or intended to—immediately realized this was the perfect opportunity to show loyalty.
Thus, voices of support rose one after another, urging the Crown Prince to assume responsibility for the ritual.
As for the emperor… yes, he would probably be furious upon waking. But this was already his third collapse. Even if he recovered, he would no longer have the strength to control anything.
The new court of a new era was always this pragmatic.
Of course, there were those who found the Crown Prince’s performative grief unsightly. But people’s thoughts were never uniform. If one insisted on pleasing everyone, that person must have something seriously wrong with them.
…
So, under repeated urging—and even some exaggerated weeping pleas—the Crown Prince finally agreed. Still, he did not forget the emperor, insisting that the ritual would proceed only after the imperial physicians had examined him.
The lower-ranking officials were sent to the Waiting Hall. Those of higher rank returned inside; first and second rank officials waited within, while third rank and below stood outside.
Meng Xizhao, a third-rank official: “…”
Shang Xiguan was inside, but kept glancing outward. When he saw Zhan Buxiu leave the military ranks and approach Meng Xizhao to speak with him, he still could not quite accept the scene.
The son of Zhan Shenyou and the son of Meng Jiuyu actually getting along—what difference was there between that and a weasel befriending a chicken?
He even imagined, with some malice, that Meng Xizhao—a frivolous nobleman rotten at the root—would one day betray Zhan Buxiu completely and bring ruin upon him and his entire family.
Unfortunately for him, reality disappointed that expectation.
The two of them were already close enough to share a single set of trousers.
Zhan Buxiu asked, “Was it you?”
He did not finish the sentence, but Meng Xizhao understood. He smiled slightly in response—enough to answer.
Zhan Buxiu looked at him, then glanced toward the doors of Huanning Hall, frowning. “You’ve got some nerve.”
Meng Xizhao shrugged. “I’ve heard that a lot.”
Zhan Buxiu seemed to want to ask whether there might be any oversight in the plan, but there were too many people around, so he held back.
Inside, the imperial physicians performed a joint consultation on the spot. Since it was the first day of the new year, they were all “on duty.”
Their conclusion was that the emperor was not suffering another stroke, so his life was not in immediate danger. However, given that he had only recently recovered from a major illness, this fall would still not be easy for him to bear.
The Crown Prince distilled everything down to one key point—there was no danger to the Emperor’s life. He then put on a visibly relieved expression, thanked the imperial physicians, and went to inform the ministers. After delivering the news, he watched as they too relaxed—yet he did not leave, simply standing there, smiling at them.
The ministers looked at one another.
It was Meng Jiuyu who first grasped his meaning. He quickly stepped forward. “Since His Majesty is unharmed, may I request that Your Highness proceed to preside over the Heaven Worship ceremony!”
Only then did the Crown Prince give a reserved nod. “Since all my ministers request it, I cannot very well refuse. From here on, I must trouble you all to keep constant watch over my words and conduct, lest I offend the Heavens.”
With that, he gave the ministers a slight bow—maintaining the dignity of a Crown Prince while fully displaying humility.
The ministers watched him in silence.
Although… none of them were truly fooled. They already knew his nature was far from simple. Yet seeing him adopt such a posture still made them feel, inevitably, quite comfortable.
At the very least, far more comfortable than standing before the Emperor.
Thinking of it that way—if the Crown Prince were to ascend the throne, he likely would not change too quickly. Given his temperament, he could probably maintain the appearance of a wise ruler for several years…
They were not young anymore. If they could retire under a virtuous monarch, their posthumous reputations would surely soar severalfold.
…Wait. Why did they suddenly feel like they did not want the Emperor to wake up?
Qin Feimang: “…”
He was stunned for a moment, staring at Cui Ye. Cui Ye, calm and composed, met his gaze and even gave him a faint smile.
Meng Xizhao sat nearby, crunching on fruit as if none of this concerned him.
Qin Feimang: “…………”
Maybe he had not noticed it at first, but half a year had passed. The Crown Prince had gone from frail and sickly to vigorous and full of color. If he still could not see through this now, then he really ought to consult a physician himself.
Back then, Cui Ye had been pale and insubstantial. Pretending to be ill had been easy—no one could tell whether he was truly sick. But now? To speak irreverently, with his current condition, even managing ten women in a night would not be a problem. Claiming illness at this point was simply too much.
He tried to express his hesitation through his eyes, but neither the Crown Prince nor Meng Xizhao showed any intention of changing their minds. In the end, Qin Feimang could only swallow his words and return to report, burdened with immense pressure.
He did not even need to stand before the Emperor to know how furious he would be after hearing this.
…
After he left, Meng Xizhao finished his fruit, wiped his hands, and said, “I should head back as well.”
The previously composed Crown Prince immediately frowned, like a discarded lover. “So early? Did you not say you would stay with me longer today?”
Meng Xizhao stood as he answered, “If I do not return soon, my family will grow suspicious.”
…The more it was said, the more it sounded like a secret affair.
Cui Ye fell silent, staring at the candlelight, lost in thought. Meng Xizhao was not afraid of angering him—after all, in his eyes, Cui Ye had the gentlest temperament in the world.
But he was wary of him making quiet moves behind the scenes.
Recalling past experiences, Meng Xizhao eyed him suspiciously. It felt too easy for him to give in. Yet when Cui Ye turned his head, whatever emotion might have aroused suspicion was already gone.
He personally picked up Meng Xizhao’s cloak, tied it for him, and looked at him quietly, as if memorizing him to endure the coming loneliness.
Softly, he said, “Do not linger on your way back. Many people will be setting off firecrackers tonight. Tell your servant to stay alert—do not let the horse be startled.”
Meng Xizhao, someone who yielded to gentleness rather than force, felt reluctant to leave upon hearing this. But he had no choice. Leaning forward, he hugged Cui Ye, resting briefly against his chest and breathing in the familiar medicinal scent that calmed him.
Reluctant as he was, he still pushed away the Crown Prince, who had been about to untie his cloak again. Before leaving, he paused and asked, “Captain Yu should be fine, right?”
Cui Ye replied, “No need to worry about him. Yu Fulan entered the Eastern Palace at twelve. It is a dye vat—anyone who survives here long-term is no ordinary person.”
Meng Xizhao raised a brow. “That includes you?”
Cui Ye smiled. “Naturally. I am among the finest.”
＊
Deep into the night, both Meng Xizhao and Cui Ye were already asleep. Only Yu Fulan was still laboring, trailing after Wen Shiji as they investigated the matter.
Yu Fulan’s excuse was that His Highness cared deeply about the Emperor, so he wished to share the burden. Wen Shiji did not quite believe him, but since he insisted on following, he did not drive him away.
The physical evidence had already been cleaned up. The shoes had been replaced by Qin Feimang, and the brick that had been tampered with had been wiped clean by a young eunuch.
But no crime is perfect. Dig deep enough, and traces will always remain.
The first trace Wen Shiji found was a faint, indescribable smell lingering on the brick.
The moment he detected it, his gaze sharpened. He was already certain this was deliberate—and he immediately prepared to report back to the Emperor.
Yu Fulan could not allow that. He blocked him, insisting that such a faint odor proved nothing. If they were to investigate, they should do so thoroughly, uncover the mastermind, and only then report.
Wen Shiji remained unmoved and ordered him to step aside.
Yu Fulan refused.
Their subordinates nearby were completely confused, unable to understand the situation.
Wen Shiji’s anger began to rise. He even drew his blade in warning, telling Yu Fulan that if he did not move, he would subdue him.
At the sound of the blade leaving its sheath, Yu Fulan froze, staring at the cold glint of steel. Then he looked up and said:
“You think I do not know what you are thinking?”
Wen Shiji frowned.
“You insist on reporting now because you believe the Crown Prince did this, do you not?”
“…I never said that.”
“But if you return now, everyone else will think so.”
“That is their concern, not mine.”
Yu Fulan let out a cold laugh. “Of course—it has nothing to do with you. Back then it had nothing to do with you. Now it still has nothing to do with you. I truly…”
He paused, as if suddenly disillusioned, then lowered his eyes and said in a tone of quiet despair:
“I was a fool to think you had changed.”
Wen Shiji froze, his grip on the blade tightening.
“Back then, I did not—”
“Enough. I do not want to hear it! If you have the ability, then step over me the same way you stepped over my father’s corpse back then. Otherwise, you are not leaving here today—not even half a step! I will not allow anyone to humiliate His Highness again!”
To bear a lifetime of infamy and claim not to care was impossible. No matter how stone-like Wen Shiji seemed, he was still human.
—
He had endured it silently before—he was used to it. But after Yu Fulan had taken the initiative to show goodwill, even generously saying he had come to understand that it had never been Wen Shiji’s fault, Wen Shiji had felt a great weight lift from his heart.
It was easy to go from frugality to luxury, but hard to go back again.
Now, facing the nearly desperate, hatred-filled gaze of his superior’s son, Wen Shiji felt deeply unsettled.
…
After an unknown stretch of time, he slowly sheathed his blade, turned around, and ordered his men:
“Bring me every palace servant who passed through here yesterday and today.”
His subordinates: “…………”
It was the first time they had ever seen Wen Shiji change his mind. They were stunned. When they failed to move, he frowned at them.
“Did you not hear me?”
They snapped back to attention and hurried off at once.
Only then did Wen Shiji turn to look at Yu Fulan—who had already turned his head away, refusing to look at him. When Wen Shiji took a step closer, Yu Fulan immediately stepped aside, as if even standing near him was unbearable.
Wen Shiji: “…”
He stopped moving.
Yu Fulan, watching him from the corner of his eye, quietly let out a breath of relief.
Lord Meng had said his task was simply to stall Wen Shiji. It did not matter what he discovered—as long as he could delay him.
At first, Yu Fulan had thought it would be easy. Only now did he realize how difficult it truly was.
He could not help but sigh. Compared to tormenting his conscience, he much preferred simply cutting someone’s throat.
…
＊
On the other side, as expected, the Emperor flew into a rage after being lightly refused by Cui Ye.
His wings had hardened—absolutely hardened! Nothing had even happened yet, and he already dared to defy an imperial command!
What nonsense about fearing to pass on illness—just an excuse!
When the Emperor grew angry, everyone in Huaning Hall suffered. It was the middle of the night, the ministers had all returned home, and there was no one to soothe him. So they summoned Consort Su to calm him down.
It had to be said—the Emperor’s vitality was astonishing.
Anyone else, subjected to repeated poisonings, sabotage, and deliberate provocation, would have long since suffered a ruptured vessel and died. But the Emperor endured, even continuing to torment others.
When Su Ruocun arrived, she spoke gently, trying to persuade him for a long time. But he was too enraged to listen. In his irritation, he even shoved her off the bed, sending her crashing to the floor.
The attendants rushed to help her, but she refused. She rose on her own and humbly apologized. The Emperor ignored her completely, his face flushed an unhealthy red, his chest heaving. The physicians had just prescribed a calming draught, but he refused to drink it, instead endlessly cursing the Crown Prince.
After observing him for a while, Su Ruocun suddenly felt this was a good opportunity.
She stepped forward and softly suggested that if the medicine was too bitter, she could prepare some sweets to help him take it. Hearing this, the Emperor finally deigned to glance at her and gave a curt acknowledgment.
Smiling, she withdrew.
That night, Wen Shiji was not present. There were no outsiders in the palace. The Emperor had just been provoked into such a rage—if anything were to happen to him now, no one would find it strange.
After about a quarter of an hour, Su Ruocun returned with fried pastries filled with sweet red bean paste—so sweet that no one, not even a dog, could detect anything unusual.
She personally attended to the Emperor, watching as he drank the medicine—and ate the pastry.
She did not know the exact effect of the drug, so she did not dare leave immediately. Since the Emperor had fallen ill, he had not shared a bed with anyone. She went to rest briefly in a side hall, but once inside, she could not sleep.
Time passed little by little.
At some unknown hour, a sudden crash sounded from outside.
Su Ruocun sprang to her feet and rushed out without waiting for assistance. She saw the Emperor rolling his eyes, his throat making a rasping, bellows-like sound. He pounded his chest violently—but after only two strikes, he lost consciousness.
Her eyes widened in shock—an entirely genuine reaction. No one could tell that she had been the one to administer the drug.
The fourth time.
The Emperor had collapsed four times now…
The first and second times had caused panic. But by now—even the eunuchs sweeping outside had grown accustomed. As some rushed to summon the physicians, others were already thinking ahead: once the Emperor died, should they spend some silver to transfer elsewhere? Huaning Hall was full of talent—there was no room to advance here.
Yet moments later, the first to arrive was not the physicians—but the Crown Prince, who had supposedly caught a chill.
With a group of attendants, he hurried inside to see the Emperor. Outside, led by Zhang Shuogong, his men swiftly surrounded Huaning Hall.
A young eunuch was stunned. He thought the Crown Prince was taking advantage of the situation to force his way to the throne—but the Crown Prince’s men merely stood guard, not preventing anyone from entering or leaving. No one could understand what he was doing.
The physicians arrived only a moment later. By the time they entered, the Emperor had already begun to regain consciousness. The moment he opened his eyes, he saw the Crown Prince by his bedside, looking deeply concerned.
Fury surged within him. He raised a hand to curse him—but when the words reached his throat, he realized—
He could not make a sound.
Not a single one.
Everyone stared at him, watching as his face turned purple-red. They could not understand why he was pointing at the Crown Prince, wearing an expression that looked almost… constipated.
Their confusion only deepened his panic.
And then, watching his distress, Su Ruocun suddenly understood.