Emperor Tianshou still sat motionless at the head of his bed.
If this were an illustrated tale, his brilliance would already have faded.
Qin Feimang stood quietly at his side, neither speaking nor moving. The old letter still lay nearby, though the emperor no longer looked at it, his expression vacant.
He refused to see any officials, and Qin Feimang had sent them all away. A eunuch reported from outside that Consort Su Shuyi had come, bringing medicinal cuisine for the emperor.
Qin Feimang assumed the emperor would not wish to see any concubines either, so he told the eunuch to send her away.
Unexpectedly, upon hearing the name “Su Shuyi,” the dimness in Emperor Tianshou’s eyes flickered.
He spoke:
“Let—”
After so long without speaking, even his ability to form words seemed to falter.
Cui Ye opened his mouth. He already knew things had gone badly, but he had been awake for nearly a full day and night, and the person in front of him was someone he never guarded against—someone he loved. Even if he wanted to think, his mind simply would not turn. He could only answer on instinct.
“It was me. I bit my tongue and faked it.”
Meng Xizhao said, “The divine physician gave you three prohibitions during your detoxification period. What are they?”
Cui Ye: “…First, avoid heavy tonics. Second, avoid great anger. Third, avoid injury.”
Meng Xizhao glared at him. “You knew that, and you still did this?!”
Cui Ye looked at him silently. After quite a while, he carefully pointed out, “But, Second Young Master… biting my tongue doesn’t count as an injury.”
Meng Xizhao slowly lifted his eyelids, then erupted with even greater fury: “You still dare to argue with me?!”
Cui Ye: “…………”
Outside the door, Yu Fulan and Zhang Shuogong exchanged a glance, then silently turned their heads away.
They did not want to eavesdrop, but the wooden palace did little to block sound—and Meng Xizhao, being in the middle of his anger, was not exactly quiet.
Yu Fulan had not intended to speak, but after listening for a while, he could not help defending Cui Ye. “What the divine physician meant by ‘injury’ was serious external wounds. His Highness only bit his tongue to make things more convincing, drawing a bit of blood from the tip. It is nothing serious. People bleed all the time. When the weather is dry and hot, who does not get a nosebleed now and then?”
After speaking, Yu Fulan shifted his stance, feeling uncomfortable from standing too long. Just as he was about to change posture, he suddenly sensed something. Turning his head, he saw Zhang Shuogong looking at him with a gaze that clearly said, “Are you out of your mind?”
Yu Fulan: “……”
Annoyed, he snapped, “What kind of look is that?!”
Zhang Shuogong immediately shot back, “What kind of brain is that?! Do you think everyone is like you—bleeding all over the place and no one cares? His Highness’s blood is worth more than all the blood in your body! His Highness is already frail. Taking even a bit of blood from the tip of his tongue is like taking your heart’s blood! Not only do you not help persuade him, you even encourage it—what audacity!”
Yu Fulan paused for a second. Instead of getting angry, he suddenly pointed at Zhang Shuogong and let out a triumphant “Aha!”
“You called His Highness King Zhou. I heard it! Once Lord Meng leaves, I will report this to His Highness immediately!”
Zhang Shuogong: “…………”
A careless mistake.
＊
As for the chaos around the Crown Prince—how everyone scrambled, flattered, and humbled themselves—there is no need to go into detail.
That night, with more than a dozen needles still stuck in his head, the Emperor Tianshou finally woke.
The moment he awoke, he realized he had no strength. His right arm was completely numb—he could barely lift it.
Seeing him regain consciousness, the dozens of imperial physicians were nearly moved to tears of joy. Another flurry of activity followed, and it was not until the moon stood high in the sky that Huaning Hall finally quieted 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 home to burn incense and thank the gods for sparing their lives. Su Ruocun and the other consorts, after a round of tearful displays, were all dismissed by the Emperor, leaving only Qin Feimang—his most trusted attendant—to remain and recount everything that had happened during the day and night of his collapse.
When he heard that the Crown Prince had been so worried he vomited blood, the Emperor showed no reaction.
When he heard that Su Ruocun had tirelessly attended to matters without even changing her clothes, he still showed no reaction.
When he heard that the Princess of Chu had stepped forward decisively to stabilize the palace, he remained unmoved.
But when he heard that Grand Preceptor Gan had rushed into the palace last night, had been sent away, returned again this morning only to be dismissed again, and had come yet a third time before the Emperor awakened—though this time he left on his own—
—and now, having heard that the Emperor had awakened, might come yet again—
Qin Feimang spoke neutrally, without any personal bias.
The Emperor listened expressionlessly. Finally, his eyes—seemingly incapable of movement—trembled slightly.
Since waking, he had not spoken a word. When he finally opened his mouth, he discovered even speaking had become difficult.
“Tell… tell him to go back!”
“Bring… bring those poems… to me!”
Qin Feimang blinked, utterly unable to understand what kind of deadly thing those poems contained. They had already angered the Emperor into illness, and now, in such a state, he still wished to see them.
After a brief silence, Qin Feimang bowed deeply. “Yes. This servant will fetch them at once.”
Had the physicians been present, they likely would not have allowed the poems—the very cause of the Emperor’s illness—to be brought in, and would have urged him to refrain. But unfortunately, they were not there.
…
A short while later, the poems—collected by Qin Feimang after the Emperor’s collapse—were brought in.
Most palace attendants were illiterate, to prevent them from leaking secrets. Qin Feimang, as the head eunuch, could not be illiterate—but he understood that sometimes, not knowing how to read was the safest option. Thus, within the palace, whenever it came to written text, he avoided reading whenever possible. Even the Analects, he would not spare a second glance.
He respectfully placed the box before the Emperor.
Because his right hand lacked strength, after several attempts, the Emperor had no choice but to use his left hand. Qin Feimang tried to assist him, but was stopped—almost as though accepting help would be a humiliation.
Finally retrieving the yellowed letter, the Emperor struggled to sit up, leaning against the cushions, and began reading the lyric again—as though inflicting pain upon himself.
The severe illness had drained much of his vitality. He could no longer muster anger, and instead was able to view the letter with a colder clarity.
“Jade Palace” referred to the heavenly court—but here, it meant the imperial palace.
“Welcoming Letter” was the final step of the six marriage rites, written in advance by the groom and read aloud on the wedding day.
“Brocade” referred to the bridal gown, embroidered over the course of a year by the bride herself. The wealthier the family, the more elaborate the gown—hence, calling it “brocade” was perfectly fitting.
Madam Guan glanced back as well, taking a look at the Sixth Prince in the distance. She smiled slightly. “This servant will go at once.”
＊
Lately, Meng Xizhao had been unusually idle. Aside from cracking down on the trades of gambling, prostitution, and drugs, there was almost no trouble to deal with. With the Emperor’s health in decline, any household with even a bit of influence had tightened up their behavior. No one knew exactly what was wrong with the Emperor—better to stay cautious.
The idle young nobles had all been ordered back home. In the past, whenever Meng Xizhao went to the yamen, there would always be a few cases requiring his personal judgment. Recently, even those had disappeared. So today, he returned early and sat on the “Chinese-style sofa” he had ordered his servants to rush-build, leisurely drinking tea.
The sofa had a solid wood frame, a deerskin exterior, and was stuffed with a large amount of cotton.
Cotton did not have the resilience of sponge; once you sat down, it would sink. Still, it was far more comfortable than a chaise lounge with only a thin mattress. Since it was the first attempt, Meng Xizhao did not have them make it too large—just a single-seat piece, shaped like a crown. But when the finished product appeared, all the servants in the residence fell silent.
What… exactly was this?
In a world governed by Confucian ideals, such designs—made purely for comfort and indulgence—simply did not exist. People were taught to stand like a pine tree and sit like a bell. Yet the moment Meng Xizhao sank into this so-called “soft chair,” his entire body collapsed into it. He closed his eyes in contentment, as if all the bones in his body had melted away.
Even Qingfu could not bear to look at it. He immediately asked Meng Xizhao to get up, then had the “soft chair” moved into his bedroom—placed in the innermost room, tucked into the farthest corner.
Meng Xizhao: “……”
Really? It is just a sofa. You are acting like it is some kind of indecent object.
…Wait.
…………
When the Crown Prince arrived, he studied this newly made, strange piece of furniture. Blinking, he suddenly chuckled.
Meng Xizhao, already feeling a bit guilty, snapped his head toward him in alarm. “What are you thinking?”
The Crown Prince paused. “I was thinking that Second Young Master always comes up with unusual ideas.”
He hesitated, then looked at him and asked slowly, “Why do you look like that? What do you think I was thinking?”
Meng Xizhao: “……”
He changed the subject, his expression outwardly calm as he deliberately walked back into the side hall. Sitting at the round table, he asked, “How is His Majesty?”
Cui Ye looked at him suspiciously, then turned his head. Under Meng Xizhao’s slightly tense gaze, he glanced once more at the sofa before finally sitting down beside him.
“He woke this morning. Chief Physician Zhang says this is a minor episode following the previous stroke. After a stroke, minor episodes are inevitable. As long as there is no major relapse, he should be fine.”
“Stroke”—in traditional medicine, this referred to what was commonly called windstroke.
Meng Xizhao gave a faint laugh. “Does he know why this minor episode came so quickly?”
Cui Ye smiled. “Of course not. Before the imperial physicians rushed in, Eunuch Qin had already put everything away. When Father Emperor wakes, he will likely be very grateful for that decision.”
Meng Xizhao stroked his smooth chin, deep in thought.
Letting everyone know the contents of that lyric had its advantages—the Emperor would be utterly humiliated, exposed for his misplaced devotion and metaphorical cuckolding. But the downside was that Grand Preceptor Gan would also learn the truth. That old man was full of schemes; no one could predict what he might do to prove Consort Gan’s innocence.
Better to keep it hidden for now. Once the Gan family was finished, it would not be too late to reveal everything.
Ever since people began making pottery at Xianrendong, humanity’s love of gossip had never ceased—especially matters involving the romantic entanglements of an emperor. Such stories could be discussed for thousands of years.
How could Meng Xizhao possibly give up the chance to “immortalize” the Emperor’s reputation? Not only would he spread it—he would spread it far and wide. He would even replace the term “cuckoldry” itself. In the future, whenever people spoke of infidelity, they would speak of “the big willow tree.”
Imagining that scene, Meng Xizhao could not help but snort with laughter.
Cui Ye: “……”
Second Young Master’s tendency to burst into laughter at random really was difficult to understand.
Meng Xizhao rubbed his cheeks and grew serious again. “Yesterday, Jin Zhu saw Wen Shiji bringing people here. This morning, the Ping family’s residence has already been sealed.”
Cui Ye: “Oh? Then General Shang must know as well.”
Meng Xizhao: “But he has held high office for many years. He should know what to ask—and what not to ask.”
Cui Ye smiled. “Indeed.”
“If he keeps his head down, Father Emperor will have no reason to act against him. Are you planning to let him off, Second Young Master?”
Meng Xizhao suddenly looked up.
Seeing the teasing in Cui Ye’s expression, Meng Xizhao let out a restrained huff. But he could not hold it. His heart itched, and there was no one else around. He had already embarrassed himself in front of Cui Ye more than once—one more time would not matter.
With that thought, his burden vanished. Lifting his chin proudly, his dramatic flair flared up again.
“Let him off? You underestimate me. Tomorrow, I will turn his Shang Xiguan into ‘Ascending to the Western Heavens’!”
Cui Ye: “…………”
Wonderful, wonderful. Let me applaud you.
……
＊
Though Meng Xizhao had spoken boldly in front of Cui Ye…
Tomorrow was definitely not possible.
The Emperor had not yet recovered, and Wen Shiji would have to enter the palace again to report his findings. How could the Emperor possibly have the mood to receive Meng Xizhao?
And even if he did, Meng Xizhao would not dare go in while the Emperor was in such a volatile state. At a time like this, the Emperor was liable to lash out indiscriminately. One wrong glance, and he might end up being hated for no reason.
As it turned out… things unfolded exactly as Meng Xizhao had expected.
No matter how much the Emperor speculated, he still clung to a sliver of hope—that Wen Shiji would tell him it was all a mistake, a false alarm.
But Wen Shiji had completed the investigation.
The old letter had originally been hidden in a residence along the Eighty-Li River—a property belonging to the Ping family’s old estate. When workers from the Ministry of Works were repairing the old house, they discovered a wooden box beneath a bed. Inside, this letter had been carefully preserved.
However, the workers were poorly educated. They could tell it was a lyric, but could not understand its meaning. So they threw it out with the rest of the rubbish—while keeping the wooden box for themselves as a little extra gain.
As for the commoner who had picked up that sheet of paper, Wen Shiji never found him—and had no way to. So many people passed by the Eighty-Li River, and without any surveillance, who could possibly know which idle hand had picked it up? In any case, that person likely had some literacy, thought the lyric was good, and sold it off to a hanger-on who specialized in entertaining young noblemen. And among all his clients, who was more suitable to be taken advantage of than that wealthy fool of a young prince?
And so, through this chain of exchanges, the lyric ended up in the anonymous poetry society.
A string of coincidences had led to the current outcome. Even someone like Wen Shiji, who did not believe much in fate, began to suspect that this was heaven’s will at work.
As for whether these “coincidences” had been deliberately orchestrated—he found that highly unlikely.
That old letter had passed through too many hands. If anything had gone wrong at any point, it would never have reached the Emperor. Who could possibly have the energy—or the ability—to arrange something so precise?
Meanwhile, Meng Xizhao—who practically managed every detail of the capital like an all-seeing eye—sneezed suddenly.
The Emperor Tianshou, too, felt as though fate was mocking him.
It was as if the heavens wanted him to realize just how blind he had been—so they had gone through all this trouble to deliver this evidence directly into his hands.
Once a person believes something, they can rationalize even the most unreasonable details.
For instance—how did this lyric leave the palace?
Because he had granted Consort Gan supreme favor. Her mother could enter the palace to visit her at any time. When she grew bored, she could leave the palace with attendants to visit her family. During festivals, he even took her out personally to view lanterns. On Qixi, he would go incognito with her, revisiting the place where they first met.
The people in Consort Gan’s palace could also leave freely, purchasing delicacies and goods from outside. Delivering a letter would have been effortless.
And why did the lyric appear in the Ping family’s old residence?
Because Ping Sanlang was utterly inferior—cowardly, ignorant, selfish, and foolish. He knew that if the letter were discovered, not only outsiders but even his own family would want him dead. So after receiving it, he secretly hid it beneath a bed in the old family home. He believed no one would ever find it—and for years, no one did.
If not for the complete downfall of the Ping family and the reassignment of the residence, the Emperor might never have learned in his lifetime that his beloved consort had once written such a deeply affectionate poem to another man.
Once all the gaps were filled in, what had originally been only “eight parts true” became “ten parts true” in his mind—leaving the Emperor utterly convinced.
After the minor episode, the physicians feared another relapse and administered strong medicine. In the short term, he would not collapse again—but the side effect was like a final burst of vitality before decline. Suddenly full of strength, he flew into a rage, smashing everything in Huaning Hall.
Qin Feimang knelt on the ground, tears streaming down his face, pleading with him to calm himself—for the sake of his health.
Wen Shiji, though the Emperor’s most loyal subject, was utterly useless when it came to words.
…
So he could only stand there blankly, watching the Emperor’s fury. And when the Emperor saw that expression, it was like lighting a fuse—he exploded and drove Wen Shiji out.
The Emperor seemed to have lost his mind. Even Qin Feimang remained kneeling, unable to rise. The other attendants were terrified. The Emperor himself did not realize that he now resembled a mindless, raging specter. All he knew was hatred.
Hatred—hatred—hatred!
He hated the heavens—for letting him meet Gan Jingyue, for letting him be deceived by her, and after deceiving him for so many years, revealing the truth now!
He hated himself—for failing to see the true nature of the woman beside him, for believing her sweet words, for offering his sincere heart only to have it trampled upon with pride and contempt—while he, like a fool, believed their love was mutual!
And most of all, he hated Gan Jingyue—that venomous woman, that wretched creature, that snake-hearted harlot who deserved to die!
She had toyed with him, treated him like a beast! She loved another, yet feigned such deep affection toward him—why?!
Yes—she had stirred chaos in his harem, bullied his consorts, caused the deaths of his concubines, and even dared to aspire to become Empress!
Empress—
When she first entered the palace, she had never mentioned such ambitions. Only after bearing the Sixth Prince did she begin repeatedly hinting that she wished to become his true wife, rather than remain merely a consort.
At the time, the Emperor had believed it was because she loved him too deeply—unable to tolerate that the position of his principal wife belonged to another woman. And if she did not love him, why would she be so eager to become Empress?
The answer was simple—she was thinking of her family, her son, and herself.
Just not of him.
…
The Emperor’s expression turned vacant.
No wonder she could watch him stand against the entire court without changing her stance—only weeping and saying she did not understand why so many people despised her. He had pitied her, and so he had refused to yield, confronting the entire court on her behalf—until even his throne was nearly shaken.
If she had truly loved him, how could she have allowed him to suffer like that? Should she not have yielded, as Su Ruocun would have done?
See—this was what happened when a “white moonlight” became “mosquito blood.” When a man loved a woman, her willfulness and arrogance were charming. When he no longer loved her, those same traits became cruelty and ill intent.
The same person—two completely different interpretations. And both seemed perfectly reasonable.
“AHHHHHHHHH—!”
From Huaning Hall came the Emperor’s anguished, furious roar. Those nearby trembled in fear, not daring to even breathe too loudly, afraid of becoming casualties of imperial wrath.
But the Emperor’s fury did not last long.
In his reckless outburst, he burned through the medicinal effects that the physicians had painstakingly stabilized within him.
And then—he collapsed.
Not unconscious, but utterly drained, lying on the bed, weak and lifeless, as though he had aged ten years in an instant.
Although his anger had subsided somewhat, his volatile temperament had become even more pronounced. In just a single hour, six attendants in Huanning Hall were dragged out—only beaten, not killed. Emperor Tianshou had never been fond of slaughter; that alone could be considered one of his virtues.
However, it was also a flaw. Because he did not personally enjoy killing, the number of lives indirectly lost because of him still reached into the hundreds of thousands. That made him all the more detestable.
Qin Feimang understood very well: not being bloodthirsty now did not mean he would not become so in the future. Aside from the second emperor of the Cui imperial dynasty—the eccentric tyrant—most emperors only underwent a drastic change in temperament after a serious illness or as they aged, shifting from benevolent to brutal, from generous to suspicious.
He knew this, yet he was powerless to change anything.
He could only divert this thunderous wrath onto others, using it to protect himself.
Qin Feimang still had some conscience. He knew Su Ruocun belonged to Meng Xizhao, so he did not think of her first. Instead, he planned to suggest to Emperor Tianshou that Consort Shu be assigned to take care of him. However, the emperor was currently too fragile. The moment he thought of Consort Shu’s childlike temperament, he lost the desire to see her at all.
After a moment of thought, he instead ordered Qin Feimang to summon Su Ruocun.
Su Ruocun and Wen Shiji were both loyal to him; he trusted only them.
Lying in bed, he did not see the shocked expression Qin Feimang revealed upon hearing his words. And Qin Feimang would not let him notice it either—he quickly lowered his head and answered in a steady voice.
After stepping out, he sent other eunuchs to find the person, while Qin Feimang himself stood beneath the night sky outside Huanning Hall, slowly processing the shock in his heart.
Good heavens.
Although Meng Xizhao had not recreated a Su Consort who haunted the emperor’s dreams, he had taken a completely different approach and created a Su Shuyi whom the emperor trusted deeply!
True love had already changed its form, but trust could endure forever.
Impressive. Truly impressive.
The night was already deep, yet Su Ruocun arrived astonishingly quickly, as if she had not been asleep at all. She did not even need to change or dress herself—she simply came as she was.
Her face remained flawless, as solemn and composed as ever. At the entrance, she met Qin Feimang and even exchanged greetings with him, since he held an extraordinary status in the palace. Even though she was a Shuyi, she still needed to maintain good relations with him.
But this time, Qin Feimang did not wait for her to speak first. Instead, he took the initiative to greet her—and there was a subtle change in his attitude.
Su Ruocun paused inwardly, but her expression remained unchanged as she smiled faintly.
After entering, she sat beside Emperor Tianshou. Naturally, she took his hand and looked at him with her usual gaze—filled with admiration and reverence. However, when the emperor met her eyes, his reaction was different from what Qin Feimang had expected.
Upon seeing Su Ruocun, he did not show relief. Instead, he stared at her with a dark, oppressive gaze.
Su Ruocun showed a hint of panic, though she still maintained composure.
After an unknown length of time, the hall fell into complete silence. Suddenly, Emperor Tianshou spoke.
“How deeply do you cherish me?”
The smile on Su Ruocun’s face froze for a moment. Under his snake-like stare, she slowly lowered the corners of her lips.
It seemed she sensed his unease and distrust. She did not know how to prove herself; a simple answer would not be enough to express her sincerity.
She fell silent for a moment. The emperor waited in silence as well.
Finally, she spoke.
“As long as Your Majesty is well, I am well. If Your Majesty is not well, then I shall follow you in death. Whether it is a white silk cord or a cup of poisoned wine, I will continue to serve Your Majesty in the afterlife.”
Qin Feimang: “…………”
He silently lowered his head, barely managing to hide his widened eyes.
Do you even realize what you just said?
Do you realize that once those words are spoken, your life is no longer your own?
If the emperor truly demands your burial in death, even Meng Xizhao would not be able to save you!
Yet Su Ruocun seemed entirely unconcerned. She looked at Emperor Tianshou calmly.
After a long silence, Emperor Tianshou suddenly turned to Qin Feimang, who was pretending to be invisible.
“Bring me the imperial decree.”
Qin Feimang: “…………”
He’s really going to write it?!
The next words from Emperor Tianshou finally let him breathe a little easier.
“I will promote Su Shuyi to Su Xianfei.”
＊
Meng Xizhao was eating breakfast while still considering whether he should enter the palace today or tomorrow when Jin Zhu hurried in and whispered something into his ear.
Immediately after, the soy milk in his mouth sprayed out.
She’s already been made a Xianfei?!
That promotion speed is insane!