The sixteenth year of Tianshou was drawing to a close.
A great many events had occurred in Ying Tian Prefecture that year. Logically speaking, the social exchanges of the Administrative Office should have shrunk considerably—after all, there were two families they no longer needed to associate with.
But in reality, not only had it not diminished—it had surged.
Minister Meng had shone brilliantly on the front lines against the Gan family. He had first allied with Grand Chancellor Yan, and now had aligned himself with Grand Chancellor Situ. This ability to navigate both sides—to switch allegiances at will—was both despised and envied.
As Prefect of Ying Tian, Meng Xizhao was also a frequent target of flattery. For one, he was genuinely in high demand; for another, he was the Crown Prince’s most favored confidant.
People were utterly baffled.
Fine—you could curry favor with the Emperor through clever tricks. But how had you managed to win over the Crown Prince as well? That man who remained unmoved no matter what was said, who only smiled quietly at others—how had he been wrapped so completely around your finger?!
Could it be that after his trip to Nanzhao, Meng Xizhao had learned some kind of sorcery?
Baffled or not, relationships still had to be maintained.
Meng Xizhao was finally beginning to understand what it meant for “one man to attain the Dao, and even his chickens and dogs ascend to heaven.”
…Well, perhaps that was not the most appropriate analogy.
In any case, everything was moving in a positive direction. Those who understood the times were all showing goodwill toward the Crown Prince. Holding the position of Vice Minister, the Crown Prince had begun to participate in state affairs. With just a bit more preparation, it would be only natural to install him as acting regent.
And just when things were about to fall perfectly into place—
that old man, the Tianshou Emperor, started stirring up trouble again.
During that earlier period, he had been too busy indulging in melancholy and self-pity to pay attention to his health. Later, when he finally did, he refused to hear anything unpleasant—only wanting praise and reassurance. But no matter how much one deceives oneself, there are limits. The constant numbness, the arm that would not obey him at times, the imperial physicians who always looked at him as though they had more to say, and the elderly officials who burst into tears every time they saw him—
All of it reminded him that he was now as fragile as glass. His body had long since declined.
Perhaps even more seriously than that—otherwise, the physicians would not look so grim.
On the surface, aside from being more temperamental, the Tianshou Emperor seemed much the same as before. But only he knew how panicked he truly was.
He refused to face a certain reality. Whenever he felt slightly better, he would cover it up with music, dance, and lavish religious ceremonies. But that thin veil was utterly torn apart when the two Grand Chancellors tactfully suggested that he was no longer suited to personally preside over the state sacrifices—and that perhaps, this year, the Crown Prince should take his place.
The Emperor could not even be bothered to attend court, nor did he concern himself with state affairs. Yet the moment he heard that the imperial rites might be handed over to the Crown Prince, he sprang up, repeatedly insisting that he was fine—that he would handle it himself.
Situ Huan and Yan Shunying exchanged a glance, both hesitant. After all, the Emperor now preferred lying down over sitting, and the sacrificial rites were physically demanding. Even an emperor had to stand for long periods.
Their hesitation provoked him.
Suddenly, he exploded—accusing them of lacking loyalty, claiming that while he was still alive and well, they were already wishing for his death, that they had long been waiting for this day.
The accusation was both cutting and terrifying. The two Grand Chancellors immediately knelt, hastily denying any such thoughts. But the Emperor, already enraged, paid no heed. He grabbed whatever was at hand and hurled it at them.
Everyone knew the left chancellor stood on the left and the right chancellor on the right—rank and protocol demanded it. They could not switch places.
And now, with his right hand often failing him, the Emperor had gradually become left-handed. His “left” was effectively the ministers’ right…
Bang!
The unfortunate Right Chancellor was struck squarely on the forehead.
His gaze froze. At first, he could still feel something warm trickling down his brow. Then, with a blink, his vision went black—and he collapsed unconscious.
Situ Huan: “…………”
The Tianshou Emperor: “…………”
He had acted in a fit of rage. Truthfully, he had done such things before—though back then, he aimed near his ministers, merely to intimidate. Never had he directly struck one on the head like this.
The moment it happened, he knew he should not have done it.
But he was not a man who admitted fault. Not only would he never apologize—he would not even soften his tone.
Yan Shunying had already fainted, yet the Emperor simply flicked his sleeve, gave a heavy snort, and left without even calling for a physician.
This was Huaining Hall—his own bedchamber. It was unclear where he even intended to go after storming out.
…
Situ Huan frowned deeply but could not ignore his rival’s condition. He ordered for physicians to be summoned and had the battered Yan Shunying sent back to his residence.
Once this incident spread, people’s perception of the Emperor shifted.
“Scholars may be killed, but not humiliated.” That saying had endured for thousands of years for a reason.
The “scholar” here did not mean soldiers, but literati—Confucian scholars, effectively all men of letters.
An emperor could execute entire clans, and the literati might not react strongly. But to strike a minister on the head without reason—especially an elderly Right Chancellor—this, they could not accept.
To put it bluntly, it was beneath dignity.
The Emperor remained in the palace and ignored governance, so the scholars did not see him directly. But he had his own channels of information. Wen Shiji was his most loyal hound—whatever the Emperor commanded, he carried out without complaint.
Even something so offensive—Wen Shiji reported it word for word, telling the Emperor exactly how people outside now viewed him.
When not instructed, Wen Shiji might soften things for his sake. But now that he had been ordered to report everything truthfully, he did exactly that.
And the Emperor was furious beyond measure.
“All under heaven belongs to the sovereign; all within the land are his subjects.” He had merely, in his view, disciplined a minister by accident—and yet these pedantic scholars dared to push their luck!
No. This sacrificial rite—he must personally preside over it.
It was no wonder he clung to it so stubbornly. Since ancient times, it had been said: the great affairs of the state lie in ritual and war. Sacrifices had always been performed by the sovereign himself.
It was a symbol of the Mandate of Heaven—an authority not to be profaned.
The Emperor’s resolve hardened. He even ordered a ceremonial robe to be newly embroidered. That single command nearly exhausted the palace embroiderers.
At his side, Su Ruocun watched him earnestly memorizing the sacrificial prayers. Unlike his attitude toward state affairs, he paid meticulous attention to every detail. Su Ruocun, who maintained the persona of someone uninvolved in politics, did nothing but display gentle concern.
The Emperor liked her all the more for it.
It gave him the sense that while the whole world might defy him, she would not.
Now elevated to Consort Xian, and with the Emperor’s favor growing day by day, she had become one of the most influential figures in the harem. No one dared underestimate her anymore.
The Emperor had always been generous toward those he favored.
On the twenty-ninth day of the twelfth lunar month, Su Ruocun requested permission to visit Daxiangguo Temple to offer incense for her parents. It was a royal temple and lay within the capital, so the Emperor agreed without much hesitation.
Ordinarily, a ruler who had once been cuckolded by a consort might be sensitive about women leaving the palace.
But in this case—first, he trusted Su Ruocun deeply.
Second, he did not love her at all.
So when she left the palace, the Tian Shou Emperor did not care in the slightest.
When Consort Xian went out, she traveled with her own full ceremonial escort. It was the first time the common people had ever seen the procession of this so-called Consort Xian, and they lingered where they stood, whispering among themselves for a while.
However, there were very few rumors circulating about her. People only knew that she was the daughter of Prefect Su, the one whose case had been overturned. Beyond that, they knew nothing.
No one knew whether she was a good consort or a bad one.
The people shrugged and left together. Meanwhile, Su Ruocun arrived at the Grand Xiangguo Temple. Under the abbot’s reception, she solemnly knelt and bowed several times before the Buddha.
After straightening up, she pressed her palms together and silently offered a prayer. As for what she prayed for, only she herself knew.
After offering incense, the abbot invited her to partake in a vegetarian meal. Naturally, she ate alone—though the abbot was already seventy-five years old, he still valued his life and had no intention of courting death.
…
After the meal, she did not leave. She waited a while longer, until at last the side door beside her was pushed open.
Meng Xizhao and Su Ruocun had not seen each other for nearly half a year. When they met again, both felt a complicated sense of unfamiliarity. Meng Xizhao paused for a moment before respectfully bowing.
“This humble official greets Consort Xian. May Your Highness be in peace.”
Su Ruocun rose to her feet. Now adorned in dazzling gold and finery so splendid it was almost blinding, she still walked over to him and returned the courtesy with a slight bow.
“Lord Meng, it has been a long time. I trust you have been well.”
With the formalities concluded, they looked at each other and could not help but smile. Time was short, so they sat back down and no longer bothered with empty courtesies.
Su Ruocun spoke first. “I never expected that Lord Meng would have hidden mechanisms even within a Buddhist temple. It seems this place of purity is not so pure after all.”
Meng Xizhao replied, “Not my doing. Your Highness may not know, but the Crown Prince has deep ties with the Buddhist order. The elders are always willing to offer him certain conveniences.”
Su Ruocun was taken aback for a moment, then nodded. “I see. Then why has Lord Meng come to see me today?”
Meng Xizhao did not waste words. “I have heard that His Majesty intends to personally conduct the sacrificial rites—to Heaven and to the ancestors. He wants to handle it all himself.”
At this, Su Ruocun smiled faintly. “Yes. His Majesty is very much looking forward to it.”
Meng Xizhao fell silent for a beat, then said, “…At a time like this, he still has the energy to stir up trouble.”
Su Ruocun took a sip of tea. She said nothing, but her expression clearly agreed.
Originally, Meng Xizhao had planned to keep the Tian Shou Emperor alive a while longer—until Shang Xiguan and Geng Wenjin were brought down, and the two of them could be sent together to face judgment in the underworld, thoroughly purging those treacherous officials. Only then would the Crown Prince ascend the throne, sparing himself the reputation of mistreating the former emperor’s old ministers.
But as long as the Tian Shou Emperor lived, he would continue causing trouble. For something as important as the sacrificial rites, the emperor understood its significance and wanted to keep a tight hold on it. Yet Meng Xizhao understood its importance even better—he had long intended to seize control of it.
After a moment of silence, Meng Xizhao suddenly lifted his gaze and asked for Su Ruocun’s opinion.
“Your Highness, having spent so much time with His Majesty… do you think it is possible that he would overturn the case of Zhan Shenyou, General Zhan—and admit that he was wrong?”
Su Ruocun: “…”
She blinked once, then answered decisively, “Impossible.”
…
Zhan Shenyou’s case was not like Su Wanjun’s.
Su Wanjun had been covered up by Qiu Sumin; at most, the Tian Shou Emperor could be considered an accomplice. But Zhan Shenyou—after returning to Ying Tian Prefecture—had his fate sealed by a single imperial decree. First he was lured back to the capital, then convicted within three days, and finally executed by slow slicing, as if to vent personal spite.
Why did the people resent the emperor so deeply for this? Because there was no argument to be made—this crime was entirely his.
To clear Su Wanjun’s name, it would be enough to bring down Qiu Sumin. The emperor would not need to admit fault, only claim he had been misled.
But to overturn Zhan Shenyou’s case was far more difficult.
He would have to stand before all the officials and admit that he himself had been wrong.
And the Tian Shou Emperor… admit fault?
Those words repelled each other like the same poles of a magnet—it was utterly impossible for them to come together.
Meng Xizhao had always thought the same. But before, he had preferred a more indirect approach—a “clean” victory that would not look too ugly. His plan had been to shift all the blame onto Shang Xiguan, that treacherous betrayer, first overturn Zhan Shenyou’s case to give the Zhan family an explanation, and then, after the Crown Prince ascended and filled the court with their allies, publicly and gloriously restore Zhan Shenyou’s name.
But plans rarely keep pace with change. What once seemed like a minor compromise—one that would cause the Zhan family a little grievance—now felt contemptible to him.
After all, pain is not felt unless the needle pierces one’s own flesh. He had treated Zhan Shenyou’s vindication as a task, forgetting that for others, it was a lifelong shackle. If mishandled, even the act of removing those shackles would feel hollow. And if he waited years before revisiting the matter, by then, perhaps Zhan Buxiu and the others would no longer even need it.
After a moment of silence, Meng Xizhao let out a soft sigh. Then he reached into his sleeve and took out a small porcelain vial.
Su Ruocun watched his movements, her gaze calm.
Meng Xizhao gave the vial a slight shake. It contained only powder, so it made no sound.
“This—mixed into food and exposed to high heat—becomes colorless and tasteless. However, it cannot withstand poison testing. So I must trouble Your Highness to choose the right moment before delivering it to His Majesty.”
Su Ruocun slowly extended her slender hand and took the vial. She examined it for a moment, then tilted her head to look at him.
“So I am to become a dowager consort?”
Meng Xizhao smiled. “Not yet. I once promised I would see you ascend to the position of Empress. When that day comes, you will become Empress Dowager—not a mere dowager consort.”
Su Ruocun: “Then this is…?”
Meng Xizhao said, “Mm, it’s something quite remarkable. This very thing almost ended up down my own throat once. According to the person who gave it to me, its effects are excellent—foolproof.”
Seeing that Su Ruocun still wanted to ask what kind of effect it had, Meng Xizhao smiled again. “You’ll know once it takes effect. Better to leave a bit of suspense—treat it as something to watch for amusement.”
Su Ruocun blinked, then readily put the vial away. “Very well. I shall wait and see.”
Meng Xizhao looked at her, briefly tempted to ask why she had sent the Sixth Prince out of Ying Tian Prefecture. After a moment’s thought, however, he decided against it. Sending the Sixth Prince away brought them no harm—only benefit. Besides, he did not want to give Su Ruocun the impression that he was constantly watching her. That would be… unsettling.
…
Meng Xizhao took a sip of tea. At that moment, Su Ruocun asked him another question.
“Lord Meng, are you and General of Guide, Zhan Buxiu, close?”
Meng Xizhao replied, “We get along well enough… I admire him, and he probably… admires me too. But as for being ‘close,’ I’m not sure that quite applies. He’s a military man, and I’m half a civil official. In this lifetime, there won’t be many intersections between us.”
Su Ruocun smiled. “The friendship of gentlemen is as light as water. Even without much contact, for Lord Meng to devote such effort to his father’s case… I imagine that even if General Zhan’s heart were made of stone, it would have warmed by now.”
Meng Xizhao scratched his head. “Is that so? Well, that’s good. He doesn’t have many friends. If he really does consider me one, I certainly won’t ever harm him.”
Su Ruocun curved her lips slightly, then lowered her gaze.
She had no friends either. Although, like Zhan Buxiu, she had received Meng Xizhao’s help and changed the course of her life, she still felt that the way he treated her was different from how he treated Zhan Buxiu.
It wasn’t jealousy—she herself was a cold and detached person by nature. It was just… a kind of confusion.
Like duckweed drifting on water—rootless and without companionship. Now everyone addressed her as Consort Xian, yet who knew that she was only nineteen this year?
Oh… no. Not nineteen—sixteen.
But whether nineteen or sixteen, once she had taken her revenge, there would be nothing left for her to do. Empress Dowager… a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old Empress Dowager—just the thought of it felt unbearably dull.
Even so, she tightened her grip on the porcelain vial hidden in her sleeve. The path ahead could be considered later. As for Cui Yan—the foolish tyrant who had indirectly ruined her entire life—it would be better if he set off on his final journey sooner rather than later.