In the autumn of the twenty-first year of Tianqi under the Great Liang dynasty, within the inner residence of Duke Ying’s mansion—
The chicken soup slipped from Gu Qingzhao’s hand, shattering into porcelain shards across the floor. A sudden warmth surged through her chest, followed by a mouthful of black blood spilling from her lips. Clutching her chest, she stared in disbelief at her five-year-old son.
“Yuan’er… who gave you this soup?”
Her first thought was clear: someone had used her child’s hand to poison her. After all, in three days her husband, Prince Cheng, would ascend the throne, and she, as his consort, was destined to enter the palace as empress. At such a time, it was no surprise that someone would strike.
But little Qin Yuan stood with hands on his hips, his young face twisted with open disgust. “To poison you, wicked woman.” His words were sharp as blades, each syllable cutting into her heart.
Gu Qingzhao froze, unable to speak, as the boy turned and threw himself into her cousin Gu Qingjin’s arms. “Mother, once I kill this woman, our family of three can be together again.”
Gu Qingjin embraced him with satisfaction, her gaze triumphant as it fell on Gu Qingzhao. “Sister, surely you’re not still dreaming of becoming empress? Don’t bother. The imperial decree will arrive any moment now—His Highness will name me as his queen.”
The once-demure fourth young lady of the Gu family now spoke with the arrogance of a general flaunting spoils of war.
Gu Qingzhao’s poisoned body trembled, veins rising on the back of her hand as she gripped the table. Qin Yuan was not her own child—she had adopted him a year after marriage, when the abbot of Huguo Temple declared he bore a destiny of “renewed fortune,” able to gather luck and turn fate itself. She had believed it then. Now she saw it was all Gu Qingjin’s scheme.
Her lips tightened as she realized the truth: the child she had raised had just forced poison down her throat; the husband she had devoted herself to had only ever used her; the cousin she had treated as a sister now sought her life and her crown. Yet years of hardship had taught her composure. Even as the poison burned through her veins, she remained steady. Her gaze swept the room. “This child… he is yours, isn’t he? That means you were already pregnant before my marriage.”
Gu Qingjin sneered, her face twisted with long-suppressed resentment. “Of course. He never touched you. How could you bear a child?”
Gu Qingzhao recalled Prince Qin Jingming’s solemn vow: that they would consummate their marriage only once she was crowned empress, for a true son of Qin must put the realm before personal desire. She laughed bitterly. “So it was you he cherished all along.”
Gu Qingjin leaned closer, whispering, “Not exactly. The master warned him that lying with you would disrupt his dragon fortune. He believed it. And speaking of fortunes—today, the Xiao army returns from Liaodong. There will be quite a spectacle. Liaodong’s command is about to change hands.”
Gu Qingzhao’s face hardened. But before Gu Qingjin could savor her triumph, Gu Qingzhao snatched up a shard of porcelain and lunged—not at her cousin, but at Qin Yuan. The shard slashed his neck before she flung him aside and bolted for the door. She knew: only by escaping the Gu household did she stand a chance at survival.
Stumbling from the inner chambers, she spotted a graceful woman approaching with attendants. Relief flooded her. “Mother! Save me!”
For five years, ever since her younger brother’s death, her mother had lived in seclusion, refusing to see anyone but her father. Had she come today because she knew of Gu Qingzhao’s peril?
But before she could reach her, the woman’s voice rang cold: “Seize her.”
Hands clamped down on Gu Qingzhao’s shoulders. Her blurred vision cleared—and she saw not her mother, but her third aunt, Xiao Hongshuang.
“You… you’re alive? Then where is my mother?” Her cry was raw, almost a scream.
Her mind reeled. Xiao Hongshuang had died five years ago—or so she thought. Which meant the one her father had lived with all these years was not her mother at all.
It was Xiao Hongshuang, her mother’s half-sister from Prince Liao’s household, who had taken her place.
A perfect substitution. A peach tree cut down, replaced by plum—an imposter thriving where the rightful one had perished.
Gu Qingzhao spat another mouthful of black blood. For five years, she had busied herself helping Qin Jingming climb to power—yet she hadn’t even known her own mother was dead.
The Gu family’s Third Madam, Xiao Hongshuang, showed no panic when her secret was exposed. Instead, a smug smile spread across her lotus-like face.
“You’re already a dying woman, so I won’t bother hiding it. Yes, it was your mother who died back then—because she deserved it. Your father’s heart was always mine. If not for her being the legitimate daughter, how could she have ever claimed the title of Duchess?”
Her voice dripped with scorn. “Too foolish. I used you as bait, and she lost her composure. And your brother—he was harder to kill. But your maid Cuiliu said you were looking for him, lured him to the pond, and pushed him in to drown.”
Xiao Hongshuang spoke as if she were describing the death of a stray cat or dog, not human lives.
Suddenly, a cry rang out from inside the house—Gu Qingjin’s voice, shrill with despair: “My son!”
Xiao Hongshuang’s expression shifted. “Lock her up first,” she ordered, hurrying inside.
Before Gu Qingzhao lost consciousness, she heard a servant announce: “The imperial edict has arrived. Fourth Miss Gu Qingjin, receive the decree.”
When she awoke again, she had been turned into a *ren zhi*—a living husk. Her hands, feet, and tongue had all been cut away.
Gu Qingjin, maddened by the loss of her child, vented her fury upon Gu Qingzhao. Poison, venomous insects, endless terror and humiliation—there was nothing Gu Qingjin would not do. Pain was the lightest of her torments.
Gu Qingzhao no longer knew how long she had been tortured. She only knew that at the moment of her last breath, a blood-red light burst skyward. With the last shred of her consciousness, she swore a venomous oath: even if she became a restless ghost, never to be reborn, she would drag them all down into hell. As her eyes closed, the clear sky above suddenly churned with ink-black clouds. Nine thunderclaps split the heavens, as though tearing open a rift that would scar eternity.