Lin Yao ran out of the Eastern Palace, heading toward Jingyou Pavilion based on her vague memory of the route there.
Whispers were everywhere along the way, and scrutinizing gazes came one after another. She kept her head down and walked quickly, wanting only to return to that small courtyard—shabby as it was, at least it was peaceful.
“Lin Yao?! What are you wandering around here for?”
She could identify that voice even from behind.
It was Chu Liyuan.
Lin Yao stopped and turned around, speaking irritably: “Is this imperial palace really so small? Whether I run into the Crown Prince or you, it’s like you’re both haunting me.”
When Chu Liyuan heard the words “Crown Prince,” his gaze turned cold for a moment, and his tone was disgusted: “You look like a madwoman who just escaped the cold palace—hard not to notice you!”
However, the moment he got a clear look at Lin Yao’s face, all his harsh words got stuck in his throat.
He furrowed his brows and strode closer: “What happened to you?”
This wasn’t a question—it was an interrogation.
He stared at the thin trail of blood on her cheek, his gaze darkening: “Who did this?”
Lin Yao didn’t want to mention her meeting with Minister Lin earlier, so she brushed it off: “I bumped into something myself. It’s nothing serious.”
Chu Liyuan clearly didn’t believe her and was about to press further, but Lin Yao’s attention was completely drawn away by his appearance.
His dark brocade robe was wrinkled and crumpled, with several patches of dust smudged on the hem, and even a gash torn at the cuff with threads pulled loose.
Fine beads of sweat clung to his temples, trailing down his jawline and into his collar—utterly out of place in this spotless imperial palace.
She wrinkled her nose and gave him a disdainful once-over: “You call me a madwoman who escaped the cold palace? You should take a look at yourself. Is there any prince as slovenly as you?”
Chu Liyuan, caught off guard by her words, abruptly hid his dust-and-mud-covered hands behind his back. His face flushed bright red, and he growled in exasperation: “I just came back from the training grounds! What’s wrong with getting a few scuffs from practicing? You think everyone’s like Chu Huaian, sitting in a study and just moving his lips?!”
“Tch.” Lin Yao rolled her eyes. “I just said it casually. Why are you getting so worked up? Ridiculous.”
With that, she couldn’t be bothered to deal with this little brat who flew off the handle at the slightest provocation. She walked around him and headed straight for Jingyou Pavilion.
Chu Liyuan stood in place, watching her retreating figure without looking back, his mouth opening slightly.
He still wanted to ask who had given her that wound on her face.
But glancing down at his own disheveled, dirt-covered state, he swallowed those words back down.
“…What a nuisance!”
He flicked his sleeve and strode off toward his own palace, his steps quick and erratic, as if he were sulking at something.
After walking a dozen paces, he still couldn’t help but look back.
Lin Yao had already gone far. Her loose, flowing hair swayed between the red walls, turned a corner, and disappeared from sight.
Chu Liyuan averted his gaze and muttered another curse for no apparent reason: “That madwoman…”
Back at Jingyou Pavilion, Lin Yao stood before the bronze mirror, staring blankly at the thin scratch on her face.
She was thinking about what had happened in the Eastern Palace garden earlier. That pulling sensation was too bizarre!
Her feet had known the way on their own. Her hands had reached into the rockery on their own. She had even found a small clay figurine hidden in the grass without any conscious awareness of it.
In that moment, she felt less like the owner of this body and more like a thief who had broken into someone else’s house and stumbled upon the original owner’s diary.
The scariest part was—something really had been hidden there!
Lin Yao was now starting to regret it. If only she had kept her cool and brought that clay figurine back, what if it was some important token?
“Did I transmigrate, or do I have dissociative identity disorder?” She patted her face, trying to snap herself back to reality.
Lin Yao dragged a chair into the courtyard and sat down, gazing at the square patch of sky overhead as she began sorting through her thoughts.
Minister Lin’s words today had been clear enough—the Prime Minister’s estate stood with the Crown Prince.
Lin Yao counted on her fingers, and the more she counted, the more her head ached:
The Fourth Prince thought she was on the Crown Prince’s side, while the Crown Prince and Minister Lin feared she was loyal to the Fourth Prince.
Oh great…
She was caught in the middle now—neither side trusted her, and both sides wanted to use her as a pawn.
If things continued like this, forget about living an easy, carefree life—she might very well end up a dead fish one of these days.
“So what exactly am I supposed to do…”
Lin Yao tilted her head back, staring at the sky, and let out a soft sigh.
Too little information, too many variables—one wrong step could mean utter ruin.
But one thing she could be certain of: she couldn’t keep being a fish on someone else’s cutting board.
She needed leverage—something of her own, something that didn’t depend on anyone!
What did she truly possess?
Lin Yao looked down at her hands.
These hands had written hundreds of thousands of words of theses, run thousands of Monte Carlo simulations, and fought her way from undergrad to PhD. What had gotten her here was never her family name or who she married.
It was her brain!
The moment this thought surfaced, she couldn’t help but let out a helpless laugh. In an ancient era where imperial power reigned supreme and lives were snuffed out without a second thought, talking about “relying on brains and science” sounded as hollow and intangible as a mentor’s empty promises.
Just as she was mocking herself, Chuntao, the young maidservant who attended to her daily, walked in carrying a food box—and behind her, to her surprise, followed a middle-aged man with a medicine case slung over his shoulder.
The man wore the official robes of the Imperial Medical Bureau, his expression solemn and grave.
Chuntao set down the food box and gave a slight bow: “Miss, this is Imperial Physician Liu from the Imperial Medical Bureau. He has been ordered to take your Peace Pulse.”
Peace Pulse?
She had been eating and sleeping well these past few days. Aside from the fresh scratch on her face, she had no ailments whatsoever. Why would an imperial physician suddenly show up at her door?
Was the palace intrigue starting already?
Lin Yao’s inner alarm bells rang loudly, but her face betrayed nothing. She cooperatively extended her wrist.
Imperial Physician Liu said little. After offering a respectful salute, he took out a bright yellow soft cushion from his medicine case, placed it beneath her wrist, draped a silk handkerchief over it, and only then pressed two fingers to her pulse.
Lin Yao came from a family of traditional Chinese medicine practitioners. Though she herself had studied science and engineering, she had absorbed enough from her upbringing to know something about pulse diagnosis.
She could feel that the physician’s fingers did not linger long on the “cun” or “guan” positions—instead, they pressed firmly on the “chi” pulse.
Not only pressed—they slid and circled, as if urgently searching for a certain slippery, bead-like pulse quality.
The chi pulse governs the kidneys, examines the lower burner, and probes matters of progeny.
He was checking for a Pregnancy Pulse!
Counting the days, it had only been a little over a fortnight since that absurd “night of the switcheroo.” To start checking already—they were being awfully thorough…
After a moment, Imperial Physician Liu clasped his hands in salute: “Miss Lin’s constitution is in good shape. However, she has been somewhat overburdened by worry lately, leaving her qi and blood slightly deficient. I shall prescribe some calming and qi-nourishing formulas—dietary supplements will suffice.”
After seeing off Imperial Physician Liu, Chuntao began briskly setting out the meal.
Lin Yao stared at the table of bland dishes, utterly without appetite.
She fixed her gaze on Chuntao’s not-particularly-bright-looking back of the head and casually probed: “Chuntao, in the palace rules, do imperial physicians come every month to check… that kind of pulse?”
Chuntao’s hand paused mid-placement of the chopsticks. She tilted her head in thought and said: “Does Miss mean the Pregnancy Pulse? Generally, only after a consort has attended the emperor and the Bedchamber Office has recorded it, will the physician come to take the pulse and log it in the register, so as to prevent any confusion of the imperial bloodline.”
So that was it. The palace was treating her as a “person of special surveillance.”
After all, that night had been utter chaos. Whether she had actually done anything with the Crown Prince or Fourth Prince—no one dared to vouch for it except those directly involved.
That little booklet in the physician’s hands wasn’t a medical record—it was her chastity certificate, and the imperial bloodline’s monitoring log.
Chuntao ladled out rice while chattering on excitedly: “But Miss need not worry. If I may be so bold as to say—you are soon to marry the Fourth Prince. If you can be fortunate enough to bear a little imperial grandson, that would make him the eldest imperial grandson of Great Chu!”
At the words “eldest imperial grandson,” Chuntao’s eyes lit up, as if she could already see the day when Lin Yao, tucked away in this side-hall cold palace, would rise in status through her son.
“Eldest imperial grandson?” Lin Yao’s chopsticks froze mid-air as she was reaching for food. “Wait—His Majesty is in the prime of his life and has many princes. Surely… none of the other princes have produced sons?”
“That’s right!”
Chuntao counted on her fingers, dishing out the imperial family gossip: “The eldest prince died young and never reached adulthood. The second prince married two years ago, but his consort is frail and has only given him a young commandery princess so far. The Crown Prince—that is, the third prince—only just married recently, and the Crown Princess’s belly hasn’t shown any sign yet…”
She lowered her voice, speaking with an air of mystery: “So you see, His Majesty currently has not a single grandson! If you marry the Fourth Prince and manage to be the first to produce a male heir, your status would be through the roof!”
Wow—the emperor had no grandsons. That meant whoever gave birth to the first son, that child would become the imperial family’s most precious “mascot.”
And by extension, that meant a get-out-of-jail-free card!
Lin Yao stared at the bowl of bland white congee before her, the corners of her mouth curling upward beyond her control, as a bold, crazy, and utterly shameless idea suddenly sprouted in her mind…