In the Golden Throne Hall, the Emperor sat high above on the throne.
On the surface, his back was straight, the corners of his mouth lifted in a smile, every inch the dignified Son of Heaven. In truth…
Listening to his ministers drone on with the same tired platitudes, the Emperor wished he could order their mouths sewn shut.
They were babbling endlessly. Even sparrows were not as noisy as they were!
He should never have come to morning court. With this spare time, he would rather have stayed by Chen’er’s side, watching Chen’er sleep. That would have been more interesting than listening to these ministers go around in circles.
Originally, this court assembly would have been just like every other one: the ministers would heap praise upon the Emperor, kill enough time, and then disperse. But this time, one stubborn Imperial Censor-in-Chief refused to play along. Whether he had lost his mind or was simply tired of living and looking for death, he actually risked his life to present a memorial and impeach the Emperor.
He accused the Emperor, as an emperor, of favoring the Crown Prince too much, leaving the Crown Prince idle, ignorant, and always causing trouble… utterly unfit to shoulder any great responsibility, and wholly unsuitable to be Dayuan’s heir apparent.
He also argued that although the Crown Prince was the Emperor’s son, they were first ruler and subject, and only afterward father and son. As a supremely honored emperor, the only things the Emperor should care about were the people’s livelihood and the major affairs of the state. How could he fail to rest properly in the middle of the night just to care for a Crown Prince who was only running a fever? If the Emperor’s body were harmed because of this, the Crown Prince would deserve ten thousand deaths and still not be able to atone!
The Imperial Censor-in-Chief delivered this remonstrance with fire and passion, every word ringing with fervor. But the ministers who heard it fell silent as cicadas in winter, not daring to breathe. The men standing around the Imperial Censor-in-Chief quietly edged away from him, afraid that if the Emperor ordered his head cut off on the spot, they would be splattered with blood.
This master of theirs was no benevolent ruler. The Imperial Censor-in-Chief’s words hit straight at the heart, and the ancestral decree of “do not kill remonstrating officials” might not mean anything to the current Emperor.
High on his seat, the Emperor’s face went dark with anger, veins throbbing at his forehead.
He truly wanted to order the man’s head cut off on the spot, but he also understood that if he did, more Imperial Censors-in-Chief would jump out. Not only would they denounce him as foolish and brutal, they would also redouble their attacks on the Crown Prince and say he was unworthy of his station.
Those remonstrating officials were all the same… like stones in a latrine pit, stinking and hard. They delighted in making themselves miserable, and everyone else miserable too!
But even if he could not chop off the man’s head right then and there, the Emperor had plenty of ways to deal with him.
He remembered that this official was impotent in that respect. After taking several concubines and struggling for decades, he had only managed to father a son in his old age. He treasured that late-born son so much that he held him in his hands for fear he might fall, and in his mouth for fear he might melt.
This old bastard knew how to treasure his own son, yet he could not stand to see the Emperor dote on the Crown Prince. In that case, the Emperor would strike at the old man’s heart and lungs. That would surely make him suffer ten or a hundred times more than killing him outright.
Those who became Emperors, once accustomed to doing as they pleased, which one of them was not petty and vengeful?
The Emperor had already made up his mind. He could practically imagine the day this old bastard would be weeping and regretting everything. The thought put him in an excellent mood, and he burst into laughter.
As the saying goes, when the Emperor laughs… life and death are impossible to predict.
“My dear minister speaks truly. But I see that your complexion is flushed red; I fear you are suffering from excessive liver fire. You are a pillar of my state, and now that you are advanced in years, you must take care of your health. Since you are unwell, it would be better for you to rest and recuperate in your residence. You need not attend morning court again in the future.”
What sounded like concern was in fact a direct dismissal from office.
The Imperial Censor-in-Chief was about to say that he was perfectly healthy and did not need rest, but the Emperor cut him off first, smiling as he said, “My dear minister, do not decline, lest I earn the bad reputation of showing no regard for old ministers.”
At those words, the Imperial Censor-in-Chief was left speechless, unable to voice his grievances.
Remonstrating officials cared most about their reputations. The Emperor used that very thing to seal his mouth shut, leaving him helpless. All he could do was bow three times and perform nine prostrations while crying out, “Long live His Majesty,” and thanking the Emperor for his boundless grace.
But the Emperor’s retaliation had only just begun.
The rising sun climbed into the sky, and a new day had only just begun.
Throughout the long night that had passed, everyone in the Eastern Palace except Ye Jingchen had lain awake until dawn. And outside the palace, the Duke of Zhenguo Residence was also thrown into chaos, enduring an extremely turbulent night.
The legitimate grandson of the Duke of Zhenguo Residence, six-year-old Xie Chang’an, developed a high fever in the middle of the night.
Xie Chang’an had been frail and sickly since childhood, so sudden fevers in the dead of night were nothing unusual. The household was flustered, but not truly in disarray.
Because Xie Chang’an was in poor health, the residence had specially invited a physician. That doctor was superb in the medical arts, no less skilled than the imperial physicians in the palace.
After examining him, the physician found that it was only a common case of wind-pathogen invasion. The maidservants divided the work with practiced ease: some applied damp towels, some fed him water, and others decocted medicine to drive out the cold.
The Old Matriarch of the residence was advanced in years, so they did not disturb her. The other women of the household kept watch in the outer room, anxious and worried.
By this generation, the Xie family had only Xie Chang’an among the younger generation. The family line was dwindling, and on top of that Xie Chang’an was constantly falling ill. How could the women not worry?
Yet in the inner chamber, Xie Chang’an, whom the physician had judged to have only wind-pathogen invasion, was having a long nightmare.
This dream began when he was six. That same year, his grandfather, father, and uncles all died one after another on the battlefield. Outwardly, the Emperor showed sympathy for the Xie family, but in truth he was wary of them, unwilling even to spare this lone orphan.
Once the protection of his family was gone, and with the Xie Family Army brought back under imperial control, the imperial city became to Xie Chang’an like a man-eating behemoth, opening its bloody maw and trying to swallow him whole.
Every three days there was an accident, every five days an assassination attempt. Every day he struggled between life and death just to survive.
He lived like that for ten years. At sixteen, he finally uncovered the truth behind his family’s deaths in battle and began his path of revenge.
Within the court, he maneuvered among the Emperor’s sons, sowing discord, intensifying their conflicts, and stirring up one bloody storm after another.
Outside the court, he secretly made contact with the commanders of the Xie Family Army, regained command of the army, returned to the battlefield, and continued the undefeated legend of the Duke of Zhenguo Residence and the Xie Family Army.
By the time he led his troops in driving the Northern Barbarians to the northern wastelands, the hundreds of thousands of troops on the border were all under his command. Meanwhile, the great drama of seven sons contending for the throne in the imperial city had already drawn to a close. The Emperor died of illness, his most favored Crown Prince was assassinated, and the other Imperial Princes were either dead, crippled, or barely hanging on. Only one Fifth Imperial Prince remained… the only one without support from a maternal family, and also his ally.
The Fifth Imperial Prince ascended the throne and tried to kill the donkey after it had done its work, but Xie Chang’an, already prepared, easily turned the tables on him.
From that day on, the Dayuan Dynasty changed hands. He sat on that lofty dragon throne and became a lonely ruler.
The Ye family father and son had schemed against loyal men and made brothers slaughter each other for that position, but he did not like it in the slightest.
After becoming Emperor, he did not open a harem or have children like other emperors. He did not even marry or leave heirs. When the ministers pressed him too hard, he would casually find a little beggar from the streets of the imperial city, bring him back to the palace, recognize him as his child, and make him Crown Prince.
Bloodline and birth, the things the world valued so highly, meant nothing to him. He wanted the world to understand that even a little beggar, if taught with care, could become a wise ruler of a flourishing age.
Unfortunately, his health had always been poor. Ten years of lying low in the imperial city, ten years of campaigning on the battlefield… he had suffered too many injuries, endured too much hardship, and his body had long since fallen apart. After lingering on for several more years, he ultimately reached the end of his life.
When six-year-old Xie Chang’an tremblingly opened his eyes, he only felt as if he had just awakened from a great dream of golden millet.