The news of His Majesty’s late-night visit was confined within Chen Yang’s courtyard.
Dawn approached, the hazy morning light casting a misty blue hue upon the windows.
The child on the bed seemed trapped in a nightmare, brows furrowed, face twisted in agony, breathing growing increasingly rapid until it reached a peak—his body jolting upright in self-preservation even before his mind caught up.
Chen Yu’s eyes snapped open.
He stared blankly at the room, both familiar and strange.
The oversized cloth tiger, the squat huanghuali wood bed, the mica-colored double-layered plum blossom bed curtains…
He looked down at his own hands—clearly those of a child.
Fireworks exploded in Chen Yu’s mind, carrying an urgent, scorching heat that made it impossible for him to stay still for even a moment.
Throwing aside the bed curtains, not even bothering with shoes, he pushed open the door.
The swing hanging between two wooden pillars swayed in the morning breeze, rocking Chen Yu back into that peaceful and happy childhood.
Tears streamed down Chen Yu’s face.
Startled by the noise, the wet nurse hurried out.
“Oh! Young master, why are you out without shoes? And why are you crying?”
Chen Yu wiped his tears, his voice hoarse.
“I had a nightmare.”
Hearing this, the wet nurse’s heart ached, and she began to fuss. “This servant said we should have Chun Ya stay in the adjoining room to watch over you. We mustn’t let this happen again. If you catch a chill, you’ll have to take bitter medicine.”
Chen Yu paid no attention to her words. “Where are Mother, Little Uncle, and Little Aunt?”
The wet nurse soothed him. “The master, the young lady, and Madam are all still asleep.”
Chen Yu glanced at the sky and fell silent.
In his previous life, the emperor was tyrannical and incompetent. He framed the Chen family for secretly hoarding armor with the intent to rebel, leading to the execution of the entire Chen clan. Only Chen Yu, rescued by his teacher, survived under a false identity.
From that moment on, Chen Yu dedicated himself to revenge.
He entered the imperial court, becoming the Crown Prince’s study companion…
The Crown Prince, His Majesty, Wu Junji.
At the thought of that name, Chen Yu’s heart ached with bitterness and sorrow.
He remembered the Taiping Min Dian—the Encyclopedia of Peace and the People—which he had burned to ashes in a single fire.
The Taiping Min Dian, compiled by the Crown Prince, consisted of 5,700 volumes, over a hundred million characters. It took ten years, thousands of days and nights, with Wu Junji nearly going blind from the effort to complete it.
It was an encyclopedia that gathered the works of hundreds of schools, integrating astronomy, geography, yin-yang philosophy, medicine, divination, agriculture, craftsmanship, commercial law, classics, history, philosophy, and literature into one.
Had it been published, Wu Junji’s name would undoubtedly have stood at the pinnacle of the literary world.
Yet Chen Yu had reduced it all to ashes.
That fire burned away their bond as fellow disciples and consumed the Crown Prince, who had always harbored aspirations to bring clarity to the world.
From then on, Wu Junji withdrew completely, transforming into a spider spinning silk in a corner—the more silk he spun, the more emaciated he became.
In the end, he was like a shattered piece of colored glass: a single crack spread, deepening, multiplying, thickening, until—bang!
Darkness.
Chen Yu, as if possessed, raised his hand and lightly sniffed it—clean, with no trace of that crisp, refreshing aquatic fragrance.
Fearing that his rebirth might be nothing but a dream, Chen Yu waited until the sun rose, then eagerly dressed and went to see his mother.
Chen Yu’s father had passed away from illness before the family could divide the household. The old master had decreed that Chen Yang take care of Chen Yu and his mother until Chen Yu was old enough to establish his own household.
A few years ago, the old master passed away, but Chen Yang had kept his promise, dividing the Minister of War’s residence in two and building a wall with a gate between them, so the two households could live side by side for mutual support.
Chen Yu’s early education and martial arts training were both taught by Chen Yang, and Chen Jin also dearly loved this nephew. The family shared a deep bond.
Only when Chen Yu saw that resilient yet gentle woman did he finally dare to believe he had truly been reborn.
He threw himself into his mother’s arms, weeping silently.
Madam Chen looked at the crying child with an anxious expression, asking him what had happened.
After finishing his cry, Chen Yu lowered his head and said, “I had a nightmare, dreaming that Mother didn’t want me anymore.”
Madam Chen couldn’t help but laugh.
She held him close, showering him with affection for a while.
Inside, Chen Yu was a nearly forty-year-old adult, and after a moment of discomfort, he fled in embarrassment.
He pushed open the west gate and stepped into the Grand Marshal’s residence with anticipation.
There was still time in this life. Once he saw his uncle and aunt…
Chen Yu couldn’t help but think of Wu Junji again.
That cruel yet gentle, god-like man.
“Uncle!”
“Aunt!”
Chen Yu was immersed in the joy of rebirth…
Wu Junji was immersed in the joy of being brought back to the imperial palace.
To be honest, as long as he could live a slightly better life than in his previous life, he wanted to survive.
If the old man really abandoned him casually… he wouldn’t actually die.
He would wait, wait until he grew up. No matter how many years it took, as long as he had the chance, he would crawl back to Chang’an.
Crown Prince, heir to the throne.
He coveted it desperately!
Even though the process was arduous and the outcome bleak in his previous life, Wu Junji had never regretted it.
Deep down, he was restless by nature. He wanted to climb the ladder to heaven, to scheme for the dragon throne. Since someone was destined to become emperor, why couldn’t it be him?
The little dough ball lay on the luxurious dragon bed, slurping down his meal.
Emperor Zhou watched, mesmerized. He had canceled court today.
His purpose was to let those with ulterior motives inquire about the reason for his absence, spreading the existence of Wu Junji in this way.
The little thing’s eyes were dark and large. Once full, he hummed and gurgled, rolling over to face him, smiling and drooling.
He babbled and cooed, speaking quite a lot, though it was impossible to understand what he was saying.
Wu Junji admired the old man’s large face. It was rather amusing—during the later military turmoil of the Zhou dynasty, poems and writings cursing the old man were as numerous as autumn leaves, yet there were still those who refuted the claim that the old man’s appearance was unappealing.
Even the frugal historians spared no ink, writing—”Graceful and handsome in demeanor, his voice like a musical scale, his bone structure naturally perfect, unparalleled in the world.”
Wu Junji’s unique birth meant he inherited most of his genes from Emperor Zhou, and the father and son looked very much alike.
However, in their previous lives, their temperaments and styles were so different that the resemblance was easily overlooked.
“What time were the little one and the prince of Changchun Palace born?”
The capable eunuch was taken aback, a chill running down his spine.
He didn’t think the Emperor’s question was casual.
Recently, Changchun Palace had been proudly and loudly referring to their prince as the “Eldest Prince,” but the Emperor had never uttered the words “Eldest Prince,” only referring to him as “the prince of Changchun Palace.”
The capable eunuch calculated the timing and couldn’t help but click his tongue inwardly. The prince of Changchun Palace was actually the second-born.
The capable eunuch had already formed a plan in his mind.
“Prince Ji was born at 7:45 a.m. on July 5th, while Prince Zheng was born at exactly noon on July 5th.”
Though they were only an hour apart, their statuses would be worlds apart.
Emperor Zhou nodded in satisfaction.
“In that case, Ji’er is the elder brother.”
Wu Junji was inwardly astonished, staring blankly at Emperor Zhou’s face. Could it be? The old man asked about his birth time—could he be considering… making him the Crown Prince?
This was a fictional dynasty, with some differences from the history learned in modern textbooks, though the names of the dynasties were not vastly different. If one had to draw a comparison, the Zhou dynasty resembled a hybrid of the Tang and Song dynasties.
The previous dynasty’s name was Tang, but the founding emperor of Zhou was not Zhao Kuangyin, so the historical development of the Zhou dynasty naturally had no reference point.
To learn from the bloody lessons of the Tang Dynasty’s imperial succession struggles, after the establishment of the Zhou Dynasty, Emperor Taizu issued an edict: the Crown Prince should be established in infancy, chosen as the eldest legitimate son, with all other brothers serving as his assistants.
Through four generations of emperors in the Great Zhou Dynasty, each had few offspring. For three generations, emperors would establish the Crown Prince as soon as a son was born, and then appoint the Empress. In other words, whoever gave birth to the first son would become the Empress.
Remarkably, all three Crown Princes grew up safely, ascended the throne smoothly, and each was both accomplished in civil and military affairs, becoming wise rulers who governed the Great Zhou with increasing prosperity.
The Empresses of each reign were also virtuous and exemplary, serving as models for the nation.
Thus, the belief that the emperor’s eldest son becoming Crown Prince could bring prosperity to the state became an unspoken consensus among the people.
This tradition of establishing the Crown Prince before appointing the Empress was also preserved.
In the previous life, the root of the struggle for succession lay in Emperor Zhou breaking this consensus.
When he returned to the palace, he was already sixteen years old, and all the princes had grown up, harboring ambitions and building their own power bases. How could they willingly respect a beggar as Crown Prince?
Although the tradition and deterrent power of establishing the eldest son still existed, he simply could not command respect.
Even the fact that he was the eldest was not recognized; everyone merely saw it as Emperor Zhou’s excuse to balance the court.
But in this life, at this time, the circumstances of his birth held immense deterrent power.
Emperor Zhou’s words spread like the wind.
The Emperor returned to the palace late at night, bringing back a child—that was the true Eldest Prince.
The one in Changchun Palace was the Second Prince!
The most affected were undoubtedly the people in Changchun Palace. The chubby Wu Junzheng was excitedly rolling around under the coaxing of numerous servants, playing with a small carriage.
Noble Consort Dong was trying on various styles of nail guards. Since the birth of the Eldest Prince, she had replaced her sharp golden nail guards with jade ones.
From time to time, she cast glances, watching the Eldest Prince play happily, her face filled with maternal affection.
Until someone hurried over and whispered something in her ear.
Noble Consort Dong’s face instantly changed.
She ordered the Eldest Prince to be taken away.
“Wasn’t the Emperor supposed to have difficulty producing offspring? How could another son suddenly appear?”
“And born even earlier than Zheng’er? Which woman gave birth to him?”
The servant shook her head: “Your Highness, the Emperor only brought the child; the child’s mother was not seen.”
Emperor Zhou married a consort at sixteen, and over four years, took in more than ten concubines and maidservants, none of whom became pregnant.
Only Consort Dong, overjoyed upon conceiving, carefully protected her pregnancy without letting anyone know, waiting until three months had passed before informing Emperor Zhou and the Empress Dowager.
During her pregnancy, rewards flowed like water, and even the Dong family rose in status accordingly. Her belly was also very promising—she gave birth to a boy, the Emperor’s first child.
Just as a bright future seemed within reach, a bastard suddenly appeared halfway, born even earlier than Zheng’er!
Noble Consort Dong was deeply distressed.
“If Zheng’er is not the Eldest Prince, then wouldn’t I be unable to become Empress?”
A maid tactfully said: “Your Highness, there may still be room for maneuver. After all, nothing has been decided yet.”
Noble Consort Dong thought for a moment and went to Yongshou Palace to pay respects to the Empress Dowager.
The Empress Dowager dismissed her and sent someone to summon the Emperor.
Emperor Zhou, holding Wu Junji, went together to Yongshou Palace.
This was already an indication of his stance.
The Empress Dowager had no choice. Wu Junji’s birth was bizarre. If Emperor Zhou had abandoned this child, the Empress Dowager and the Retired Emperor would have simply acted as if this child had never existed.
If Emperor Zhou wanted to raise him, he could also be raised in the palace as the Second Prince.
But Emperor Zhou wanted to establish him as Crown Prince.
The latter made the Empress Dowager uneasy, but with three generations of wise rulers as precedent, how dare she suggest changing it?
Even the Retired Emperor did not dare to openly propose establishing the younger grandson.
The ancestral hall still enshrined the founding emperor’s decree to establish the eldest legitimate son as heir, and it was an undeniable fact that three generations of wise rulers had emerged.
Even the eminent monks in the temples had proclaimed that upholding the eldest son’s succession would ensure the Great Zhou’s prosperity for generations.
This had almost become a Prophetic Oracle—who would dare gamble against it?
The Empress Dowager sighed softly, “Enough. As long as the Retired Emperor consents, no one in the court will dare utter a word. Hold…”
Emperor Zhou naturally completed her sentence, “Wu Junji.”
“Jun as in ruler, Ji as in the realm.”
Naming the young prince of Changchun Palace Wu Junzheng while bestowing the name Wu Junji upon the child in his arms made the intention all too clear.
The Empress Dowager nodded. “Hold Ji’er and show him to your imperial father.”
Emperor Zhou respectfully took his leave.
The Retired Emperor was a robust little man in his fifties. Considering his age, it was evident he had struggled to produce heirs.
After striving for over a decade, he finally welcomed a child—one born with physical deformities. For more than twenty years thereafter, despite numerous consorts in the harem, not a single additional child was born. What choice did he have but to cherish this one as a treasure, however reluctantly?
Lately, the Retired Emperor had become engrossed in fishing and metaphysics.
Each day, while angling, he would persistently question the abbot about the future.
For instance, “Abbot, calculate how many fish I shall catch today?”
“Abbot, divine how many grandsons I shall have?”
“Abbot, foretell how long I shall live?”
The first question the abbot might dare to answer, but the latter ones could only be met with evasive replies.
The abbot’s mastery of Buddhist teachings ran deep. In their back-and-forth exchanges, the Retired Emperor found himself unable to extract much useful information.
“Retired Emperor, His Majesty approaches.”
Skeptical, the Retired Emperor waited three breaths before spotting Emperor Zhou in the distance, cradling a child in his arms.
His gaze sharpened, a flicker of complexity passing through his eyes.
He had never grown close to his only son, and he felt even less affection for this grandson.
To prevent himself from committing the folly of deposing his son in favor of a younger grandson, he had hastily abdicated.
Before Wu Junji’s birth, unbeknownst to Emperor Zhou and the Empress Dowager, the Retired Emperor had sought divinations and consulted every metaphysician of repute. The answers he received were unanimous—only the eldest grandson could bring prosperity to the nation; otherwise, endless calamities would follow.
Yet even this failed to fully convince the Retired Emperor.
Now, seizing the opportunity, the Retired Emperor pointed to Wu Junji and asked Abbot Tianxuan,
“Great Master, what do you foresee for this child’s future?”
Wu Junji was held upright in Emperor Zhou’s arms. Unable to control his drool, he gnawed on his fist in hopes of reducing the flow.
Emperor Zhou silently pulled his hand away.
Wu Junji calmly returned it to his mouth.
Emperor Zhou removed it again; Wu Junji reclaimed it once more.
Both father and son were stubborn, caught in what seemed like an endless cycle.
The little one did not fuss despite such treatment, nor did the elder grow impatient—an unexpectedly amusing and harmonious scene.
While resisting his father’s efforts, Wu Junji curiously observed Abbot Tianxuan. True to his reputation as an eminent monk, his countenance was serene and his aura pure, inspiring an instinctive sense of closeness.
Abbot Tianxuan’s meditative heart stirred slightly. He gazed deeply at Wu Junji and said meaningfully,
“Both Your Majesties should understand that this humble monk can only discern the young prince’s earthly fate, not his heavenly destiny.”
Wu Junji suddenly sensed the atmosphere turning peculiar.
The Retired Emperor fell silent for a moment before laughing heartily.
“Naturally, matters of heavenly destiny are for Heaven alone to decide.”
“Before the dice are cast, it is all a gamble. I understand, I understand.”
Abbot Tianxuan bowed deeply and stated,
“Retired Emperor, Your Majesty, the Grand Prince bears the sign of a nascent dragon encircling the palace.”
He paused, then spoke more plainly, “This child is born with the destiny of an emperor.”
Everyone present froze.
For a moment, they could not believe their ears.
Only three people understood the true weight of the phrase “born with the destiny of an emperor”—it was something no human effort could alter. Whether they chose Wu Junji as the Crown Prince or not, he would inevitably ascend to the throne in the future.
Throughout history, those prophesied with such a fate were invariably…
The Retired Emperor trembled inwardly at the thought of that matter.
It could not be spoken of, could not be written down, and was invisible to ordinary mortals.
It was a rule that could only be understood intuitively.
Wu Junji’s birth was nothing short of dramatic.
That fool Noble Consort Dong waited until she was three months pregnant before speaking up.
Had she revealed it just one month earlier, Emperor Zhou would not have been forced into a desperate gamble, and Wu Junji would never have existed.
That was the first twist.
Imperial physicians had once said that Emperor Zhou’s constitution was peculiar, making it highly unlikely the pregnancy would be sustained. Yet everything proceeded smoothly, without a single mishap.
That was the second twist.
Although they had prepared for both outcomes, the Retired Emperor, the Empress Dowager, and Emperor Zhou all leaned toward the child in Noble Consort Dong’s womb.
They had planned that even if both children were healthy young princes, the child in Noble Consort Dong’s belly must be the eldest son.
For the sake of Emperor Zhou’s health, Wu Junji was destined to be born prematurely. Yet, based on the timeline, Noble Consort Dong was expected to give birth earlier.
However, Noble Consort Dong carried the child for a full ten months without any signs of labor, while Emperor Zhou’s condition could no longer be delayed.
Thus, the Retired Emperor ordered the imperial physicians to induce labor for Noble Consort Dong. Little did they know that Emperor Zhou would encounter an unexpected incident at the retreat palace.
The result was that both brothers were born on the same day, but Wu Junji arrived one hour earlier than Wu Junzheng, seizing the position of the eldest son.
The Retired Emperor finally learned the meaning of “man proposes, heaven disposes.”
Before Emperor Zhou left for the retreat palace, the Retired Emperor had even instructed someone to expose the young prince to a draft or chill—after all, it was common for infants to perish accidentally, especially in their seventh or eighth month.
Yet the servant returned to report that the infant, only a few months old, had covered himself with a blanket.
Now, even Abbot Tianxuan spoke without reservation, declaring that this child was destined to be the sovereign. What more could he say?
He simply waved his hand dismissively.
“Go on, go on, appoint him, appoint him. I wash my hands of it.”
“I will only watch when he appoints generals at the age of three.”