“I still have some men left. I can get you out of Chang’an…”
The commonly accepted account says that when Chang’an fell, Prince Chu Jiang Huai and Emperor Ping of Liang were burned to death together in the palace.
But now that Jiang Congyan knew far more of the details, she formed a bold suspicion—
That was Jiang Huai’s revenge.
He had gambled everything, willing to be buried in flames if only he could personally end the culprit who had caused the deaths of his wife and children, leaving him alone to suffer in this world.
At that time, he had even lost his only daughter. With nothing left to hold him back, he could only descend into madness.
“I would rather become a vengeful ghost and come to claim your life!”
Jiang Huai stared at her for a long while. The corner of his lips twitched into an expression that looked neither like a smile nor a cry. His eyes grew wet. He tilted his head back, yet tears still slipped down along his temples.
“Ha… haha!”
“HAHAHA—”
The desolate laughter echoed through the empty pavilion, stirring wave after wave of sorrow.
Jiang Congyan watched him quietly, letting him vent. Only after a long time did she finally ask:
“Father… can you tell me the truth of what happened back then?”
Jiang Huai’s gaze froze.
She continued, “It will determine what I do from now on.”
She already had her suspicions—but she wanted confirmation. She needed to be certain that that person was truly her enemy.
Jiang Huai looked at her. He had never wanted to drag his daughter into such treacherous struggles—he had only wished for her to grow up safe and healthy. But when he met her eyes, he saw calm resolve. She would not let this go.
After a long silence, he closed his eyes and, for the first time in over a decade, spoke the secret he had kept buried.
“The beginning of it all… should go back twenty-eight years, to the death of the Grand Ancestor.”
“At that time, my father died suddenly. The Grand Ancestor’s old injuries relapsed, leaving him gravely ill. The Liang dynasty had just quelled internal strife, yet beyond its borders, the Xiongnu, Qiang, Di, and Xianbei all eyed us like predators. In such times, nothing is more dangerous than a young ruler inviting doubt. So the Grand Ancestor passed the throne to the late emperor. That much is true—the decree was read aloud before all the officials.”
Jiang Congyan nodded. That matched what she knew.
“But… was Crown Prince Zhaowen’s death really an accident?”
Jiang Huai lowered his head slightly. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Yes. At the time, it was investigated. My father had been inspecting the southern riverlands on the Grand Ancestor’s behalf when he unfortunately contracted an epidemic and died. Years later, I had people investigate again—but too much time had passed. The people and circumstances had all changed. Nothing was found.”
Jiang Congyan suppressed her thoughts and continued listening.
“The Grand Ancestor passed the throne to the late emperor, but feared I was too young to protect myself. So he recalled the marriage alliance with the Marquis of Liangzhou. Your maternal grandfather and my father were sworn brothers. Seeing the situation, he did not hesitate—he sent your mother to Chang’an to marry me. She was only ten at the time, yet had to face the dangers of the capital with me.”
“And precisely because of that, the late emperor could never feel at ease about me. Even now, I don’t know whether that marriage alliance was meant to protect me… or doom me.”
“And in the end, it truly did doom your mother!”
Jiang Huai broke down again, his voice filled with unbearable grief.
He and Zhang Yiniang had been married young and endured hardships together. Their bond was deep. She died because of him—becoming an unhealed wound in his heart. Every time he thought of her, it felt as if his heart was carved open anew.
The Grand Ancestor had intended for the Zhang family to support the Crown Prince’s bloodline—but that very support made Jiang Huai a target of both the late emperor and the current one.
Did the Grand Ancestor not foresee the dangers?
Of course he did.
But at that time, there was no perfect solution.
If he hadn’t done so, Jiang Huai might not even have survived to this day.
Perhaps he would have died early in some “accident.”
No one knows what path untaken might have led to.
“Seventeen years ago, the late emperor’s health declined. Officials urged him to appoint a crown prince. Suddenly, someone proposed that I should be chosen, since I was of the Grand Ancestor’s bloodline. Rumors even spread that the Grand Ancestor had left me a secret edict—that once the emperor died, I could present it and inherit the throne—”
At this point, Jiang Congyan saw a bitter smile appear on Jiang Huai’s face. Then his tone turned frenzied.
“But I never had any edict!”
Each word was filled with anguish.
He let out a strange, choked laugh, as if his emotions had reached a breaking point.
“I never wanted the throne. I only wanted a peaceful life with Yiniang. But because of those baseless rumors, I became a thorn in the emperor’s side. I had no choice but to take your mother—seven months pregnant at the time—and leave the city for Yongming Temple to avoid trouble.”
“We stayed half a month. Then your mother fell slightly ill. I thought the temple’s harsh conditions didn’t suit her, so I prepared to return to the city for a physician. But halfway back—we were ambushed by bandits.”
“The guards fought desperately and carved a path through, but your mother was jolted in the carriage. She went into premature labor… and died giving birth to you and your brother.”
Jiang Congyan could almost see it—the suffocating tension of the court back then. No longer an abstract image of intrigue, but a brutal history written in blood.
“He did it,” she said quietly. There was no question in her tone.
Jiang Huai nodded heavily, his eyes already bloodshot.
“I had already given in at every turn. All these years, I never interfered in court affairs—but he still wouldn’t let me go.”
“I lost Yiniang. I couldn’t lose my children too. I humbled myself again and again, just begging for a way to survive. I never wanted the throne—I didn’t even dare think of avenging Yiniang anymore. I only wanted my children to grow up safely. But even that small wish… he refused to grant me. Just one sentence—‘The son of the Prince of Chu resembles the Crown Prince’—and he resolved to kill again.”
Jiang Congyan could hardly bear to listen any further.
Back then, Jiang Huai must have been utterly broken. His beloved wife, his seven-year-old child—lost one after another because of him.
“You and your brother fell into the water one winter. He died young because of it, and you barely survived.”
“I no longer dared to keep you in Chang’an.”
Thus, she was sent to Liangzhou after recovering from illness—and Jiang Huai began pretending to be mad and useless to deceive the emperor.
For ten years, he lived like a drunken wreck, making himself seem utterly worthless so that no one would ever support him, so that the emperor could feel at ease.
“Did you ever think of rebelling?” Jiang Congyan asked hoarsely.
Jiang Huai froze.
Slowly, very slowly, he raised his head and stared into her eyes.
“I did.”
He had once hated so deeply that he wanted to destroy everything. Why should he suffer such pain? Why should his enemy sit securely on the throne?
Why?
Why?!
“But I couldn’t! And neither could the Zhang family.”
He collapsed, utterly drained.
Jiang Congyan understood.
If he and the Zhang family rebelled, civil war would erupt—and foreign tribes would seize the chance to invade.
The people would suffer, displaced and ruined.
For the sake of personal revenge, they could not drag the entire nation into war.
So they endured—waiting in darkness for a sliver of hope.
That hope would come five years later, when Chang’an fell.
And the raging flames that day… would also mark Jiang Huai’s end.
Silence fell again between father and daughter.
After composing himself, Jiang Huai wiped his face and finally spoke again about the marriage alliance.
He owed this daughter too much. She was his only remaining bond in the world—the last trace of Yiniang. No matter what, he had to protect her.
“Changsheng Nu.”
He suddenly called her by her childhood name. Jiang Congyan was momentarily unaccustomed to it.
Then he said:
“If you do not wish to marry Tuoba Xiao, return to Liangzhou. I still have some men—I can get you out of Chang’an.”