Consort Shu’s obstruction arrived faster than the winter chill of December. The first blow was halving the charcoal supply.
Yong Lane was already remote and cold, with drafts coming from all directions. The previous charcoal supply barely kept them from freezing to death, but now, with it suddenly cut by half, the room instantly became as cold as an ice cellar.
Su Yue, wrapped in thick cotton clothes, still had her lips turning purple from the cold, trembling all over, unable to even hold a pen: “Your Majesty, it’s so cold… my hands are frozen stiff… this is too bullying!”
Murong Zhao did not speak. She simply walked to the corner of the room, crouched down, and rummaged through a pile of miscellaneous items to find an old bamboo basket covered in dust.
This was something she discovered in the corner on the day she first entered Yong Lane. The basket had a missing corner, clearly discarded by someone who lived here before.
She casually kept it at the time, thinking it might be useful someday.
She didn’t expect it would be used so soon.
Seeing her carrying the basket outside, Su Yue quickly followed: “Your Majesty, where are you going?”
Murong Zhao did not turn back: “The backyard.”
Although Yong Lane was dilapidated, the courtyard was not small.
The front yard consisted of the few rooms they lived in, while the backyard was a long-abandoned open space, overgrown with weeds and littered with withered trees.
Murong Zhao pushed open the creaking wooden door of the backyard, and the sight before her made her pause slightly.
Everything she saw was withered branches and fallen leaves.
Several old locust trees stood bare, their branches intertwined, and the ground was covered with dry branches—some broken by wind, some naturally fallen, piled layer upon layer, forming a thick blanket.
Su Yue followed behind her, her eyes lighting up: “Your Majesty! So much firewood!”
Murong Zhao did not speak. She bent down, picked up a dry branch, broke it into several pieces, and placed them in the bamboo basket.
One, two, three…
Her movements were swift, her slender figure steady in the cold wind.
Su Yue also quickly crouched down to help, muttering as she gathered: “Consort Shu is too cruel, even depriving us of charcoal… Your Majesty, do you think nobody ever collected firewood from this backyard before?”
Murong Zhao continued her work without pause, her tone calm: “Those who can live in Yong Lane either cry every day or complain every day. Who has the mind to collect firewood?”
“Besides…” She paused, raising her eyes to look at those withered trees, “How many are willing to bend down and pick it up?”
Listening, Su Yue suddenly felt that her master’s words were not just about firewood.
The two collected for a full half hour, filling the bamboo basket to the brim, with dry branches piled up like a small hill.
Murong Zhao carried the basket back, and inside the room, the fire basin was reignited.
The dry branches crackled, flames dancing, dispelling some of the chill.
Su Yue crouched by the fire basin warming her hands, her small face flushed red by the firelight: “Your Majesty, you’re so clever! If it weren’t for you, we would have frozen today.”
Murong Zhao did not speak. She simply sat beside the fire basin, looking out the window.
She could not block those open and hidden arrows, but she could ensure they did not take her life.
This lesson, she had already learned during those ten years in the Cold Palace of Beishuo.
Not long after, the second blow fell—deprivation of meals.
The food delivered became increasingly scarce, with no trace of oil in the dishes. By the third day, they simply brought spoiled leftovers and cold meals, a sour and foul smell assaulting the senses, making one sick.
Su Yue saw it and immediately reddened her eyes, trembling with anger: “Your Majesty! Look! Is this something humans eat?! She… she’s trying to force us to death!”
She clenched her fists, ready to charge out: "This servant will go find His Majesty! I'll lodge a complaint! I'll tell the Emperor how they bully you! You are the Empress, you cannot suffer such humiliation!"
Murong Zhao reached out and firmly grasped her wrist.
The grip was not heavy, yet steady as if rooted in place.
"Stop."
Su Yue turned back, tears welling in her eyes: "Your Majesty! Please let this servant go! I am not afraid to die!"
Murong Zhao looked at her, her dark eyes calm as still water, without a ripple of emotion.
"Go complain to the Emperor?"
She released her hand, her tone so calm it bordered on indifference: "If we win, Consort Shu will hold a grudge and retaliate doubly in the future. If we lose, we will die even faster. The Empress Dowager already dislikes me; she would only see me as stirring up trouble. We have no one to rely on. Even if we win temporarily, the days ahead will only become harder."
Su Yue was left speechless, tears falling in quick succession, yet she could not utter a single word in rebuttal.
Crying, complaining, showing weakness—in this deep palace, all were paths to death.
Murong Zhao said no more. She picked up the bowl of spoiled rice, walked straight into the courtyard, and poured it into a flowerpot in the corner.
"This soil could still use some nourishment." She patted her hands, her tone as casual as if discussing a trivial matter.
Su Yue watched her, crying even harder.
Not from grievance, but from heartache.
Heartache that her mistress, who had suffered such immense injustice, could not even shed a single tear.
Murong Zhao turned and entered the room, picking up the short sword her mother had left behind.
The scabbard was old, but the blade remained sharp.
She gripped the hilt tightly and said to Su Yue, "Follow me."
Su Yue wiped her tears and hurried after her.
They walked all the way to the lake in the Imperial Garden.
The lake had long frozen solid, the ice thick and gleaming coldly under the sunlight.
Murong Zhao walked to the center of the lake and drew the sword from its sheath.
"Clang—"
The sword chimed crisply, a flash of cold light appearing.
She swung the sword, striking the ice surface again and again. The blade was sharp, ice chips flying and landing on her lapels and hair. She paid no mind, merely repeating the motions mechanically.
Su Yue watched from the side, her heart aching.
Her Majesty's hands, burned while serving tea, had not yet fully healed. Now, gripping the cold sword hilt to chip at the ice—how much must it hurt…
But she dared not make a sound, only biting her lip and watching silently.
The ice hole opened, clear water gushing out.
Murong Zhao casually broke off a tree branch, tied a thin string to it, then pulled a small piece of hidden steamed bun crumbs from her sleeve, attaching it to the line. She had simply fashioned a fishing rod.
The guard watching the lake hurried forward to stop her, though not daring to be too forceful: "Your Majesty, this place is not for…"
Murong Zhao lifted her gaze to look at him.
Those dark eyes held no anger, no grievance, only a deep, still calm.
"Though I may not be favored," she said lightly, neither hurried nor slow, "I still bear the title of Empress. Is catching a few fish also forbidden?"
The guard choked on his words, not daring to stop her further, and could only retreat to the side.
In less than half an hour, she had caught several plump, fresh fish.
Murong Zhao carried the fish and turned to walk back.
Returning to Yong Lane, Murong Zhao lit a fire and grilled the fish.
Dry branches burned brightly in the brazier, fat sizzling, the aroma instantly filling the entire dilapidated courtyard.
Several eunuchs and palace maids stationed in other rooms along Yong Lane, smelling the fragrance, quietly peeked out.
Murong Zhao recognized them—all low-ranking servants assigned to guard this corner of the Cold Palace, forgotten by the deep palace, just like her.
On the day she first entered Yong Lane, these people watched from a distance, not daring to approach. Their eyes held sympathy, but also fear—fear of being tainted by her, the ill-fated Empress, and bringing trouble upon themselves.
But these past few days, as the charcoal supply was withheld, they suffered the cold alongside her; as the meals were reduced, they endured hunger with her. No one cared whether they lived or died, and no one remembered to send them a single hot meal.
They were just like her—the most insignificant ants in this deep palace.
The youngest eunuch, who suffered the most from the cold, was called Xiao Dezi. He had been in the palace for three years, always assigned to places like Yong Lane where no one was willing to go. No one cared whether he lived or died, no one asked if he was warm or cold. When he fell ill, he had to endure it alone; when he was hungry, he had to bear it in silence.
Murong Zhao handed the first grilled fish to him.
Xiao Dezi was so frightened that he stumbled backward, falling to his knees with a thud. "Your Majesty! This humble servant dares not!"
Murong Zhao bent down and pressed the fish into his hands.
"Take it," she said gently, yet with an air of finality. "These past few days, as the charcoal was withheld, you suffered the cold with me; as the meals were reduced, you endured hunger with me. I have nothing to reward you with, only this small offering. After you finish, go gather some firewood from the backyard."
Xiao Dezi held the steaming grilled fish, stunned.
He took a fierce bite.
The warmth and savory flavor filled his throat, and tears instantly welled up in his eyes, falling onto the fish with soft patters.
Kneeling on the ground, he choked back sobs and kowtowed. "Your Majesty… you are a good person…"
Seeing this, the others also stepped forward one by one to receive the grilled fish.
Murong Zhao said nothing, simply distributing the fish one by one.
She crouched by the fire, the flames flickering across her thin face.
Su Yue watched from the side and suddenly felt—though her mistress had said nothing, each grilled fish carried more weight than a thousand words.
The news spread as if on wings, quickly reaching half of the inner palace.
Finally, it made its way to the imperial study.
Xiao Yan was bent over his desk reviewing memorials when Li Fuquan finished his hushed report. The hand holding the wolf-hair brush paused slightly.
He remained silent for a long time before raising his eyes, his voice low. "Since she entered the palace, has she ever complained once?"
Li Fuquan quickly shook his head. "Your Majesty, never. This servant inquired carefully. Her Majesty spends her days gathering firewood, grilling fish, practicing swordplay, and reading. All the harassment, withholding, and humiliation—she has endured it all without uttering a single word of complaint."
"There is one more thing…" Li Fuquan hesitated. "The day Her Majesty went to the Imperial Garden to break the ice and fish, the guards at the lake tried to stop her. Her Majesty only said one thing—"
"What did she say?"
"Her Majesty said, 'Though I may not be favored, I still bear the title of Empress.'"
A flicker of emotion passed through Xiao Yan's eyes.
She neither fought nor protested, neither cried out nor complained.
Even when bullied to this extent, she only used the four words "the title of Empress" to lightly deflect it.
She neither lowered herself in humility nor abused her position to bully others.
Her sense of propriety was perfectly measured.
After a moment of silence, he suddenly spoke. "Which guard squad is currently on duty at Yong Lane?"
Li Fuquan was taken aback but quickly replied, "Your Majesty, it is the Bing Squad of the Imperial Guard. The captain's surname is Zhou."
Xiao Yan nodded but said nothing more.
Meanwhile, in the barracks of the Imperial Guard's Bing Squad.
Captain Zhou was leading his men in inventorying equipment when a eunuch arrived to deliver an imperial decree: By the Emperor's oral command, a guard named Wei Zhao was to be immediately assigned to the Bing Squad, responsible for patrolling the outer perimeter of Yong Lane.
Captain Zhou was stunned. "Wei Zhao? I've never heard of this person…"
The eunuch whispered, "He's newly arrived, highly skilled, personally appointed by His Majesty. Remember, don't go spreading it around."
Captain Zhou dared not ask further and quickly complied.
That night, Wei Zhao stood in the shadows outside Yong Lane, clad in Imperial Guard armor. Moonlight fell upon his face, the knife scar at the end of his brow faintly visible.
At last, he could stand guard here openly.
No longer needing to disguise himself as a eunuch, no longer needing to hide.
He gazed at the dilapidated hut within Yong Lane, where a faint flicker of firelight glowed from the window. A surge of warmth suddenly welled up in his heart.
His Majesty… is protecting Her Ladyship.
Inside Yong Lane, Murong Zhao was polishing her sword.
Outside the window, the cold wind howled, rattling the window frames.
She lifted her gaze toward the solitary moon outside, her dark eyes as calm as still water.
She knew that her forbearance had already caught someone's attention.
This game of chess was finally about to move.