As night deepened, Murong Zhao sat alone by the lamp and opened the old wooden box that had been sealed for many years.
Inside lay the short sword her mother had left behind, its blade still sharp.
She reached out, took the sword, and gently traced the sheath with her fingertips. This sword had been used by her mother, and she herself had wielded it for ten years.
Ten years.
She suddenly recalled the first winter after she arrived at the Cold Palace.
She was only eight years old then, huddled alone in a drafty, broken-down room, cold and hungry, trembling with fear. No one came to see her, no one brought her food. Clutching the few books her mother had left behind, she read aloud through her tears.
She read the stories from Records of the Grand Historian.
She recited the words her mother had taught her.
As she read, the fear gradually subsided.
In the years that followed, she read those books over and over again—Records of the Grand Historian, Strategies of the Warring States, The Art of War… Every page was filled with her dense annotations. Without a teacher to guide her, she pondered them on her own. When she couldn’t understand something, she read it again and again until she did.
On summer nights too hot to sleep, she memorized passages by moonlight.
On winter days too cold to hold a brush, she huddled under her quilt, tracing characters on the wall with her fingers.
For ten years in the Cold Palace, those books were her only companions.
And it was those books that taught her how to read people, how to recognize situations, and how to find a way out in the direst of circumstances.
She lowered her head to look at the short sword in her hand, a faint smile curling at the corner of her lips.
What her mother had left her was never a ready-made answer.
It was this sword that taught her to protect herself.
It was those books that taught her to use her own mind and walk her own path.
She raised her eyes to gaze out at the heavy darkness beyond the window.
The gate to Yong Lane’s courtyard was slightly ajar, moonlight seeping through the crack.
Xiao Yan stood outside the gate, his hand raised to push it open, when he suddenly heard a faint, sharp sound from within—the whisper of a sword cutting through the air.
He paused, not pushing the gate open, but stood quietly outside, peering through the crack.
Moonlight poured like water into the dilapidated courtyard, casting a serene glow over the desolation.
A slender figure stood in the center of the yard, holding an unremarkable old sword. Its blade gleamed like snow, swirling and dancing under the moonlight.
Thrust, flick, slash, hack.
Each move was steady and precise, its power hidden within.
There was no extravagance, every stroke seeming to emerge from her very bones.
Xiao Yan watched silently, making no sound.
He had seen countless sword dances—at palace banquets, at noble feasts, all dazzling and pleasing to the eye. The women who danced with swords wore splendid attire, their eyes filled with emotion. The sword was an ornament, the dancer a sight to behold.
But he had never seen a sword like this.
This was not a dance; it was killing.
Every thrust carried a sharp, piercing edge, as if trying to tear a rift through the endless night.
Every withdrawal held a heavy, suppressed weight, as if forcing all grievances and unwillingness back into the depths of her heart.
She was not practicing swordsmanship.
She was using the sword to speak to herself.
Xiao Yan’s gaze fell on her hand.
There, the redness and swelling from the tea burn had not yet fully faded. The knuckles gripping the sword were pale, yet astonishingly steady.
With a thrust of the sword, her wrist turned slightly, the blade tracing a cold, sharp arc in the moonlight.
Her breathing was even, her posture upright, nothing like a disgraced Empress who had suffered years of neglect.
Xiao Yan suddenly recalled the words from the secret report—
Ten years in the Cold Palace.
Forgotten and ignored.
A substitute bride sent for a political marriage.
Assassination attempts along the way.
Entering Yong Lane, enduring shortages, facing harassment.
What lies within each stroke of the sword?
Is it hatred?
Is it resentment?
Or… merely the stubborn will to survive?
He had seen too many women. Those who wept, those who clamored, those who knelt, those who begged, those who schemed, those who flattered. But he had never seen one like this—having endured so much suffering, neither weeping nor clamoring, neither resentful nor begging, only practicing swordplay alone in the depths of night, concealing all emotions within the blade's edge.
Xiao Yan watched that slender figure, his eyes dark and profound like a deep pond.
Within the inner palace, how many spies the Empress Dowager had planted, he did not know.
Consort Shu was the Empress Dowager's niece, openly and covertly monitoring his every move for her.
Consort De, Consort Xian, Consort Hui—were they not all daughters of powerful ministers? Did any of them not bear the Empress Dowager's shadow behind them?
Each day after finishing his official documents, even when he wished to stroll somewhere, someone would report it to the Empress Dowager.
This inner palace, on the surface belonged to him, but in reality, belonged to the Empress Dowager.
But if… if there was a woman who could help him.
Not one who only competed for favor and sought credit, but one truly capable of bearing responsibilities.
Calm, restrained, resilient, understanding propriety, knowing when to advance and retreat.
Such a person was rare to encounter.
And this woman before him—
With no support, naturally opposed to the Empress Dowager and Consort Shu.
She had intelligence, methods, resilience, and a sharp edge all around.
If she could become his ally—then those spies planted by the Empress Dowager, those nails, might not be impossible to pull out one by one.
Xiao Yan watched the slender figure under moonlight, suddenly feeling he had come rightly.
This woman was more valuable than he imagined.
Under moonlight, she withdrew her sword, stood steady, breathing slightly.
Then, she suddenly turned her head, gazing toward the courtyard gate.
Through the worn-out door, their eyes met.
Xiao Yan pushed the door and entered.
Under moonlight, that dark figure stood tall and straight, his outline sharp as if carved, his eyes deep, naturally exuding the oppressive aura of ruling the world.
Murong Zhao was stunned for only a moment, immediately withdrawing her sword and lowering her hands, kneeling in a standard posture, her voice light and clear: "Greetings to Your Majesty."
No panic, no flattery, nor deliberate ingratiation.
Xiao Yan stepped forward, crossing the worn-out threshold, entering the courtyard.
His gaze fell on the unremarkable old sword in her hand, his voice low:
"Who taught you this sword technique?"
"Your Majesty, it was my mother."
"Who is your mother?" Xiao Yan asked knowingly.
"The daughter of a Border Pass commander, raised in the military during childhood." Murong Zhao replied neither humbly nor arrogantly.
Xiao Yan remained silent.
Thus, she bore no trace of the delicate fragility of a sheltered woman, instead possessing an unmistakable resilience.
His gaze slowly descended, landing on the back of her hand.
There, the redness and swelling from being scalded by hot tea during the respectful tea ceremony had not fully subsided, leaving a faint mark.
Clearly a wound, yet she gripped the sword, practiced swordplay as if nothing had happened, not even wrinkling her brow.
Xiao Yan's throat moved slightly, abruptly asking: "Does it hurt?"
Once spoken, he himself was slightly startled.
He never cared about the pains of women in the inner palace, nor would he actively inquire.
But looking at this woman, he could not control himself.
Murong Zhao was also clearly stunned, evidently not expecting him to ask this.
She quickly lowered her gaze, her voice calm: "Your Majesty, it no longer hurts."
Lightly described, as if speaking of another's matter.
He did not ask further, turning and leaving.
The dark figure appeared solitary and cold yet imposing under moonlight.
Murong Zhao stood with bowed head, quietly waiting for him to depart.
Just as Xiao Yan was about to step out of the courtyard gate, his footsteps suddenly halted.
Without turning back, he left only a low, clear sentence that drifted into the night: "Tomorrow, move to Changle Palace."
As his voice faded, he disappeared into the depths of the night.
Murong Zhao abruptly looked up, staring in the direction he had left, stunned.
Changle Palace…
She had heard of it since entering the palace—it was the palace closest to the emperor's bedchamber, spacious and luxurious, a place all the consorts in the inner palace dreamed of.
Why?
During the wedding a few days ago, he hadn't even shown his face.
Yet tonight, after meeting him, he suddenly wanted her to move to the palace closest to him?
Was it a test?
Was it exploitation?
Or… was there another purpose?
Under the moonlight, she gripped the hilt of her sword, her fingertips tightening slightly.
Her dark eyes were calm, yet they concealed deep confusion.
She didn't know that this chance encounter tonight was only the beginning.
From this moment on, this pawn that had been casually discarded finally caught the emperor's eye.
Xiao Yan walked out of Yong Lane, the night breeze brushing against his face, dispersing some of his restlessness.
He continued walking without pause, heading straight for the imperial study.
Li Fuquan followed from a distance, not daring to approach or ask questions.
As he walked, Xiao Yan suddenly stopped.
He stood on the palace path, looking up at the solitary moon in the sky.
In his mind, that slender figure remained.
The sharpness of each sword thrust, the casual remark "it doesn't hurt anymore," and those calm, deep black eyes.
He told himself that moving her to Changle Palace was to make her an ally, to clear out the spies in the inner palace, and to deal with the Empress Dowager.
All of these were true.
But a voice deep within whispered softly—
You just want to be closer to her.
This thought flashed through his mind, only to be ruthlessly suppressed.
He was the emperor.
An emperor does not fall in love.
He lifted his foot and continued walking forward.
Yong Lane behind him grew farther and farther away.
Yet that slender figure in his heart grew clearer and clearer.