Lady Majia was no longer as certain as she once was—certain that she would retain the Emperor’s favor, and certain that she would conceive another prince before the grand promotion of titles.
Her eyes were fixed squarely on the prince born to Lady Zhaojia. Compared to adopting a prince whose biological mother was dead but had committed an unforgivable sin, she much preferred taking the Eighth Prince under her wing. Beyond any other reason, if she were to raise a child who was not her own, it had to be one young enough not to remember his origins. That way, as long as she guarded him well, the Eighth Prince would only ever treat her as his birth mother, and Lady Zhaojia would be nothing more than a stranger to him.
However, a prince in the palace was a coveted prize. It wasn’t just Lady Majia; Ladies Li, Wangjia, and Dong were all eyeing the Eighth Prince’s ultimate placement. This constant scrutiny provoked Lady Zhaojia, who had just finished her confinement period, to lash out with sarcasm at anyone she met, suspecting everyone of coveting her son.
To the relief of the various concubines, Lady Niohuru, as one of the most powerful figures in the palace, showed no interest in claiming the right to raise either the Fifth Prince or the Eighth Prince. This greatly facilitated their dreams of snatching a child for themselves.
Lady Majia sent constant tokens of care to the Palace of the Princes, never missing a single meal for the young prince. She no longer had time to care for her own daughter, the Third Princess; her eyes were filled only with the infant prince. Meanwhile, Lady Little Guoluo-lo, seeing that she truly could not reclaim the Emperor’s favor, focused her efforts on the Fifth Prince. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to raise the infant prince, but if the frail child were to have an accident under her care, she would have to expend massive amounts of effort on him. How could she compete for favor then?
Furthermore, she believed she would eventually have her own biological children. The Empress could not remain favored forever; the Emperor would return to her bedchamber sooner or later. For now, she was merely using the Fifth Prince to secure a higher rank. As for how to handle the Fifth Prince once he was under her care—he was already an older child, so what need was there for her concern?
Those concubines who had never borne children, or had only raised a princess, were even more concerned about the two princes’ fates. The Emperor had few offspring; only three princes and one princess had survived to this day. Even the currently favored Empress had lost a prince in the past. Therefore, any surviving child in the palace was precious. Even for a princess, these consorts would fight tooth and nail, let alone for two “unclaimed” princes.
In the Palace of the Princes, the Fifth Prince pursed his lips as he watched the concubines currying favor before him. Hearing that his little brother, the Eighth Prince, who also lived there, was being targeted by those women, he felt extremely uneasy and loathed the concubines before him. His own mother was gone, yet these people still wanted to snatch him away!
Moreover, he lowered his head, realizing his Imperial Father had not seen him in a long time. It was all because that Second Brother had monopolized him! His mother had been right back then; she did everything for his own good…
Even at such a young age, after experiencing the “death” of his birth mother, the loss of his Imperial Father’s attention, and the world-shaking change in how those around him treated him, Baoqing instinctively began to harbor resentment toward the younger brother he had never even met. This was the most natural reaction for a prince growing up in the Imperial Family.
As for the Eighth Prince—an infant still wailing for milk in his swaddling clothes—he understood nothing and could only drift with the tide.
Before the harem could erupt into a full-scale argument, the Emperor ordered the Imperial Household Department to carry out a major task: the re-ranking of the princes by seniority. The Fifth Prince became the First Prince, and the Eighth Prince became the Third Prince. Those princes who had died prematurely were no longer included in the official ranking. This meant that the concubines who once took credit for bearing those children, and the deceased princes themselves, would largely be forgotten by the Imperial House.
However, there was one slight difference: only the deceased eldest legitimate son, Chenghu, born to the Empress, was posthumously titled Prince Cheng of the First Rank. Thus, even if this deceased eldest son was not included in the numerical ranking, his status was far higher than that of the “Second Prince” everyone used to talk about. His significance far exceeded that of an ordinary prince; he did not even hold the status of a mere untitled prince, but was recognized as a formal Prince of the Blood.
Upon learning this news, Zhou Momo and Xuelian nearly wept with joy. Li Mu felt no personal connection to the child in the original soul’s memory, but she knew he had been a very well-behaved and obedient boy. Being titled a Prince of the First Rank meant she had two high-status children under her name. Perhaps in the future, she could have Yinreng adopt a child into Chenghu’s line as an heir, which would serve as a comfort to the original soul.
Li Mu’s gaze flickered as she personally offered a stick of incense before the Buddhist altar for the original soul and the eldest son. In the eyes of Zhou Momo and the other maid, their Mistress was still grieving for her firstborn. They felt both heartache and relief; at least the Empress’s bitterness had turned to sweetness now, making it all worthwhile.
After offering the incense, Li Mu exited the Buddhist hall with a solemn attitude. The sunlight outside was somewhat piercing. Xuelian hurried to open an umbrella, but Li Mu spotted the Emperor waiting for her in the courtyard. Perhaps influenced by the original soul’s emotions, Li Mu disregarded her formal composure and hurried to the Emperor’s side. She held him tightly, leaning her head against his chest. After a long silence, she said, “Your Majesty, Yinreng will surely grow up safe and sound.”
Kangxi lowered his head, his expression tender. “Yes, Yinreng will grow up safe and sound, and I will have many more children with my Mu’er.”
“Mu’er? Why does Your Majesty call me that?!” Li Mu had been feeling sentimental, thinking about how easily imperial children succumbed to illness, but hearing the Emperor say that made her shudder involuntarily.
It had happened while she was playing with Yinreng. Seeing that Yinreng had two names and couldn’t figure out which one was his, she had jokingly mentioned that she had two names as well. The Emperor had overheard and looked at her meaningfully. Forced into a corner, she had revealed her childhood name: “Mu.”
This was, of course, her real name. The original soul was the eldest sister among the siblings in her family, and all the elders, great and small, called her E-yun. E-yun means “elder sister” in Manchu. While it could serve as a name, it was far too common—or so she had explained to the Emperor. Thus, she claimed she had given herself a private name, and that had settled the matter.
She never expected the Emperor to call her “Mu’er” in front of so many people. Such a name was far too intimate. Li Mu buried her head in his chest, her face redder than ever before. It wasn’t out of shyness, but pure embarrassment and the effort to restrain the urge to cover the Emperor’s mouth.
He is the Emperor, I cannot hit him. He is the Emperor, I cannot hit him!
After repeating this to herself twice, Li Mu’s breathing finally smoothed out.
“I shall call you whatever I wish. Is the Empress not used to it?” Kangxi, however, thought the Empress in his arms was simply too shy to show her face. His gaze turned even softer. The Empress’s personality was always like this: she was perfectly poised and decisive when expressing her love, yet she was always shy in the most unexpected places. How could she be so endearing?
Rather, how could she make him so happy?
The re-ranking of the princes dealt a massive blow to Lady Majia. She was the one who had birthed the most princes for the Imperial Family, and she was also the one whose children had died in the greatest numbers. Next was the Empress, who lost her eldest son, and the late Lady Ulanara, who had birthed the Emperor’s third son, Chengqing.
What infuriated her most was why the Empress’s deceased eldest son could be titled a Prince of the First Rank. They were all deceased princes; why did the Emperor always make an exception for the Empress? Were her Chengrui, Saiyinchahun, and Changhua not the Emperor’s children? Why couldn’t the princes she worked so hard to bear be honored by the Emperor?
She was miserable, and she wished for the Empress’s Crown Prince to die an early death. She couldn’t stand the Empress’s current smugness. But she had no time to curse the Empress and the Crown Prince now; it would be best if the Emperor still remembered her merit for having birthed so many children.
But if the Emperor treated her children as if they were nothing—just like the new ranking suggested—then those concubines who were younger, more beautiful, and from more powerful families would leap right over her head. She had to have a child. No, she had to have a prince.
In the end, the matter of status was more important. The day after the Emperor titled the eldest son, Lady Majia finally humbled herself and sought an audience with the Empress, bringing a small vest she had sewn herself.
“Your Majesty, Lady Majia of the Majia clan seeks an audience.”
Li Mu had just ordered the sleeping Yinreng to be carried away. She looked up and saw Lady Majia coming for an audience, feeling a bit surprised. This Lady Majia, who usually only appeared during morning greetings, was seeking a private meeting. Had something major happened?
With this in mind, Li Mu had Lady Majia welcomed in.
“This servant pays her respects to Her Majesty the Empress. May Her Majesty enjoy ten thousand blessings and golden peace.”
“Rise, Lady Majia. For what reason do you seek an audience with me?”
“Your Majesty… this servant misses Chengdu and the others terribly.” Before Li Mu could tell her to rise, Lady Majia began to weep. “Your Majesty, this servant knows her princes are not as noble as Your Majesty’s eldest son, but it is unbearable to watch as all traces of Chengdu and the others vanish from the hearts of those in the palace.”
“Are you blaming me?” Li Mu caught the meaning behind her words and looked at her with a half-smile.
She didn’t even have much feeling for the eldest son in the original soul’s memory; did Lady Majia expect her to feel heartbroken for someone else’s children? Lady Majia was being a bit delusional.
“No, Your Majesty.” Lady Majia shook her head frantically. “This servant has never blamed Your Majesty. I only… I only wanted to ask if Your Majesty could let this servant raise the Third Prince. I will surely treat him well. You don’t know, but the moment I saw the Third Prince, I was reminded of how Chengrui looked when he was born. Your Majesty, I beg for your mercy. From now on, this servant is willing to serve Your Majesty as a beast of burden.”
Serve as a beast of burden? She had no need for that.
Li Mu was too lazy to deal with her. “Fine. You may leave. I will mention this to the Emperor. Whether it happens or not depends on His Majesty’s will.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty! This servant will remember Your Majesty’s great kindness for a lifetime!” Lady Majia wept with joy, rose, and retreated.
“Your Majesty, do you truly intend to let Lady Majia raise the Third Prince?” Xuelian asked curiously.
“Why not?” Li Mu’s plan was slowly changing. “I have already monopolized too much of the Emperor’s favor. Over time, this will not only provoke resentment among the concubines but also cause the Grand Empress Dowager to look unfavorably upon me. Since that is the case, why not let Lady Majia take the spotlight for once? I have no desire to remain so prominent.”
What Li Mu didn’t say was that since the Third Prince was destined to be a frail child, it didn’t matter if Lady Majia raised him. Lady Majia was clearly an restless woman; letting her rise, but keeping her within a certain limit, created a visible threat that would make others feel a bit more at ease regarding Kunning Palace.
She didn’t expect the decades of waiting for Yinreng to ascend the throne to be entirely smooth. Without the Tongs, there would always be someone else.