◎Zhenru Palace◎

When Zhou Tan was exiled from the capital at the age of thirty-one, he passed by Qingxi River.

There, he wrote a vague elegy.

Qu You remembered this poem—it was written for his wife, Lady Qu.

The reason it was called “vague” was because when she first read it, she had no idea it was an elegy. Only the title, “Elegy of Grief,” hinted at the author’s sorrow.

“Qingxi washes in the new rain “—Passing through Qingxi River in the outskirts during the spring rains.

“Drifting away with old clothes “—I leave Bianjing alone, like a drifting boat, offering only old garments to mourn those who’ve passed.

Now she realized these two lines were about Gu Zhiyan.

For the first time since arriving here, Qu You felt a deep sense of confusion and fear welling up within her heart.

Before now, she hadn’t thought much about the future or how her life might unfold. But when Zhou Tan mentioned his late teacher today, she suddenly recalled something—historically, Zhou Tan’s wife—perhaps herself—had already passed away before he left Bianjing.

History didn’t record their relationship; there was only that cryptic elegy. Now, Qu You understood that the first two lines were Zhou Tan mourning his teacher, but the meaning of the last two lines remained unclear.

Parents dead, relatives estranged, younger brother cold, teacher gone… and later, his wife too. Zhou Tan was someone who valued relationships deeply. Beneath the apricot tree where she quietly passed away, perhaps even he didn’t want to live anymore.

But this body of hers wasn’t sick—so why did she die?

She couldn’t believe any woman who spent time with Zhou Tan could remain indifferent to him. And if they cared for him, how could they bear to leave him?

Could it be, like Gu Zhiyan, that she was forced into death after being dragged into political turmoil?

But I don’t want to die.

Qu You clearly heard the voice within her heart.

She wanted to stay by this man’s side, at least so that when he eventually left, he wouldn’t have to face the apricot tree alone, fragile and unsupported.

But could she… change history?

No, without her, the case of the falling tower would not have ended this way. If she hadn’t intervened, Zhou Tan would never have come across Liu Lianxi’s letters or uncovered what lay before them now.

In the unrecorded gaps of history, had she already changed the course of events?

As Qu You thought this, her fingers brushed gently over the back of his hand. Zhou Tan, lost in grief, was less perceptive than usual and didn’t notice her distraction.

He held Qu You’s hand as he picked up the letters again, feeling his mind sharpen to an almost unbearable clarity. Yet the sharper it became, the more it made him tremble.

He remembered the day Gu Zhiyan visited him in the imperial prison. The elegant and spirited teacher, always full of vitality, revealed a side Zhou Tan had never seen before.

At that time, Zhou Tan had just endured the “Nail Torture.”

So-called Nail Torture involved driving iron nails—thick as fingers—into the gaps of the joints. It didn’t break bones or cause excessive bleeding, nor was it fatal. It was a cruel punishment left over from the previous dynasty.

Excruciating pain. So excruciating that his consciousness began to blur.

Four nails had been driven into his body, and he was thrown onto a pile of straw like a discarded object, humiliated and unable to move.

So much pain. So much pain. Perhaps it would be better to die, like his fellow students.

Lost in such thoughts, he didn’t know how long had passed when suddenly the pain eased. Someone gently helped him sit up, removing two of the nails from his arm and applying medicine to his wounds.

Through the haze, he opened his eyes and saw Gu Zhiyan’s tear-streaked face.

“Xiaobai… you’ve suffered.”

“Teacher…”

The prison was eerily silent, as though everyone had been cleared out. Gu Zhiyan had come alone. His expression was weary and bewildered, as if he had aged ten years overnight.

Zhou Tan knew all too well—it wasn’t about building the Candlelit Pavilion. The emperor’s capriciousness stemmed from seeing the power held by his former tutor as excessive, warranting a purge. Fresh blood from the scholar-officials served as a display of imperial authority to the court.

Everyone knew this, yet none would bow their heads.

This was called “dying for one’s principles.”

“You are my best student—you shouldn’t die at such a young age… but sometimes, living is harder than dying.”

In that prison cell, Gu Zhiyan revealed a secret capable of overturning the heavens.

The secret of Zhenru Palace.

Emperor Xuan had few children throughout his life. Though his harem included the required three palaces and six courtyards, he didn’t produce an heir until twelve years after ascending the throne—his firstborn, the current emperor Song Chang.

Consort Zhao, whose father Zhao Yin enjoyed the emperor’s trust, was favored and resided in Zhenru Palace. Zhenru, named by the abbot of Xiuyou Temple, carried profound Zen meaning. Zhenru Palace occupied the most auspicious feng shui location in the entire palace, its gardens vast and luxurious, a testament to Consort Zhao’s favor.

A year before Song Chang’s birth, a fire broke out in the southern garden of Zhenru Palace. Gongshu Wuchuan oversaw the repairs but mysteriously disappeared upon completion. A year later, Emperor Xuan’s first child was born, and Consort Zhao moved out of Zhenru Palace, which remained unoccupied ever after.

As Zhou Tan recounted this, Qu You suddenly understood. She found it hard to believe, but what he described was indeed a hidden truth absent from historical records.

“Chancellor Gu meant to say… His Majesty isn’t the late emperor’s biological son?”

It was truly shocking.

But Emperor Xuan had only one child in his entire life. On his deathbed, he was forced to consider naming his younger brother as heir—likely because he himself was infertile. Consort Zhao’s excuse of renovating Zhenru Palace might have been a cover for setting up a hidden place within the palace to use another woman’s womb to bear a child. Afterward, she likely killed everyone involved to silence them, including Gongshu Wuchuan, sealing the secret forever within the grounds of Zhenru Palace.

“At the time,” Zhou Tan continued, “Liu Xiang, Zhao Yin’s archenemy, repeatedly voiced suspicions about the imperial bloodline. But before the late emperor could investigate, he died suddenly. On his deathbed, he summoned my teacher to the inner palace and left behind an edict. That’s how my teacher came to know of this matter.”

Qu You’s teeth chattered as she realized what it felt like to come face-to-face with such a hidden history: “Something so secretive—how could outsiders possibly know about it if Gongshu Wuchuan is already dead?”

“Exactly,” Zhou Tan said, his voice bitter as he stared at the melted candle wax pooling below. “Teacher couldn’t figure out how His Majesty discovered this!”

“Consort Zhao wouldn’t let anyone who knew leave the palace alive. It would have been even harder to smuggle out a body. Most likely, they were buried beneath the renovated Zhenru Palace. The late emperor instructed my teacher to guard Zhenru Palace forever and ensure His Majesty never learned the truth. But in the end… His Majesty found out anyway.”

When Song Chang learned that he might not be Emperor Xuan’s biological son, his first reaction was probably disbelief. He must have wanted to dig up every inch of Zhenru Palace to find the remains—but he couldn’t act rashly. Thus, the construction of the Candlelit Pavilion… was born from this.

Gu Zhiyan strongly opposed the demolition of Zhenru Palace to build the Candlelit Pavilion. However, this only fueled Song Chang’s suspicion that Gu Zhiyan knew the secret—and perhaps even more details from Emperor Xuan’s final days.

As the leader of the literati, Gu Zhiyan couldn’t be tortured directly. Instead, Song Chang targeted his disciples, using them as leverage. Moreover, Song Chang had long been wary of Gu Zhiyan’s dominance in court, so this purge may have also served as an outlet for his frustration.

No matter what Gu Zhiyan said, Song Chang, blinded by rage, refused to believe him. Faced with young scholars who stubbornly refused to beg for mercy, the emperor lost patience. Blood stained the Golden Flow River in front of the诏獄(Zhao Yu).

Gu Zhiyan, struck by grief and illness, coughed blood in the courtyard. He handed over all his power, retired, and managed to save only one person—Zhou Tan.

Zhou Tan—alone—sacrificed his reputation, humiliated himself by writing the infamous “Ode to the Candlelit Pavilion,” drank the poison given by the emperor without hesitation, and was sent to the brutal Ministry of Justice. After being attacked, he was denied medical treatment and left to survive on his own, yet still expected to remain loyal.

“In prison, my teacher told me that living is harder than dying. But the late emperor’s edict remains, and we… still have unfinished business.”

Qu You couldn’t hold back any longer. She reached up to wipe away tears that had fallen without her noticing. Before she could turn around, she was pulled into his embrace. Though he was the one who needed comfort, he still gently stroked her hair.

“Don’t cry. If you shed tears, I won’t be able to continue.”

Zhou Tan’s voice was low as he consoled her, but she felt warm liquid dripping onto her neck, mingling with her salty tears.

Emperor Xuan had left the edict with Gu Zhiyan. Now that Gu had relinquished his power, someone still needed to uphold its significance in court.

Even in this dire moment, Gu Zhiyan continued to teach him how to be an upright official.

Before the Candlelit Pavilion case, Song Chang had been diligent and just, capable of listening to some advice from the Censorate. If he could continue to be a mediocre ruler, stability would be preferable to chaos. After all, upheaval in the palace meant bloodshed.

If peace could be maintained, this edict might rot away in Zhou Tan’s estate, unknown to anyone until his death.

“No wonder…”

“No wonder what?”

“After the Falling Tower case ended, you were punished with a beating in the palace courtyard. When I went to meet you at the eastern gate, you turned your head and saw the lit Candlelit Pavilion. You said to me…”

Qu You recalled the scene, speaking each word carefully: “You said, ‘I had unrealistic expectations of him.’”

Zhou Tan had wandered through the Ministry of Justice like a dog of the emperor, not even considering retrieving the edict. What truly ignited his rebellion was likely the unjust deaths of countless women in the Falling Tower case, a sight so shocking that it seared his soul. Yet Song Chang still allowed Fu Qingnian to suppress justice repeatedly. It wasn’t that he couldn’t intervene—it was that he didn’t care.

“Matters of blood are beyond one’s control. Retaliation, purges, tolerating factional struggles—all are tactics of imperial rule.” Zhou Tan tightly shut his eyes, then opened them again. The candle had burned down to its stub. “But rulers must never ignore the blood of their people. Since childhood, I’ve studied under my teacher’s guidance, dedicating myself to public service…”

“For the people, not for the ruler. Tan, I will never blindly serve.”