PM - 12

The last time she had been here was six years ago. Back then, she was still young—her movements less restrained and her small stature allowed her to slip away unnoticed when the attendants weren’t paying attention. As she grew older, the Chancellor naturally welcomed her as an honored guest in the front courtyard, and she never again had the chance to visit this inner sanctum.

The weather in June was scorching, and by midday, the cicadas’ cries formed a deafening chorus. Standing under the corridor, she gazed into the distance. The intricately carved beams and painted rafters failed to catch her eye; instead, her gaze rested on the rosebush in the corner that had grown so much larger since she last saw it. She remembered it being no thicker than her little finger back then. The pond in the middle of the courtyard remained unchanged, with tender lotus shoots sprouting from its surface. Beneath the lotus leaves, koi swam lazily, one of which bore a crescent-shaped red mark on its forehead—a fish she had released years ago. Many things here hadn’t changed. Six years ago, this place felt distant, but now it felt strangely familiar. She had never thought of herself as an outsider, and if all went well, this mansion would eventually become her home outside the palace.

Walking through the long corridor, she paused at the ninth goose-neck chair along the way, bending down to search. On a plum-blossom-patterned curved piece of wood near the base, she found a few small characters. Smiling, she pointed them out and turned to the Chief Secretary, saying, “Look, I carved this when I was nine—it’s my name.”

Fú Wēi, meaning “to support decline,” was a name imbued with great hope by the late emperor, making it especially significant. Of course, this name was meant for Emperor Wén’s ears. Her parents, knowing she was ultimately a girl, privately called her Ā Yīng (Little Baby), as if she were perpetually a child in need of protection. She preferred her nickname—it felt more like her own name compared to Yuán Fú Wēi. Unfortunately, over the years, almost no one called her by that name anymore. The Empress Dowager might mention it privately to those close to her, but in her presence, she was addressed only as “Your Majesty.” The weight of being an emperor overshadowed everything about her, and she even joked whether she might grow a beard in a few years. Before her gender identity became entirely inverted, she needed to make her move. Add to that the ominous sign of Mars guarding the Heart, and she couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of urgency. If she didn’t act soon, it might be too late.

The Chief Secretary, leading the ox, was far from calm. The young emperor’s actions had become increasingly meticulous. Sending an ox and wine was a significant matter, yet they hadn’t received any prior notice. This sudden arrival—was she really planning to brazenly take a life? Such arrogance was astonishing.

The稚嫩 (delicate/immature) strokes from when she was nine drew her attention again and again. Sensing the right moment, the Chief Secretary decided to stir some sentimentality. “This is Your Majesty’s imperial handwriting, so it has been carefully preserved. Please look, Your Majesty. Last year, a violent storm damaged the railings on this corridor, and most were replaced. Only this section remains untouched because Lord Chancellor said that when Your Majesty revisited this place, you would surely come to see it again.”

Whether true or not, Fú Wēi was delighted to hear it. At least these memories remained intact. Perhaps the Chancellor liked her without realizing it.

She crossed the stone bridge and moved forward. She vaguely remembered where his bedroom was. The ox, reluctant to climb higher, stopped midway. She instructed the Chief Secretary to tether it to a pillar while she carried the wine jar into the main chamber.

A man’s living quarters were indeed different from hers. She loved decorating her chambers with curtains, changing their colors with the seasons—it was one of the few places where she could exercise creativity. The Chancellor’s room, however, was divided by sandalwood screens. She saw dark lacquered cabinets adorned with swirling cloud patterns, devoid of any other color. The room’s austerity was forbidding, much like his stern demeanor in court.

She understood the plight of a bachelor. Servants followed orders but dared not take initiative to alter the layout. People from imperial households often lacked parental affection, and with marriages delayed or left incomplete for various reasons, it was easy to imagine how austere their lives must have been.

Slowly walking further inside, the tinkling of her jade pendants suddenly seemed too loud, and she worried it might disturb his slumber.

Circling around the screen, she finally saw the figure lying on the bed. He lay facing inward, his face hidden, dressed in plain robes without elaborate embellishments. At first glance, he resembled a scholar oblivious to worldly affairs.

Strange—Mars guarding the Heart had already been mentioned in court. Was he not worried at all? Or did he know that the greatest calamity fell upon the emperor, leaving him free to rest peacefully?

She felt a pang of sadness. Slowly approaching his bedside, she stood silently for a moment, remembering that she had come to frighten him. But with him sleeping so soundly, her plan seemed impossible to execute. What could she do? The Chancellor slept so deeply. She heard his steady breathing and, looking at him from behind, felt a faint sense of unfamiliarity.

The oppressive heat lingered despite the open windows, offering no relief. She bent slightly, inexplicably beginning to fan him. Having been an emperor for so long, she had forgotten how to treat someone gently. Aside from fanning him, she couldn’t think of anything else to do. In court, they competed fiercely, but outside of it, there was no need for direct confrontation. His robe exuded a faint fragrance, reminding her of the night he stayed in Zhangde Hall. The same incense filled the air, and their hair had even entangled...

She was troubled by her feelings for him, unsure how to win his affection. Placing the wine jar by her feet, she cautiously extended a finger to stroke the ends of his hair. That single touch filled her with joy. Smiling brightly, she felt the oppressive heat wasn’t so unbearable anymore. A cool breeze seemed to blow through her heart, making everything feel perfect.

While the entire Great Yin empire fretted over the ominous celestial phenomenon, the two at the center of the storm were the most at ease. The Chancellor slept, and she indulged in stolen moments of intimacy. Life should be like this, shouldn’t it? Lifting her head, she exhaled contentedly, her gaze wandering casually around the room. Beside his bed stood another screen, behind which hung a large clothes rack displaying his official robes—crimson-edged sleeves and a bright red sash. Though similar to others’, on him, they appeared extraordinarily striking. Perhaps beauty truly lies in the eyes of the beholder. Yet how unfair—she found every part of him endearing, while he claimed she wasn’t a stunning beauty. Those words wounded her pride, leaving her indignant to this day. Just wait—he would see her in a new light someday. What was true beauty? Dressed in flowing robes, her hair elegantly coiled, she alone would shine brighter than all others. She was the real paragon of beauty!

Her gaze continued to wander. Beside the clothes rack, his jade-hilted sword hung on the wall. According to Great Yin regulations, the emperor used a Luó sword, while princes and first-rank officials used jade-hilted swords. His sword had been bestowed by Emperor Wén, just like those of the princes, with a beast-head inlaid in the hilt. Emperor Wén once called him “my family’s qílín (auspicious mythical creature) child.” She wondered what his state of mind had been back then. Whether he had reclaimed his ancestry after gaining immense power in court was unknown. There were no other Yàn-surnamed individuals in the court, suggesting he might have regarded himself as part of the Yuán family due to Emperor Wén’s favor. This made things complicated. She wanted to develop a relationship beyond that of uncle and niece, but he resisted adamantly.

She sighed, turning to find a place to sit. With nothing else to do today, she decided to wait for him to wake up. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed someone standing outside the window—a man with a solemn expression, impeccably dressed, frowning as he watched her. Fú Wēi’s mind buzzed. Instinctively, she glanced at the bed. The person lying there slept soundly, rolling over comfortably. She finally saw his face—it was none other than Marquis Jǐn Yī, Lián Zhēng!

Panic seized her. How long had he been standing there? Had he seen her earlier actions? Her face burned with shame. She had come to startle him, but somehow ended up in this embarrassing situation. What dignity as an emperor remained before him?

Head bowed in dejection, she walked out of the bedroom, leaving the wine jar behind. It seemed her plan had fallen apart, ruined by her own lapse in judgment.

She approached him, too ashamed to lift her face. The Chancellor looked down at her, his fighting spirit suddenly extinguished. She was still just a child, though gradually gaining the ability to rule the empire. Her youth made it hard for her to control her emotions, and if she didn’t learn to manage them, it would become her greatest weakness in the future.

He raised his hands in a respectful gesture. “Your Majesty…”

She waved her sleeve to silence him, unwilling to wake the sleeping man and cause mutual embarrassment.

Understanding her intentions, he gestured gracefully to lead her out. His robe brushed lightly against her hand. She quietly raised her eyes to look at his retreating figure, overcome by an urge to collapse and cry.

She had heard rumors of his close friendship with Marquis Jǐn Yī, but she hadn’t expected them to share such intimacy—to the point of sleeping in the same bed. While the guests outside were seething with indignation, ready to devour her alive, the two men were taking a nap in the backyard. What kind of indescribable relationship was this? No wonder whispers had reached her ears, claiming that neither the Chancellor nor Lián Zhēng had married because they were involved in a forbidden love. She hadn’t believed it at the time, but now it seemed there might be some truth to it. A wave of disgust washed over her. Lián Zhēng couldn’t stay in the capital any longer.

Summoning her resolve, she thought, If I wilt now, won’t he look down on me? When the Chancellor turned back, he saw the spirited young emperor she always was. This rapid transformation could only be attributed to the unfathomable depths of an emperor’s mind.

He led her into the study and invited her to sit. Looking around, the young emperor murmured, “I’ve been here before—with Shàngguān Zhào. We spent half a day reading in this study.”

The Chancellor poured her a cup of tea and pushed it toward her, speaking calmly. “Your Majesty didn’t come today to reminisce about the past, did you? I saw the yellow ox and the wine you brought… Mars guarding the Heart is an ominous sign. In the thirty-sixth year of Emperor Qín Shǐhuáng’s reign, a meteor fell and turned into stone. Rumors spread that ‘the First Emperor will die, and the land will divide.’ In response, the emperor slaughtered all the households near the fallen stone. If my death can ensure the eternal stability of the empire and Your Majesty’s longevity, I will gladly sacrifice myself without hesitation.”

Fú Wēi smiled faintly after hearing this. “But in the thirty-seventh year, Emperor Qín still perished during his fifth eastern tour. The ways of heaven are clear—warding off calamities is futile. Father Chancellor, rest assured. Even if I die, I won’t harm you. Today, I merely intended to joke with you. The Chief Secretary said you were resting, and I didn’t want to leave disappointed, so I insisted on entering the inner quarters.” A sorrowful expression crossed her face. “After all, who knows what tomorrow holds? Perhaps one day I’ll suddenly fall ill and perish. While I’m still able to move, I came to see you. I fear that if I’m bedridden in the future, you’ll be too busy with state affairs to remember me.”

Her words were heartfelt, and even the Chancellor struggled to discern their authenticity. However, he could tell she harbored no murderous intent. After all, no one who intended to execute someone would do so openly. An emperor had countless ways to take a life—sending an ox and wine was just one method. If refused, mourning officials in funeral attire would arrive to cry over the impending death, a far more heart-wrenching form of coercion.

He scrutinized her expression carefully. “Are you afraid, Your Majesty?”

She replied, “Yes, but what can I do? If heaven wishes to kill me, crying won’t save me, nor will laughing. I’ve been emperor for ten years and accomplished nothing except the lingering presence of the Empress Dowager and, most importantly, you, Father Chancellor.” She blinked. “Father Chancellor, if I die, will you miss me?”

The Chancellor pondered this question seriously. Would he miss her? Probably not. To him, whoever sat on the throne was the same. Over the past decade, he had tutored her in governance and served as her imperial mentor. Yet she was a child with an indistinct personality. If he were honest, the impressions she had left on him over the past nine years combined didn’t match the impact of this single month. But even this brief encounter would fade like the wind once matters concluded. He would need to find the next successor—where would he find time to think of her?

His silence disappointed her. “It’s a pity I haven’t grown closer to you over the years. During the time I have left, may I live here with you?”

The Chancellor was taken aback. “The Son of Heaven governs on behalf of heaven. How can you descend to live among commoners? Your presence in the palace ensures the stability of the realm. If the central authority becomes vacant, it would spell disaster for the nation!”

She lowered her head, tears welling up. “So I’ll remain lonely until the day I die.”

The Chancellor considered a compromise. “I will immediately arrange for your enthronement ceremony. Once Líng Jūn enters the palace, you won’t be alone—you’ll have him by your side.”

“But it’s you I long for. You’re the only one in this world who can protect me fully. Líng Jūn can’t give me peace of mind.”

The Chancellor was nearly driven mad by her persistence. “Your Majesty, a joke once is enough. Repeating it over and over only breeds annoyance.”

Her lips trembled slightly. Sitting upright, she avoided his gaze. Her hand, resting on the edge of the table, reached out and tightly clasped his fingertips. “I admire you. Why won’t you believe me? When a person is nearing death, their words are sincere. Father Chancellor, my time is running out. I don’t want to reach the end still alone. If you won’t let me move into your mansion, then live with me in the palace. Together, we’ll face this heavenly trial. The world will sing your praises, not accuse you of forcing me into confinement.”