PM - 79

Grand Tutor Zhang stared at the empty imperial throne, his heart heavy with sorrow he had no one to confide in.

The officials came and went, leaving him standing alone in the great hall. His stooped figure cast a lonely shadow. Sun Mo, recently promoted to Secretary of the Imperial Secretariat, could somewhat understand his distress. He stepped forward cautiously, hands tucked into his sleeves, and said gently, “Grand Tutor Zhang, today’s court session has been dismissed. Why not take advantage of this warm weather and go home to enjoy the flowers with Lady Zhang?”

Grand Tutor Zhang turned around, his expression somber. “What’s the point of admiring flowers? What truly concerns me is His Majesty. Look at this—our sovereign no longer attends morning court. How can this be tolerated? I’ve been his Grand Tutor since his early education. Though there was also the Grand Preceptor at the time, that title held by the General was purely ceremonial. I dare say the effort I’ve devoted to His Majesty far exceeds what the General ever gave.” Realizing the flaw in his argument, he quickly amended it: “Of course, now I cannot compare myself to him. The General has poured all his attention… into His Majesty’s body . We’ve often heard of how beauties bring calamity, but look at this—General Yan has shown equal prowess in seducing our ruler. With the General preoccupying the emperor and neglecting state affairs, how will we manage the pressing matters of governance?”

Sun Mo’s face betrayed his awkwardness. “Reunions after separation are sweeter than ever, Grand Tutor. Please bear with it for now. His Majesty’s diligence is evident to us all. The General isn’t new to court either; both are hardworking individuals. Even if they indulge temporarily, their sense of duty remains. Today was the first court session after the General’s return, so dismissing it isn’t unreasonable. Surely the next session will proceed as usual.”

Grand Tutor Zhang gazed sorrowfully at Sun Mo. “Aren’t you worried, Lord Sun?”

Sun Mo looked blank. “What exactly does Grand Tutor refer to?”

“The imperial heir!” Grand Tutor exclaimed. “Look at the General’s behavior. Surely he doesn’t expect to… you know! His Majesty is only sixteen. Being continuously entangled with the General might affect his ability to produce an heir!” Tears welled up in Grand Tutor’s eyes. “The late emperor entrusted His Majesty to my guidance. Never did I imagine I would fail to protect him, allowing him to fall victim to such indulgence—even risking the continuity of the imperial line. What is to be done?”

Now Sun Mo began to feel uneasy too. Whether or not the emperor preferred men wasn’t really the issue—it was his personal preference, not something outsiders should judge. But the emperor belonged to the entire empire, and producing a healthy crown prince was crucial to preserving the dynasty. This was no small matter. Men and men naturally couldn’t conceive children, and if His Majesty lost interest in women altogether, then disaster loomed.

“Perhaps… we should approach the Minister of Rites and have him speak with His Majesty?” Sun Mo suggested hesitantly.

Grand Tutor shook his head. “Ding Baiyao is far too timid. If he goes, he won’t get to the point, and listening to him fumble through the conversation would drive me mad.”

“Then why don’t you go yourself, Grand Tutor? Be direct and insist that His Majesty must visit the inner palace concubines. Didn’t we select five beauties with auspicious features recently? Surely one must appeal to him!”

Grand Tutor sighed deeply. “I’ve brought this up countless times to His Majesty, but he refuses to listen. It’s become tiresome. Moreover, His Majesty’s hearing has worsened. Whenever I mention it, he just pretends not to hear or responds vaguely, ‘What did Teacher say?’ What am I to do? Raise my voice further? Then everyone would overhear, which wouldn’t reflect well on us.”

Sun Mo slumped dejectedly, arms crossed within his sleeves. “Neither option seems ideal. Given His Majesty’s stubborn temperament, perhaps we should consult the General. Though arrogant, he’s still reasonable. Isn’t he planning to subdue the Wuhuan tribes? Let him divert some energy toward military preparations. Once His Majesty has more free time, the palace consorts can seize opportunities to fulfill their duties.”

Heaven help them—what a desperate suggestion! Those who were rightfully meant to serve the emperor now had to scheme and snatch moments to approach him. Where was the justice in that? Yet the General’s reputation was fearsome; no one dared encroach upon his territory. Should he discover any interference, heads would roll before dawn.

But above all else stood the paramount importance of securing the imperial succession. Gritting his teeth, Grand Tutor declared resolutely, “I’ll go! I’ll confront Yan Xiangru and ask him what he plans to do. Could it be that after over a decade of diligent governance, he intends to let the Yuan lineage end with him?”

With the resolve of a lone warrior scaling Mount Liang, Grand Tutor prepared to act. Secretary Sun breathed a sigh of relief. At least someone was willing to address the matter. Though His Majesty was notoriously obstinate, advice from the General carried far greater weight. Asking two lovers to make room for a third party was undeniably cruel, yet unavoidable. The emperor bore immense power and responsibility—he couldn’t forsake the empire for personal indulgence.

As though bidding farewell to a hero, Secretary Sun watched Grand Tutor leave. Just as he marveled at the elder statesman’s loyalty and courage, Grand Tutor suddenly stopped mid-step and turned back. “Going alone might prove awkward. Why don’t you join me, Lord Sun? Once this matter is resolved, it will be a monumental achievement benefiting future generations. I wouldn’t dream of claiming all the credit—I’ll share it with you.”

Sun Mo’s face turned pale. Frankly, he had zero desire for such collaboration. Though he was one of the emperor’s trusted advisors, meddling in private affairs felt inappropriate. But Grand Tutor had spoken, leaving him little choice. Refusing would seem disloyal, while agreeing felt intrusive. Caught between a rock and a hard place, he struggled internally.

“I…”

“No need to deliberate,” Grand Tutor cut him off before he could finish. “Whether it’s admiring flowers with your wife or celebrating birthdays and births, nothing compares to the urgency of this task. In my eyes, Lord Sun is a loyal minister of utmost integrity. Don’t tarnish your reputation by refusing now—it would disappoint me greatly.”

Sun Mo’s mouth hung open in stunned silence. Finally, he lowered his sleeve in resignation. “Very well, Grand Tutor. Say no more. I shall accompany you, even if it means walking through fire and brimstone.”

Grand Tutor appeared serious, steadfastly denying that he needed company. At most, this was simply two concerned ministers approaching the General with grave counsel for the nation’s welfare.

They headed straight for the emperor’s private quarters, intending to intercept the General near the greenhouse. However, their efforts proved futile. The emperor’s hearing trouble had flared again, rendering him unavailable to receive officials. Meanwhile, the General had retired to his office to handle military affairs from the northern frontiers.

Thus, today’s discussion was ill-timed. Seeing this, Secretary Sun prepared to return to the ministry. But Grand Tutor refused to relent: “Why delay when fate presents an opportunity? Military matters may occupy him now, but they’ll eventually conclude. We’ll wait until he’s free. Otherwise, days may pass without resolution.”

Sun Mo protested, citing numerous pending tasks awaiting him at the ministry. However, Grand Tutor remained silent, fixing him with a stern glare. Overwhelmed by guilt, Sun Mo reluctantly conceded. “Fine. Today, I’ll throw caution to the wind. Through fire and flood, I’ll follow Grand Tutor wherever he leads.”

The General’s office lay south of the Eastern Palace, not far from the former Chancellor’s residence. Thus, traveling from the Eastern Palace required little time. Upon entering the gates of the General’s headquarters, they found him engrossed in military discussions with the Guard General and several colonels regarding troop deployments in the north and south. Noticing the arrival of the two civil officials, the General invited them to sit temporarily while he concluded his current affairs before engaging in detailed conversation.

An aide ushered them to rest in the eastern wing, but Grand Tutor declined, instead pulling Secretary Sun aside to find seating elsewhere. Civil ministers refrained from participating in military matters, making their presence somewhat peculiar. Still, as fellow court officials, the Guard General and eight colonels glanced back briefly, exchanged amused smiles, and resumed deliberations.

Grand Tutor had known the General for many years but never paused to scrutinize him closely. Yan Xiangru’s appearance was undeniably striking, fitting for the son of the empire’s greatest beauty. Time seemed kinder to beauties; twelve years ago, when the late emperor entrusted the young sovereign to him, the General looked much the same. Now, at thirty, he retained that youthful visage. Perhaps living unburdened fostered a serene mindset, whereas constant worry etched wrinkles onto faces prematurely. Grand Tutor touched his own face—barely fifty yet riddled with deep lines across his forehead and around his eyes. Clearly, he needed better self-care.

Finally, the General concluded his military discussions. The Guard General and eight colonels rose to take their leave, exchanging polite nods with Grand Tutor and Secretary Sun.

Radiant with vigor, the General smiled warmly and gestured invitingly. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit today, Grand Tutor Zhang and Lord Sun?”

Secretary Sun glanced at Grand Tutor, signaling him to begin. Comprehending the cue, Grand Tutor adopted the demeanor of a fortune-teller, carefully examining the General’s face. “Dark shadows linger beneath your eyes, General—a sign of excessive exertion. You must take care of your health.”

The General appeared surprised. “Your insight is impeccable, Grand Tutor. Indeed, I’ve felt fatigued lately and plan to request leave to rest for a couple of days.”

Grand Tutor’s heart skipped a beat. Two days of rest—just sleeping, nothing else, right? Exchanging glances with Secretary Sun, he decided to broach the topic directly.

“Well… General,” Grand Tutor forced a smile. “His Majesty grew up under your watchful eye. I trust your care for him rivals my own. Lately, I’ve been deeply troubled—worried about the imperial succession. Has Your Excellency discussed with His Majesty whether he intends to remarry and establish a new empress?”

The General responded calmly. “His Majesty says she feels profoundly guilty toward the late empress. Even now, recalling her evokes unbearable pain. As you all know, His Majesty is a sentimental person. Since she hasn’t yet recovered from past sorrows, I cannot bring myself to pressure her.”

Grand Tutor nodded thoughtfully, pursing his lips. “I mean no offense. Temporarily refraining from naming a new empress is acceptable, but surely the concubines in the Northern Palace deserve some attention. Without imperial favor, how can there be heirs? Without heirs, who will inherit this illustrious realm? Harsh truths may offend, but His Majesty doesn’t heed my words as readily as yours.” He offered a subtle, meaningful smile. “Perhaps you could discuss this with His Majesty. Regardless of preferences, establishing a crown prince resolves everything.”

Understanding their purpose, the General stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Doesn’t Grand Tutor already know? A few days ago, His Majesty visited the concubines in the inner palace. She’s an astute ruler—such matters truly require no intervention from us. However, her hearing condition has worsened recently. Deafness itself is secondary, but the nocturnal pain worries me. I’ve issued orders to seek skilled physicians nationwide to treat her ailment. Hopefully, her condition improves soon, lest state affairs suffer.”

Grand Tutor acknowledged this with a murmured affirmation. “Her persisting illness is indeed troubling. However, knowing that His Majesty has already attended to the concubines eases my mind somewhat. May our ancestors bless us—may the concubines soon bear good news. With an heir secured, I can depart this life peacefully, confident in reporting to the late emperor.”

The General smiled warmly, offering a few comforting words before seeing them off.

The dismissal of the court session stemmed from Fú Wēi’s physical exhaustion. After resting for several days, she gradually recovered and resumed handling state affairs. Seated within her canopy, she listened attentively to reports from various regions. Urgent matters were addressed promptly, while feigning deafness occasionally served long-term strategic purposes.

Never underestimate a man’s determination. The General, eager to father a child, had truly thrown himself into the task with all he had. It was as if he suddenly realized how bland his life had been for the past thirty years and decided to pour every ounce of passion he’d accumulated since age seventeen onto her. In the past, she would often tease him at opportune moments, relishing his boyish embarrassment and flushed cheeks. But those days were gone now. A quick learner, he had mastered her teachings and taken them to new heights. Trying to seduce him now felt akin to reaching the heavens—nearly impossible. He was gentle yet strong, sincere yet unrestrained. Even when his eyes were lowered before the court, she could feel his gaze enveloping her entirely.

With a flicker of his eyelids, Fú Wēi straightened her back, attempting to muster courage. In the hall, the Minister of Agriculture was droning on: “The Great Yin Dynasty has stood for over sixty years. Aside from the initial years of warfare that drained resources and provisions, the subsequent three decades have seen peace and prosperity. The state coffers overflow with wealth beyond measure. While national prosperity is commendable, instability in currency remains a pressing issue. Currently, coins minted by the court circulate alongside imitations produced by various commanderies and kingdoms—a lingering flaw from Emperor Guanglie’s era…”

Fú Wēi grasped the gist of it; the time had come to unify the currency. However, a glance from the General seated below sent her thoughts spiraling. She pressed her forehead against her hand to block his gaze and steadied herself before speaking. “I’ve been contemplating this matter for half a year. The current discrepancies in coin sizes and weights severely hinder tax collection. I hesitated initially, fearing that prohibiting the minting privileges of feudal lords might incite discontent across the realm. Now, it’s clear that unification is unavoidable.” Pretending to peruse bamboo slips, she maintained a solemn expression. “By my decree, effective immediately, all unauthorized minting by commanderies and kingdoms shall cease. The Three Offices of Shànglín are to produce wuzhu coins exclusively. All existing currencies will become invalid…”

The ministers bowed deeply in unison. “As you command.”

Currency, land, and military strength formed the foundation of the empire. Fú Wēi felt a sense of satisfaction knowing her policies were being implemented systematically. The Great Yin was truly prosperous now, and she hadn’t failed the late emperor’s trust. Surely, a ruler renowned for wise governance could afford some eccentricities in private life without consequence! Still, glancing at her reflection recently, she noticed subtle changes. Her curves, which delighted the General, filled her with growing unease. At this rate, hiding her condition would soon prove difficult. Fortunately, she had long declared herself inclined toward women, so any ambiguity in her appearance could be generously overlooked—for now. But two years hence? Remaining undetected would be nearly impossible.

Her thoughts swirled dizzyingly. Taking a steadying breath, she continued, “Each coin must bear a rim, weigh five zhu, and be crafted according to precise specifications. Once complete, they’ll be reviewed by me and the senior ministers before mass production begins for nationwide circulation.” No sooner had she finished than nausea surged within her. As the ministers bowed to acknowledge her orders, she gripped the edge of the table tightly, fighting waves of discomfort. When they rose, their faces turned pale with alarm at her ashen complexion.

With the emperor falling ill, the court session ended hastily. She returned to her chambers, vomiting violently—a stark contrast to her usual robust health, leaving her feeling near death’s door after each bout.

Beside her, the General held the spittoon, murmuring fervently, “It must be true—it must be.”

He had long prepared a court physician, holding the lives of the man’s entire family in his hands, ordering him to diagnose the emperor.

The hapless physician knelt on the reed mat, stammering nervously, “Majesty… Your Majesty is… with child.” Whom should he congratulate? Glancing between the emperor lying on the bed and the elated General beside him, he wisely chose discretion, bowing deeply. “Congratulations, General.”

The General threw back his head and laughed—a chilling sight. “I knew it! Hard work pays off!”

Overwhelmed by joy at becoming a father later in life, his ecstatic demeanor was understandable. Fú Wēi found herself marveling instead. Was it really possible? Placing her hand on her belly, she felt nothing out of the ordinary. Turning to the physician, she asked, “Is there anything we need to be cautious about?”

Shaken but gradually accepting reality, the physician replied earnestly. “For those with weaker constitutions during pregnancy, precautions must be taken to safeguard the fetus. From observing Your Majesty’s pulse, it flows smoothly like pearls rolling across jade. With ample qi and blood, no medicinal intervention is needed—the crown prince will naturally thrive. Only one thing: intercourse should be avoided during the first trimester. Afterward, Your Majesty and the General may proceed as they see fit.”

Having grown accustomed to frank discussions among men, Fú Wēi saw no shame in such matters. The physician, however, grew awkward—but before he could fully process his discomfort, the General handed over medical records instructing him to falsify reports, attributing the emperor’s pregnancy to a concubine named Lady Li residing in the Northern Palace. Such schemes, handled discreetly, rarely went awry.

The physician departed bearing this monumental secret. For the next seven months, he wouldn’t leave the Eastern Palace.

After indulging in jubilation, the General eventually grew sentimental. Climbing onto the bed, he cradled her in his arms. “Reflecting on everything that’s happened these past two years feels utterly surreal.”

She tilted her head up, kissing his jaw lightly. “I never imagined you’d succumb so easily to temptation.”

He blushed slightly. “It was fate. Didn’t you once say I remained unmarried because I was waiting for you?”

Smiling triumphantly, she paused before asking, “What happens next? My belly will only grow larger.”

He reassured her, “Attending court sessions won’t be feasible—sitting for two hours straight could harm the child. I’ll announce publicly that your health prevents formal appearances. You can govern behind curtains in the inner palace. Later, when your pregnancy advances further, we’ll move operations to Ganquan Palace. Unlike the Forbidden City, Ganquan offers fewer prying eyes and more plausible excuses.”

“And what about Lady Li?” she asked.

He smiled knowingly. “There is no ‘Lady Li.’ Once the child is born, we’ll claim she died in childbirth.”

Thus, Fú Wēi needn’t worry anymore. With everything under his control, she simply needed to focus on governing while awaiting the birth.

Outside the window lay mid-June. Beneath glass windows stood an enormous water vat, its lotuses budding with sharp-edged stalks swaying gently in the breeze. Their movements rippled across the surface of the water.

She extended both arms toward him, her posture sinuous like a cat sneaking through palace walls seeking food. Leaning down, he embraced her, her soft arms wrapping tightly around his neck—a hug sweeter than honey or sugar.

Author’s Note:

① Three Offices of Shànglín: (Zhōngguān, Jìqiǎo, Biàntóng)

Thank you to everyone who has accompanied us thus far. Today marks the conclusion of Phoenix Marrow . There will be epilogues, likely concerning Fú Wēi and the Chancellor’s son ascending the throne, but these will remain reserved for publication purposes. They’ll be released online three months after the physical book hits shelves. Please stay tuned patiently.

Green mountains endure, rivers flow endlessly. Until our paths cross again in the next story!

________________________________________

Epilogue

In high summer, the weather remains capricious. Last night’s torrential rain left behind a fresh scent of wet earth as the palace gates opened this morning. Coolness seeped into the skin like sparks meeting clear spring water, invigorating and refreshing.

Fú Wēi paused, taking deep breaths. Four months pregnant, her abdomen already showed signs of growth, rising and falling noticeably with each inhalation. The black-and-red ceremonial robe worn by emperors draped elegantly over her frame, cinched by a wide jade belt adorned with intricate golden dragon embroidery. Previously sleek and flowing, the robe now bulged slightly at the waistline, hinting at her rounded figure beneath.

“Nùhài,” she asked hesitantly, “have I gained too much weight?”

Truthfully, she’d scrutinized herself extensively in the brass mirror earlier. Though diagnosed pregnant, the General had forbidden her from attending court. Yet recent affairs demanded decisions, and rumors circulated after nearly two months of absence—that the emperor governed unseen, hidden behind curtains, raising doubts whether Xīhé still ruled. Originally robust, the emperor’s frequent nights entwined with the General supposedly weakened her youthful constitution, leading to illness.

A diligent sovereign suddenly withdrawing due to illness shocked the ministers. Amidst rampant gossip, appearing briefly to dispel rumors and reassure the masses seemed prudent.

This final appearance before childbirth required utmost discretion. Anxiety heightened her tension. Spinning slowly, she sought approval from the eunuchs flanking her. Nùhài squinted carefully, inspecting the imperial visage. “Your Majesty, look at your black shoes…”

She glanced downward, finding nothing amiss. Nùhài clapped his hands approvingly. “If gaining weight, the jawline would layer like waves. Your profile remains unchanged—you haven’t gained weight.”

Though somewhat dim-witted, Nùhài’s oversight of her belly offered encouragement nonetheless. Calming her nerves, she heard the morning bells ring from Nán Gōng signaling the approach of dawn. Straightening her robes, she stepped out of the small chamber and ascended the imperial palanquin.

Absent from court for twelve years—an unprecedented hiatus—she cherished power deeply. Even contemplating relinquishment for love proved fleeting; ambition inevitably resurfaced. Reflecting later, the General remarked on hearing of her plans to abdicate: “Expecting an ambitious person to forsake power sounds laughable. You were born intertwined with authority—not just you, but your sons and grandsons too. As for me, I’m merely the cornerstone of your path. Better to grasp firmly now than risk upheaval later.”

Finding someone who understood her so profoundly as a spouse brought immense fortune. Sitting in the swaying palanquin, she watched the sun rise slowly in the east, casting light through triple gateways where officials awaited. As the carriage neared, he stepped forward to assist her. The crimson carpet marking the central pathway symbolized sovereignty exclusive to the emperor alone. He hesitated, gazing upward at the towering edifice. “Can I manage this?”

Fú Wēi nodded, lifting her robes to ascend. Out of the corner of her eye, she observed him close by, providing assurance. Physical stamina waned under pregnancy’s demands, rendering reliance on abdominal strength perilous. Pausing frequently to rest, climbing twenty paces exhausted her until perspiration dampened her temples. Reaching the summit, however, rewarded her with a soothing breeze making prior exertions worthwhile.

Within Quèfēi Hall, hundreds of scholars lined both sides, awaiting silently. As the chief attendant announced the emperor’s arrival, all bowed deeply in reverence. The sound of jade accessories tinkling harmoniously accompanied the emperor’s footsteps echoing through the vast hall. Progressing steadily toward the imperial seat, once settled alongside the General, another announcement signaled commencement: “Decree granted.” Ministers straightened, seating themselves accordingly.

The emperor addressed them apologetically: “Lately afflicted, I’ve missed seeing you all dearly. Aware of my hearing troubles compounded by headaches, last month inexplicable swelling plagued my legs…” Sighing deeply, she concluded, “Perhaps Mars’ ominous alignment foretold tribulations yet unfulfilled, explaining recent adversities.”

The hall was filled with expressions of concern for the emperor. After listening, she smiled faintly and said, “Thank you all. Fortunately, I have the Grand Marshal, the Chancellor, and all of you here to ensure that state affairs do not fall into disarray. However, I often feel overwhelmed, which is why holding court in the inner chambers has become a necessary measure.”

The Grand Marshal clasped his tablet and bowed deeply. “Your Majesty’s ailment began at the start of summer. In my opinion, it is likely due to the oppressive heat seeping into your bones. This year is unlike previous ones—extreme heat, rare in a decade—but thankfully, abundant rainfall has spared the people from drought. I recall that since Emperor Wén’s reign, it was customary for the sovereign to retreat to Gānquán Palace during the hottest months. Since Your Majesty ascended the throne, you have never sought refuge from the heat. Given your current condition, why not relocate temporarily to recuperate? Once the weather cools, you will surely recover fully.”

The emperor hesitated slightly. “State affairs cannot proceed without me…”

The General glanced toward the Chancellor and the Grand Tutor. Tāng, the Chancellor, quickly stepped forward and bowed. “Though state affairs are vast, we have the Imperial Secretariat to handle daily matters, as well as myself and other senior ministers to address unresolved issues. Critical decisions can be referred first to the Grand Marshal and then to Your Majesty if needed. Thus, there is no cause for worry. Your Majesty is still young, with many years ahead in governance. Everything must prioritize your health. Resting now prepares you for greater challenges tomorrow. I concur with the Grand Marshal’s advice. Please move to Gānquán Palace to recuperate, returning once your health improves.”

With even the Chancellor advocating this course, the officials naturally fell in line. The Grand Marshal looked upward, his gaze serene. After some deliberation, the emperor nodded. “Very well, let us follow your counsel. State affairs are complex, so I entrust them to you all. All decrees requiring my seal shall be sent to Gānquán Palace for approval before implementation.”

The assembly responded in unison: “As you command.” Fú Wēi was destined to labor tirelessly until the very moment of childbirth.

Previously accumulated critical matters—such as expanding border garrisons and establishing five new commanderies—she scrutinized meticulously. Rú Chún was an exceptional talent; whether governing as Chancellor or overseeing military affairs as Grand Marshal, he inspired trust in every task. However, harmony in private did not guarantee unity in political views. While they agreed on expelling the Wūhuán, disagreements arose over the timing of military action.

The General advocated immediate preparation for war, prioritizing supplies and troop deployment. But the emperor disagreed. “It is now August. Full readiness would only occur by late October. The north is bitterly cold, as you well know. Troops dispatched from elsewhere may struggle to adapt to such harsh conditions. The Wūhuán reside west of the Suí River year-round, intimately familiar with the climate. Both timing and terrain favor them. Do you believe this campaign feasible?”

The General’s face remained calm, but his words carried sharp edges. “Your Majesty speaks wisely. Having spent a year in the north, I understand the climate thoroughly, which is precisely why I favor winter warfare. The Suí River spans thirty zhang, stretching from Āiláo in the south to Xiǎoyuèzhī in the north, forming a millennium-old barrier between us and the Wūhuán. During Emperor Chéng’s reign, the court launched an offensive but failed miserably when 50,000 troops could not cross the river. Would Your Majesty wish to repeat that failure?”

The emperor frowned. “Are you suggesting we disregard the lives of our soldiers and fight in the depths of snow?”

The General had his rationale. “When you were ten, I taught you: govern with righteousness, wage war with ingenuity. To decisively defeat the Wūhuán, winter is optimal. By late October, the northern lands freeze solid, and the ice on the Suí River becomes thick enough for tens of thousands of troops to traverse easily. This presents an excellent opportunity for our forces. The Wūhuán assume our soldiers fear the cold, often raiding cities during winter when our defenses falter under slaughter. Decades of appeasement—do you think it sufficient? Our army is strong. With proper precautions against the cold, crossing the Suí River and annihilating the Wūhuán would eliminate future threats. Their nomadic territory extends around Báimǎ; seizing it makes conquering Tángfà and Máoqiāng effortless. Please decide, Your Majesty.”

The debate between the emperor and the general left the attending officials uneasy. Such clashes required no external interference—they would resolve internally. Offering opinions now would only court trouble, leaving one ostracized.

Thus, no one intervened or took sides. Court adjourned awkwardly, and the tense atmosphere lingered into their private chambers.

The General persisted, appealing both emotionally and logically. The emperor, unwilling to listen, glared at him. “If you persist, I’ll induce premature labor.”

This struck a nerve—he dared not utter another word. Furious, he turned away, sulking on the bed. Fú Wēi ignored him, each stewing silently. Finally, she spoke: “The Wūhuán are barbaric, unlike those who eat grain. What if the campaign fails amidst blizzards? If tens of thousands perish at the Suí River, can you bear responsibility?”

He remained silent, his shoulders trembling with suppressed anger.

She nudged him lightly with her foot. “Why aren’t you speaking?”

He flicked his sleeves dismissively. “I refuse to argue with someone lacking vision.”

Fú Wēi clenched her teeth, her rage mounting. “How am I lacking vision? Worrying about losing troops equates to shortsightedness?”

He whirled around abruptly. “Tell me, Your Majesty, if not winter, when should we fight? Wait for flooding rivers? Or watch idly as the Wūhuán seize Jīnchéng Commandery, forcing us into hasty mobilization? War is brutal. Excessive compassion breeds disaster. After ruling for so long, do you not grasp this principle?”

The emperor’s eyes widened in frustration but collapsed weakly. Seeing the dire situation, the General approached anxiously. She twisted away, her face full of grievance. “Leave me alone.”

“How can I leave you alone!” He exhaled sharply, yet his hand resting gently on her belly was warm and tender. “Does it hurt? Shall I summon the physician?”

She closed her eyes, lips pressed tightly shut, forming a thin line.

He found her expression amusing. “We agreed long ago not to bring policy disputes into our private life. Are you reneging?” Leaning down, he kissed the dimple at the corner of her mouth. “At fourteen, I joined the military and have experienced countless battles. Trust my strategy. If planned correctly, we can sweep through Báimǎ within ten days. Would you accept my pledge?”

After much deliberation, Fú Wēi acknowledged her lack of military experience compared to him. The Wūhuán issue had dragged on for generations; perhaps it was time to attempt resolution.

“Fine, we may wage war—but select a capable general from court and appoint him Commander of the Western Expedition. You must not personally oversee the battle.” She glared at him. “I’ll be afraid without you.”

Pregnancy made her more vulnerable. He slid his hands beneath her and lifted her gently into his arms. “Rest assured. There are many capable individuals in court; I need not lead personally. I’ll stay with you, never leaving your side. Trust me.”

Unspoken was his anxiety, which had begun the day her pregnancy was confirmed.

Finally, they moved to Gānquán Palace, nestled against the mountainside. Historically a retreat for emperors fleeing the summer heat, its grandeur rivaled the imperial palace after multiple reconstructions. Yet while the capital served administrative functions, Gānquán offered leisure, making it feel more refined.

Fú Wēi resided in Língguāng Palace atop a high platform. A two-hundred-step elevated corridor adorned with immortal statues holding bronze basins to collect dew led from the circular gate. Beyond lay glimpses of Língguāng’s main hall, crowned by a five-foot-tall golden phoenix that spun ceaselessly with the mountain breeze. Amidst these ornate decorations and natural beauty, the sprawling palace appeared majestic.

Fú Wēi had visited as a child when the Chancellor governed, feeling like a puppet manipulated by those around her. Time blurred memories, but now, with a changed perspective, she truly appreciated Gānquán’s splendor. Squinting into the distance, she remarked, “The palace encircled by corridors resembles an iron barrel. Even shouting to the heavens, no one outside would hear.”

Ever vigilant, he had already assessed the situation. “A brief stay suffices. Prolonged residence is unsuitable due to the mountain’s damp chill. We’ll return closer to childbirth to placate officials.”

Surprised, she asked, “Must we move again? Where to?”

Smiling, he replied, “Chūnshēng Yè. I wish to take my lady home. Surely I cannot remain a son-in-law forever!”

Indeed, male dignity could not be trampled upon. Fú Wēi hesitated. “Yuánhán also lived there…”

Frowning, he tucked his sleeves. “I own more than one estate. Even rabbits have three burrows.”

Fú Wēi pouted. His words sounded less than virtuous. Truly, he was craftier than any fox.

Thus, their stay at Gānquán proved brief. Neither could neglect state affairs entirely. Chūnshēng Yè, located outside the city, offered convenience. Constant travel between the capital and Gānquán Mountain meant the General’s hopes for a second child remained distant.

Orders to attack the Wūhuán were issued. The General penned a short note to Lián Zhēng, intending to dispatch it via carrier pigeon. Yet despite multiple attempts, the pigeon refused to take flight, circling briefly before landing again. Perplexed, the General pondered this behavior—the same heroic bird that once flew thousands of miles delivering messages. Familiar with the route between Jīnchéng and the capital, it had reliably completed missions before. Why this sudden defiance?

Fú Wēi, heavy with child, stood nearby watering flowers with a lacquered ladle. Watching the pigeon’s repeated failures, its wings nearly brushing the General’s face, she laughed teasingly. “Don’t always command others. Flying across mountains must be exhausting. Encountering eagles mid-flight could be perilous, you know.”

The Chancellor bent to examine the pigeon’s yellow eyes. After a prolonged silence, realization dawned. Slapping his hand, he exclaimed, “I completely forgot my earlier promise!”

His so-called promise was to find a beautiful mate for the pigeon. Thus, Fú Wēi accompanied him to the pigeon loft, selecting from the year’s finest messenger pigeons one that was both handsome and skilled. Fú Wēi adorned it with flowers before placing the two pigeons together in the same coop.

Under the bright moon and sparse stars, it was an ideal time for enjoying the cool evening air. A single reclining couch was set up in the garden, where the emperor lay while the Grand General sat beside her, fanning gently.

Tonight, he was filled with many reflections. “Even the messenger pigeon has found a mate, yet I have not been able to give you a proper title—it’s a regret that has lingered with me for so long.”

In the hazy moonlight, a pair of delicate hands reached out, pressing softly against his. “I have no regrets—what do you regret?”

She didn’t understand the heart of a man. Just as she had teased him once about being “Sixth Brother,” thinking women wouldn’t mind such things and men shouldn’t dwell on them. Now, looking back, it wasn’t that she was broad-minded—it was simply that her heart was vast enough to encompass the entire world.

“Do you truly never wish for more?”

Fú Wēi gazed at the starry sky, her eyes wide open. “What use is wishing? For as long as I remain on the throne, I cannot marry.”

“Here, for you.” With that, he rolled over and leaned closer. “Once we pass through the Xiao Pass, let’s get married, alright? In that empty city, it’ll just be the two of us. We can arrange everything however we like.”

After some thought, he agreed.

Suddenly, she let out a startled cry, which frightened him badly. He shot to his feet. “What’s wrong?”

Fú Wēi was overjoyed. “The baby moved…” She grabbed his hand to feel the movement—a small bulge rising from her rounded belly, perhaps a tiny hand or foot.

The two first-time parents embraced tightly, trembling with emotion. A life was growing, one end tied to her, the other to him. They didn’t know what kind of child it would be or who they’d resemble more. But filled with hope, adding a new member to the family was far more joyful than any promotion or wealth.

Fú Wēi’s due date was in the first month of the coming year, and as the time drew near, the General grew increasingly restless, though he didn’t say it aloud. While at the office, his mind was preoccupied.

With the emperor no longer attending court, the General had effectively taken charge of everything. This had been the case for the past decade, so no one found it unusual. Reports from various regions were filtered through the Imperial Secretariat, then reviewed by the Chancellor, before finally reaching the General’s office. Today, however, his heart raced incessantly. Holding a bamboo slip in his hand, his mind wandered—once urgent affairs were settled, he would rush to Gānquán Palace to stay with Fú Wēi during her confinement.

Grand Tutor Zhang continued discussing frost damage this year, but the General was only half-listening. The Grand Tutor, meticulous as ever, couldn’t tolerate such an attitude and raised his voice sharply: “The people’s livelihood is a matter of national importance! Is the Grand Marshal so focused on military affairs that he neglects civilian matters?”

This reprimand left the assembled ministers exchanging wide-eyed glances. Most officials had experienced the General’s arrogance firsthand. For the Grand Tutor to call him out so bluntly—it seemed unlikely to end well.

Just as tension mounted, a messenger appeared at the door, addressing the General respectfully: “A message from Gānquán Palace—Lady Lǐ has gone into labor. The emperor urgently commands…”

Before the messenger could finish, the General bolted out of the room. Everyone watched him leave, stunned by his uncharacteristic behavior—even forgetting to pick up his shoes. Grand Tutor Zhang crossed his arms and lowered his gaze, watching as an aide scurried in to retrieve the abandoned footwear. Murmurs spread quietly—why was the General so frantic? It wasn’t even his wife giving birth. Perhaps there was something pitiable about a man nearing thirty without a wife, finding solace in another’s joy. There was an indescribable sadness to it.

Lost in thought about the General, the Grand Tutor momentarily forgot the most pressing matter. It was the Chancellor who reminded him: “Grand Tutor Zhang, with the birth of His Majesty’s son, we should all proceed to Gānquán Palace.”

He snapped back to reality. “Ah, yes!” Bowing to the Chancellor, he said, “Please, Chancellor, gather the officials and make haste to Gānquán Mountain.”

Thus, thousands of carriages and horses departed the imperial city, heading straight for Gānquán Mountain. However, since it was the emperor’s retreat, no one could ascend without an imperial decree. The officials waited below at Yún Yáng Palace for news. The Grand Tutor and the Minister of Rites stood under the eaves, squinting at the palace complex shrouded in mountain mist. Last summer had been unbearably hot, and now winter was unusually cold.

The Minister of Rites rubbed his hands together. “Will everything be alright?”

The Grand Tutor nodded absently. “This is His Majesty’s first child. I hope it’s a prince—a son will bring much relief.”

Soon, word arrived: a prince had been born. Jìanyè, delivering the news, looked sorrowful. “Unfortunately, Lady Lǐ succumbed to postpartum hemorrhage. His Majesty is devastated and will not see anyone. Please return to the capital; once Lady Lǐ’s funeral arrangements are complete, His Majesty will bring the prince back to the palace.”

One life exchanged for another—how capricious fate could be.

Chancellor Tang bowed to Jìanyè. “Please convey our condolences to His Majesty. May he grieve in moderation and focus on the newborn prince.”

Jìanyè naturally agreed. “Thank you, esteemed officials. The weather is harsh; please take care on your journey.”

The officials returned to the capital that night. Meanwhile, in Língguāng Palace atop the mountain, the initial chaos had subsided. Palace attendants relit incense, masking faint traces of blood with delicate fragrances. The vast chamber was warm once more.

The General knelt by the emperor’s bedside, gripping her hand tightly. “The child is with the wet nurse. Once fed, they’ll bring him over…”

Fú Wēi nodded weakly. After enduring excruciating pain, she had nearly regretted becoming a mother. Now, with the ordeal over and seeing her child, joy returned. Though the infant was red and wrinkled, the midwife assured her he’d become handsome in a few days. She waited patiently for the redness to fade, eager to see his true appearance.

The General continued talking anxiously. “All those who assisted were palace maids stationed here—they’re bound to Gānquán their entire lives, so you needn’t worry.”

She hummed softly, drowsiness overtaking her.

“The three midwives will serve as the crown prince’s nurses—they’re absolutely trustworthy. Even if the truth comes out now, it wouldn’t matter. The feudal lords are powerless; the empire is firmly in our hands…”

“And regarding the battle against the Wūhuán, good news has arrived. General Wèi drove remnants of the Wūhuán five hundred miles away. Those left are scattered—only the elderly, women, and children remain. They’ve been temporarily relocated to Jīnchéng Commandery…”

Fú Wēi wanted to roll her eyes. She had just endured a life-and-death struggle, and here he was still discussing state affairs! Truly, he knew nothing of tenderness.

But soon, she heard him softly sobbing. He pressed her hand against his forehead and whispered, “Ā Yīng, I was so afraid—never have I felt such fear… I thought I might lose you. What would I do then…”

No matter how strong a man might seem, witnessing childbirth likely terrified them all. Fú Wēi chuckled weakly. “I shouldn’t have let you in. I almost died from the pain, but your fussing made it worse.”

The General smoothed her disheveled hair and kissed the corner of her lips. “I’ll stop talking now. Rest well.”

As he rose to leave, she caught his hand, resting her cheek sweetly against it. “Let me nap briefly. Then we’ll talk again.”

Her father was a learned man, and even her mother had been his student. The crown prince was named Yuán Jí, with the nickname Bù Kū. Of course, her mother gave him another name: Yàn Shísān, commemorating the General’s extraordinary achievements within two days of returning from the northern front.

Time flew by, and ten years passed in the blink of an eye. The emperor bore no more children after that; Prince Jí remained her sole heir. Yet this one child surpassed countless others.

The crown prince was exceptionally intelligent, far exceeding peers his age. Born into royalty, he possessed a natural acumen for politics, further honed by the General’s devoted guidance. Among the courtiers, none could match him in debate.

Yet Grand Tutor Zhang grew increasingly puzzled. Why did the prince resemble the General so much? The emperor’s son shared no blood ties with the General—yet bore an uncanny likeness to Yàn Xiàngrú. It was baffling.

Finally, the emperor expressed intentions to abdicate. At twelve, the crown prince hastily underwent the coming-of-age ceremony, even receiving custody of the six imperial seals, tiger tally, and diplomatic insignia. Preparations complete, Fú Wēi asked the prince, “If I entrust you with the throne, can you ensure the Great Yin dynasty endures for ten thousand years?”

The prince bowed deeply. “I cannot guarantee ten thousand years, but I promise you, Mother—I shall uphold the dynasty. I will create a golden age worthy of Father and you.”

They never concealed the truth from their child, refusing to let him feel orphaned by a fictitious figure. It was better this way.

Satisfied, Fú Wēi leaned against the General. “Our child has grown up. It’s time to fulfill our promise. Let’s find a suitable empress for Bù Kū. Whose daughter do you think would befit him?”

The General thought of Lord Guān’s daughter. Her grandfather was the Cavalry General, and her maternal grandfather the Grand Tutor. Such a distinguished lineage, blending both civil and military prowess—wasn’t she perfect?

The next day, Fú Wēi happily approached the Grand Tutor with her proposal. To her surprise, he showed no delight. “The crown prince is still young. Why rush into marriage?”

“Early marriage means early heirs—isn’t that good? When I struggled with infertility, my teacher worried endlessly. Why hesitate now?” Her tone shifted, growing stern. “Are you suggesting my illustrious crown prince isn’t worthy of Lord Gōngsūn’s daughter?”

Startled, the Grand Tutor waved his hands frantically. “Your Majesty misunderstands! I mean no disrespect. I simply think…” Words failed him, choking back his concerns.

Fú Wēi pressed him to speak freely. After much hesitation, he admitted, “I fear the prince is too young, his judgment not yet mature. Moreover… forgive my bluntness, Your Majesty, but the prince resembles the General so strongly. I fear…”

So bold, this elder statesman feared the prince might actually be the General’s son with Lady Lǐ! Fú Wēi paused, then burst into laughter. Leaning close, she whispered, “You’ve guessed correctly, Teacher. Bù Kū is the General’s son—my son with the General.”

The Grand Tutor was thunderstruck, staring blankly for what felt like eternity. The emperor offered no further explanation, walking away gracefully into the warm breeze. In that fleeting glance, her enchanting charm revealed itself fully. Only then did the Grand Tutor realize—the occasional doubts about the emperor’s gender weren’t mere musings. They were real. Others might harbor similar suspicions, but everyone chose to feign ignorance. Stability was hard-won, and preserving the status quo was paramount.

Prince Jí ascended the throne, and Emperor Xīhé abdicated, retreating to Gānquán Palace. The General remained active in court, continuing to assist the young emperor. Unlike his tense relationship with Emperor Xīhé, the General was patient with the new ruler. Even when their views clashed, he maintained composure, gazing at the throne with pride—a father’s love evident in his eyes.

Unwilling to constrain him, they nurtured his ambition and ability to oversee the empire. At fourteen, the emperor wielded an iron fist tempered with gentleness. Neither dominated nor tyrannical, the retired emperor and the General observed with satisfaction.

The General gradually withdrew from state affairs. The emperor, busy with governance, hadn’t seen his parents for a month. When he finally found time to rush to Gānquán Palace, he discovered they had gone to the Xiao Pass—his father escorting his mother to visit the city he had built for her.

Time seemed to blur back to fifteen years ago: fine robes, swift steeds, and boundless freedom. Neither of them had aged, forever frozen in their prime. This departure marked a new beginning. In the past, they lived for the empire; now, they would live for themselves.