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Ye Tingyan was standing far away, only hearing phrases like “find a quick end” and “say you’re clever.” Their expressions were calm, as if they were close friends whispering. Curious, he wanted to move closer when Luo Wei shot him a warning glance.
He didn’t take that step after all.
Luo Wei withdrew her gaze, reaching out to brush Song Zhiyu’s hair aside, lowering her voice almost to a whisper: “Not asking you is because I can guess it myself—when I confronted Yu Qiushi at the Censorate, others might not have known, but how could you not? When Yu Qiushi or Song Lan approached you, what were you thinking? Weren’t you thinking this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity? One, to gain fame with a poem; two, to see me defeated. How could you hesitate?”
She clutched Song Zhiyu’s shoulders tightly, recalling her helplessness from back then, gnashing her teeth in hate, yet still calmly continued: “One thousand two hundred forty-one lives! You used these people to vent your anger! In the dead of night, do you feel guilt, regret?”
Song Zhiyu tugged at her hands, laughing foolishly: “Do you think without me those over a thousand people would be fine? Don’t be naive, Su Luo Wei. Your good husband wanted to kill, he has thousands of ways. I merely followed the situation, offering myself as a tool...”
Luo Wei felt her lips trembling: “You are a princess of the dynasty, his sister. Aren’t those people your subjects too? I know you resent me, maybe even hate him—you despise talent, genius—none of this is wrong. But how could you... If I had known earlier, I would have knelt before you and kowtowed, admitting I am not as good as you, rather than let future historians condemn you and your poem to eternal hell!”
Hearing this, Song Zhiyu truly froze. She abruptly stood up. Seeing Ye Tingyan look over, she picked up her zither, pretending to smash it, loudly saying: “I hate your sanctimonious appearance the most! Those grandiose words about the common people! Back then, Master Gan refused to accept me, saying my intentions were sincere but my heart wasn’t pure. What about you? Now enjoying your glory, where exactly is your purity?”
Ye Tingyan thought they were still arguing over the matter of apprenticeship, sighing helplessly. Taking this opportunity, Song Zhiyu shielded her mouth with the zither, quickly mouthing: “What do you mean by ‘future historians will write’? Are you planning to overturn the Citang Case?”
Luo Wei coldly mouthed back: “If he knows someone died for him, his soul won’t rest. You’re wrong. Not only will I overturn the Citang Case, but I will also bring the culprits back into the light, clearly telling the world the truth. I originally didn’t want you to die so soon, keeping you alive to see yourself reviled would be even crueler, wouldn’t it?”
Her words were hard, but her eyes had slightly reddened due to the previous emotional outburst. Song Zhiyu wasn’t stupid; she understood her meaning—they had their differences, but she genuinely didn’t want her to have written that “Elegy for Golden Heaven.”
Staring blankly, Song Zhiyu dropped her zither, hugging Luo Wei as if her emotions had collapsed. Ye Tingyan was startled, thinking she intended harm, instinctively reaching for his sword. Luo Wei gestured for him to stay calm.
He watched Song Zhiyu say something in Luo Wei’s ear, then Luo Wei suddenly changed color, exclaiming: “What did you say?”
Song Zhiyu covered her mouth, said another sentence. Luo Wei remained agitated, asking: “Where is it?”
After hearing everything, she no longer wished to speak with Song Zhiyu, ignoring him and the Vermilion Bird guards, she swept her sleeves and left. After a few steps, she stopped, first saying, “I won’t thank you,” then added, “In the next life, if you’re still this temperamental, we probably still won’t be friends.”
Song Zhiyu sneered, shedding a tear: “Who wants to be friends with you?”
Ye Tingyan originally planned to leave with Luo Wei, but Song Lan’s task wasn’t finished. He had to send several Vermilion Bird guards to escort Luo Wei back to the palace while he stayed behind.
Someone brought imperial poisoned wine, placing it beside the broken-stringed zither.
The golden wine pot was studded with many gems, making it impossible to tell it was a deadly poison—it appeared extraordinarily beautiful, seemingly just a pot of fine wine. Song Zhiyu glanced at it, smiling and asking: “Legends say the earliest poisoned wine was made from the feathers of the鸩 bird, extremely toxic, causing excruciating pain upon consumption. Does His Majesty’s wine still possess such potency?”
Knowing he still had questions, everyone dared not approach, even retreating from the princess’s garden. Ye Tingyan poured a cup of wine, indifferently saying: “The鸩 bird is hard to find now; it’s merely borrowing the name.”
Song Zhiyu raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching unnaturally: “Really? I don’t believe it.”
Ye Tingyan finished pouring the wine, holding it and hesitating to hand it to her. After a long pause, he finally opened his mouth, slowly saying: “Ning Le, let me ask you one thing—if Song Lan hadn’t coerced you using your mother, would you still have written that ‘Elegy for Golden Heaven’?”
He called her “Ning Le” and straightforwardly addressed “Song Lan,” startling Song Zhiyu momentarily: “What did you say?”
Ye Tingyan played with the gilded wine cup in his hand, not looking up: “Be sensible, be sensible—when your mother was conferred the title of Consort, wasn’t her title ‘Zhi An’? Though you’re competitive, you dislike meddling in trivial matters. Let me ask you again—if he hadn’t pressured you using your mother, would you still have written that poem?”
“These years, you’ve secluded yourself, declining even the Empress’s personal invitation to the Lotus Banquet. It wasn’t unwillingness on your part, but rather a form of house arrest, right? I really want to know—why did they allow you to know back then? If you’ve already regretted it, why stubbornly deny it?”
He asked all these questions in one breath, but there was no response for a long time. Looking up, he was astonished to find Song Zhiyu already spitting blood, staining the variegated zither with filth.
Glancing down at the untouched wine cup in his hand, he finally realized the purpose of the attendant who refused to leave.
He had come to deliver poison for her!
Fearing the royal family’s “poisoned wine,” Song Zhiyu had sent her attendant to bring a less painful poison. When she said, “I don’t believe it,” she bit it, and the poison took effect.
Finally showing a change in expression, Ye Tingyan rushed forward, supporting her shoulders, urgently calling out: “Ning Le!”
Song Zhiyu gripped his hand tightly, barely catching her breath, incredulously saying: “Who… who are you? Eldest Brother… Eldest Brother!”
Ye Tingyan pinched her throat, quickly striking her back to force out the swallowed poison, but to no avail. Holding her in confusion, he whispered: “Why did you take the poison? Today, I’ve already replaced Song Lan’s poison, framing you for this was only to save you from the Princess’s residence—back when I gave you the Burnt Paulownia, you said you wanted to personally go to Xuzhou to learn the zither from Master Zheng, abandoning your princess identity. And your mother…”
“Hahaha,” realizing everything, Song Zhiyu laughed painfully, blood accumulating more and more with each word, staining his cuffs red, “Even Su Xue knew—carrying those one thousand two hundred forty-one lives, I couldn’t live. Second Brother… Second Brother! Didn’t you return for revenge? How can you still be so soft-hearted!”
Her breathing grew weaker, her eyes began to glaze over. Ye Tingyan finally couldn’t hold the gilded wine cup, his hand shaking, spilling it into the nearby pond: “You are still my blood relative—”
“Don’t be naive. We didn’t understand back then. Born into the royal family, the so-called beauty of the wild pear blossoms… Only you took it seriously,” Song Zhiyu shook her head repeatedly, suddenly remembering something, her eyes widening, speaking incoherently, “Second Brother… I passed it to Su Xue, do you know? Su Xue already knew, she didn’t… she didn’t…”
A resounding sound of a zither came from the distant mountains. Perhaps because it wasn’t as warm here as in the palace, the lotus flowers in the pond hadn’t bloomed yet. The wind blew the heavy buds, making them sway in all directions.
Her breath ceased, her hands fell in regret, ultimately unable to finish what she wanted to say.
What did you want to tell me?
Ye Tingyan walked out of the princess’s garden in a daze. The waiting Vermilion Bird guards didn’t ask further, entering to handle the princess’s body. Only Yuan Ming noticed his unusual demeanor and followed him onto the carriage.
“Master, is there something wrong with the plan?”
No answer. Yuan Ming looked up, seeing Ye Tingyan staring blankly at his own hands.
Earlier, Song Zhiyu’s blood only splashed onto his sleeve, not a drop staining these hands.
Yet Ye Tingyan deeply bowed his head, staring, the more he stared, the more shocking it became—pale hands, faint blood color, so slender and beautiful, having held the nation’s weight, grasped the hands of his beloved, touched the cold sweat of his kin, still appearing very clean.
Only through the crisscrossing lines on his palms and the fresh blood flowing through his veins did he see the hidden sinister hue beneath.
Voices echoed from East Mountain, saying “How can this still be called ‘the Way’?” and “I didn’t do it because I disdain it.”
Words intertwined, chaotic. He closed his eyes to calm his mind but saw Song Lan plunging a short sword into his chest in the darkness. The scene suddenly shifted, the sword becoming a red pen in his hand, writing slowly on a document—”Palace maid testifies that Princess Ning Le, Song Zhiyu, is the culprit behind the Empress’s assassination attempt. Minister provides sufficient evidence.”
Seeing him remain silent for a long time, Yuan Ming felt a chill, about to ask again when he heard Ye Tingyan mutter to himself: “That’s right, I’m no different from him…”
Leaning against the carriage wall, he thought of Lu Heng, of Lin Zhao. Even though he petitioned to spare the three Lin families, the losses incurred were incalculable.
Then he remembered a month in the pitch-black prison, his ruined half-life, hatred and confusion intertwining, leaving him at a loss for words.
Suddenly, all sounds disappeared. In a daze, he seemed to return to the time when he was rescued by Ye San’s death squad from the inner palace, leaning against the carriage wall, battered and blind. Passing through bustling areas, he heard people outside reciting a poem, every word clear yet incomprehensible.
Elegy for Golden Heaven, the underworld vast and distant, summoning souls to the azure sky.
For whom are you summoning souls? Sending whom to the azure clouds?
Year four of Jinghe, the day before Dragon Boat Festival, Princess Ning Le, Song Zhiyu, died in her residence, kept secret until autumn.
The princess was fond of literature from a young age, her personality flamboyant. Later, she secluded herself, never marrying. People speculated that perhaps her most famous poem caused a bloody incident, leading to her deep self-reproach and eventual depression.
These speculations eventually drifted away like clouds, vanishing into a brief “death” note in historical records.
•
Year three of Tian Shou, shortly after Lunar New Year, January still bitterly cold, sparse stars and faint moonlight.
The emperor’s illness had lingered for over a month. Even the chief physician and teachers were summoned back, yet no significant improvement was seen.
On the eve of the Lantern Festival, Song Leng requested to cancel this year’s Bian River Grand Sacrifice, replacing it with a prayer ceremony during the crown prince’s attendance.
The prime minister opposed, claiming traditions must not be abandoned.
After much deliberation, the emperor insisted that the crown prince perform the grand sacrifice, signaling to everyone—acknowledging his decline and impending death, starting momentum for the new emperor’s ascension.
After formal attire, Song Leng returned to bid farewell. The imperial procession wound its way from Qianfang Hall. Song Zhiyu knelt with others, shouting “Long live!”
She showed little surprise. Song Leng, titled crown prince at twelve, was the undisputed favored son—renowned, beloved by the people, caring for siblings. No one in the inner court harbored thoughts of seizing the throne from him.
Except the consort was somewhat troublesome—Su Luo Wei, knowing her since childhood, was one of the few noble girls in the royal court
who refused to yield to her. Later, when Master Gan entered the palace, they competed in literary skills and calligraphy. She lost, creating enmity.
However, these grudges were mere childish competitiveness. While writing in her residence, Song Zhiyu bitterly thought Luo Wei would make a decent empress. She certainly wouldn’t have the same glorious opportunities as an empress, forced to accept Master Gan’s choice.
Thinking of this, she felt truly disheartened.
After Song Leng left the palace, the prime minister led several elder officials to pay homage for the Lantern Festival’s well-being, subsequently leaving the palace. With the emperor ill, the Lantern Festival banquet couldn’t proceed, and the princes and princesses were dismissed.
Before leaving, the emperor, feeling slightly better, kindly told everyone not to be confined within the palace during festive times.
Ultimately, only the sixth and seventh princes, who hadn’t established residences, insisted on staying.
Song Zhiyu also wanted to stay, but the emperor smiled at her: “I remember Ning Le loves riddles during the Lantern Festival. Last year, she cleared out all the riddles on Wa Lan Street. This year, she mustn’t disappoint.”
Before boarding her sedan chair to leave the palace, she went to the Candle Lighting Pavilion to burn incense.
Initially, she only intended to burn incense, but kneeling before the full hall of ancestral tablets, sorrow overwhelmed her—how loving her father was, why was his life cut short? If gods could let her take his place, she would willingly.
Crying until she fainted.
Later memories became very hazy. Half-dreaming, half-awake, she seemed to hear rustling sounds. That sound was strange, like many people or just one person. The empty hall echoed with winter snow, carrying a faint trace of blood.
Blood?
Waking from chaos, she vaguely saw an attendant rushing forward, shouting: “The crown prince has been assassinated!”
Song Zhiyu realized she had fallen asleep in the open hall of the Candle Lighting Pavilion, utterly lacking princess dignity, sprawled on the icy floor, hair disheveled.
A month after the Citang Case, she lived in that kind of bewilderment. Almost rebellion erupted in Biandu, Song Lan ascended the throne, Luo Wei became empress, the mastermind behind the Citang Case was uncovered—Fifth Brother colluded with the assassin to kill Second Brother. How could such absurd things happen? She didn’t dare, didn’t want to believe, repeatedly playing “The Beauty of the Wild Pear Blossoms” in the residence.
Meanwhile, those strange sounds frequently appeared in her nightmares. Later, closing her eyes, she recalled the empty Candle Lighting Pavilion on the Lantern Festival night, sitting desolately on the ground, hearing the rustling sounds. Thinking for a long time, she finally realized—the night she lay on the ground, what she heard were sounds coming from below!
But how could there be sounds beneath the floor of the Candle Lighting Pavilion?
Song Zhiyu sensed some unusual implications. On a night she stayed in the palace, she used prayer as an excuse to dismiss attendants, exploring the Candle Lighting Pavilion alone for a long time.
Never in her dreams did she expect not to find an entrance to the underground, but instead encountered Song Lan with blood on one hand.
Just as she found the area under repair at the back of the Candle Lighting Pavilion, Song Lan appeared like a ghost—since his ascension, Song Zhiyu had visited him many times, but she had never seen such a profound, cold, and playful expression on her usually obedient sixth brother’s face.
A flash of wind passed, confirming the familiar scent of blood and hearing faint moans.
Guards grabbed her arms. In immense fear, Song Zhiyu heard Song Lan sigh eerily: “Sister, what shall we do?”
Song Zhiyu bit her tongue, blood filling her mouth: “What is this place, you… you…”
Ignoring her, Song Lan furrowed his brows, pondering for a long time before happily saying: “Ah yes, Sister, you still have a mother in the palace, right? When I ascended the throne, I bestowed her a high rank, Consort Zhi An—contentment in knowing peace. Sister should be like Mother, being sensible.”
Song Zhiyu dimly realized his meaning, momentarily speechless, only managing: “I, I didn’t see anything!”
Song Lan remained indifferent to her words, muttering to himself: “Killing you now seems inconvenient… Ah, Sister, aren’t you good at writing poems? I suddenly have a fun idea.”
He smiled, raising his head: “Sister seems to be at odds with Elder Sister, even better. You say you didn’t see anything, then write a poem to prove it.”
Song Zhiyu understood Song Lan’s intention—this poem would cause countless deaths, binding her fate with his.
However, she had no other choice. After finishing the poem, Song Lan had her escorted back to the princess’s residence, essentially under house arrest. She knew sooner or later, Song Lan would find a reason to end her life.
Fortunately, by then she would willingly embrace death, hopefully sparing her mother concubine.
After confining herself to the princess’s residence, Song Zhiyu kept many attendants. Fortunately, Song Lan had myriad concerns, temporarily neglecting her.
Shu Kang visited, but she refused to see him. Luo Wei’s invitation was thrown into the nearby small pond.
When Song Lan decided to kill her, perhaps she could exchange it for a chance to meet old acquaintances.
Hopefully, what she knew would be useful to old friends.
Though Song Zhiyu was strong-willed, unknown to many, she feared pain more than Shu Kang. After anxiously waiting so long, biting the poison between her teeth, she still managed to console herself, no worries, compared to Song Lan’s gifted poisoned wine, it wasn’t so painful.
She didn’t foresee then that Second Brother could return from the dead, easily seeing through her dilemma—here she thought of Su Luo Wei again. Despite gaining newfound complexity, her heart was still simple, stubbornly believing wrongdoings required consequences, even pushed to the brink of agony, evil thoughts sprouted from the heart, not excuses to shirk responsibility.
Thinking of this, she found it laughable. Deep inside, she shared the same thoughts as Luo Wei. After half a lifetime of opposition, unexpectedly, on the verge of death, she realized her enemy as a kindred spirit.
And Second Brother, how could you still be so soft-hearted? Have you forgotten that poem?
—On the road to Xianyang bidding you farewell, a thousand years gone in one departure.
Millennia later, if heaven retains emotion, can we still meet?
May orchids never wither, and white silk no longer sacrificed in water.
•
Zhang Suwu pushed open the heavy tung wood door of Qionghua Palace, delivering the princess’s death news to the empress.
The empress sat at the table, polishing an arrow whose tip had been removed.
He watched the empress murmur in the dim light, a smile on her lips, but a tear suddenly slid down, shattering her facade: “Dreaming as a bird soaring the skies, dreaming as a fish diving the depths[1], who am I, good or bad, even I can’t understand.”
Zhang Suwu didn’t understand this, but suddenly heard the empress snap the arrow in her hand, bitterly laughing: “This vengeance, why does it multiply endlessly…”
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