The appointment of a crown prince had always followed the principle of offspring from the official wife first, then seniority. As the Empress’s adopted son and Dayu’s nominal heir by birthright, it would not have been unreasonable for Emperor Renshou to name Sheng Chengxi as his successor, were it not for the rumours running rampant beyond the imperial palace walls. In their absence, few would have questioned such a choice. But as things stood, every step the young prince took from now on would be fraught with hardship.
Yet gossip now ran rife throughout the capital. Even if they dared not voice it openly, the court officials and ministers could not help but doubt the legitimacy of the Eighth Prince’s bloodline. When the imperial edict proclaiming the heir was announced, it shocked both court and commoners alike.
This was a clear declaration: even if the heir were to be an outsider, the throne would never pass to Sheng Chengli.
But why?
Since returning from the imperial mausoleum, the Fifth Prince had clearly enjoyed His Majesty’s favour. What reason could there be for the throne to be handed to another, and not to his own son?
Inside Qinzheng Hall, heavy with grandeur and the weight of centuries of imperial history, Su Huaijing rose slowly from the tiled floor. As he lifted his gaze, his eyes happened to fall upon the beam overhead, directly above Emperor Renshou’s head.
A few moments later, the Deputy Censor-in-Chief lowered his gaze, unreadable.
His parents had died here…
Strangled by palace servants, their deaths staged as a double suicide, their bodies hung from that very beam.
Su Huaijing held the secret dispatch close to his chest as he backed out of the hall. The moment the great doors closed behind him, the Emperor, revered by millions, broke into a violent and muffled fit of coughing.
Su Huaijing lowered his long lashes, head bowed, and stepped quietly away from the palace.
The autumn wind sighed through the imperial city, like a dirge playing in the dusk.
He walked past the palace walls, counting his steps as he retraced the path he had taken in. Behind him, the splendour of the palace blurred, as if it had all been nothing but a dream.
But then again, he rarely dreamt at all.
—
After the edict was issued, rumours surged like a tide. More than one senior minister pleaded in earnest for the Emperor to rescind the decree. Some, emboldened by their rank and seniority, stormed through the palace gates to demand a blood test between the Emperor and the Eighth Prince. They were hoping to silence the whispers once and for all.
Sheng Xuyan was livid. Part of it stemmed from the uncertainty surrounding his own lineage. But more than that, he could not comprehend the ignorance of the people. One petty, unfounded rumour and suddenly the entire world turned on him. Commoners now dared to question the legitimacy of the heir.
Emperor Renshou’s mood was impenetrable. The only time he seemed at peace was when Huimian came to the palace to recite sutras.
That day, after Huimian departed, Sheng Xuyan remained kneeling alone in the Buddha Hall, softly chanting scripture. A long-lost serenity settled over him.
The wooden door behind him opened and shut. His brows creased in displeasure. “Master, have you forgotten propriety?”
He himself had once declared that before the Buddha, there were no sovereigns nor ministers. Yet now he was angered by an unannounced arrival.
Contradiction, hypocrisy, sanctimoniousness… all were on full display in Sheng Xuyan.
The intruder gave a quiet laugh. “Imperial Father, to whom are you preaching about rank and propriety?”
Emperor Renshou froze. His eyes flew open, and he leapt to his feet, staring wide-eyed at the youth stepping into the hall. His gaze burned with rage.
And if one looked closely, perhaps even a trace of fear could be found buried in that fury.
Sheng Chengli raised an eyebrow, amused. “Your son pays his respects. May Imperial Father enjoy robust health and long life.”
The tone was glib, insincere—enough to enrage any loyal subject.
The Emperor struggled to compose himself, chest heaving. With a furious shout, he hurled his prayer beads to the ground. “Ingrate!”
The sandalwood beads scattered across the floor. Sheng Chengli glanced at them and clicked his tongue. “What a waste of such fine material.”
His pity for those lifeless beads was genuine. But when his gaze returned to Emperor Renshou, his expression turned cold.
He appeared neither confrontational nor openly defiant, simply curious. “Why?” he asked softly.
“Er ge was given a fief… san and si ge are in their graves… liu di guards the mausoleum… qi di can’t even recite the Four Books… and ba*—”
(*TN: he’s listing his 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 6th, 7th and 8th brothers.)
He paused and sneered. “Ba di is someone else’s child.”
“I truly don’t understand, Imperial Father. Why not me?”
The Buddha Hall was deathly silent. The great statue above watched with unfeeling compassion as the young man drew closer, step by slow step. No one outside entered. Sheng Xuyan’s chest heaved. Gone was the warmth or guilt he had once shown, real or feigned.
Father and son locked eyes. And in Sheng Chengli’s, there was no mistaking it: only suspicion, confusion… and the chill of knowing.
After a long while, the youth gave a faint laugh. “I see. You’ve had a dream, haven’t you?”
The Emperor’s body jerked; his pupils contracted. It was an involuntary confession.
“What did you see?” Sheng Chengli asked. “Was it me who murdered san ge, poisoned er di on the road to exile, tricked si ge into succumbing to heatstroke? Was it me who fed poison to qi di until his mind broke, or smothered the two-year-old ba di with my own hands?”
He spoke lightly, casually. Not a shred of concern that a single word of it, if heard outside, would see him executed.
Sheng Xuyan’s face twisted, jaw trembling with fury, not fear.
Sheng Chengli stood still, smiling faintly. “You sat on the throne in my place. I’ve never demanded anything from you for that. But now, at the end of all things, will you not tell me the truth?”
“Why Chengxi? Why do you hate me so?”
The Emperor’s teeth chattered. He had to grip the altar for support.
He was the ruler of all beneath heaven. And yet here, before his own son, he stood like a beast baring its fangs against another. No kinship. No reason. Only the instinct of survival.
At last, Emperor Renshou found his voice. His words were soaked with venom. “You monster.”
The autumn wind shrieked outside.
Sheng Chengli looked at him for a long while, then laughed, low and cheerful. “How could I be a monster? I’m your son.”
He advanced, unhurried, step by step, eyes unreadable. Serene, almost joyful. “He wants you alive, so what can I do? I’ll give that to him.”
“Father,” he said sweetly, almost meekly, “just take it as a small compensation. For the life you stole from me, for the mother you ruined, and for the years you left me to rot in the Cold Palace.”
The wind howled. Emperor Renshou glared back with bloodshot eyes and ground out: “Monster! If it hadn’t been for you—”
“If it weren’t for me, what then?” Sheng Chengli stepped up to him and wrapped a hand around Sheng Xuyan’s throat. “Is Father trying to say that had I not been born with that fate, you wouldn’t have usurped my uncle’s throne?”
“…”
“Oh, do spare me,” Sheng Chengli said with a laugh, calmly watching Emperor Renshou’s face flush from the lack of air. “You were born rotten. A despicable, scheming coward. Whether I or my master had appeared or not, you’d still have rebelled, still have conspired with foreign powers to lay waste to Dayu. Don’t go blaming others for your own sins.”
“Speaking of which…” He released his grip. The mighty emperor crumpled instantly, collapsing beneath the Buddhist altar with a face ashen as death. “You’ve never come close to ruling as well as Uncle did.”
Blood surged to Sheng Xuyan’s head. He turned sharply and coughed up a mouthful of blood, held on for barely two seconds, then toppled to the ground, convulsing.
Sheng Chengli looked down on him for a while, watching without expression. Then he stepped briskly outside the hall and called out, voice urgent, “His Majesty has suffered a stroke! Summon the imperial physician at once!”
The eunuchs and guards came rushing toward the hall. Sheng Chengli cast a brief glance skyward before turning towards the inner palace.
After all, his “ba di” was still being nursed by the Empress.
How could the Crown Prince of Dayu be clinging to his mother for milk while the Emperor lay gravely ill?
—
With the Emperor struck down by a stroke so soon after naming his heir, the empire could ill afford a day without a sovereign. Though the Eighth Prince had been formally appointed as heir, he was far too young, and the court could never abide allowing an empress—or any member of the maternal clan—to hold the reins of power.
And so, after some political to-ing and fro-ing, the authority to govern fell to Sheng Chengli.
When Rong Tang heard the news, he furrowed his brow slightly. Soon after, rumours reached him that a sorcerer had arrived in the capital in secret.
He froze for a moment, sifting through distant memories in search of anything to do with this sorcerer.
Back in the Jiangnan princely estate, it had been that very man who divined Sheng Chengli’s fate… only for Concubine Hui to swap the charts and bestow that destiny upon her own son instead.
All of a sudden, Rong Tang remembered something from his previous life: in Sheng Chengli’s final days, there had been a so-called honoured guest housed within his residence, one he referred to as “Master”.
Rong Tang had always assumed the title belonged to some eunuch from the mausoleum who had taught him martial arts. But with these coincidences stacking up, he realised almost at once that he’d been barking up the wrong tree.
The Emperor’s Journey began with the alteration of Sheng Chengli’s fate. And the rebellion in the twenty-fifth year of Yuanxing—its very first catalyst had been the popular rumour of an auspicious purple aura rising in the east, which spurred Sheng Xuyan to ride north in triumph.
In his bones, Rong Tang felt he had to meet this sorcerer face to face.
But before he had the chance, another sensational piece of news swept through the already tumultuous palace.
They say father and son are linked; if the father falls ill, the son may bear the burden.
Filial piety runs deep in Dayu. It’s unclear which imperial physician suggested that a prince’s heart’s blood could serve as a medicinal guide to rouse the Emperor back to health… but the idea took root.
And the choice of donor was not arbitrary. The offering had to come from the most favoured prince, one of high status and true filial devotion. Only such sincerity, they claimed, could move the heavens.
Superstition taken to an extreme. Ignorance passed down by who knows what fool.
But the Empress Dowager was dead, the Emperor paralysed, and however willing the Empress herself might be, she was powerless to shield her young son.
The little prince was carried to the Hall of Nurturing Heart by his wet nurse. Barely half a bowl of blood was drawn. The child who was no more than two or three, was deathly pale and unconscious before the process was through.
The blood was hurriedly decocted into medicine and fed to the Emperor.
But instead of improving, Emperor Renshou’s condition worsened dramatically after ingesting it. He nearly perished.
The palace erupted in horror. A whole contingent of imperial physicians knelt in supplication, their words veiled yet clear: were the boy truly the Emperor’s son, such a reaction would never have occurred.
It was then that the Fifth Prince, who had been attending to his father, acted swiftly. Without hesitation, he slit his own wrist and offered his blood anew. Only then was Emperor Renshou dragged back from the brink of death.
After this ordeal, even with the formal edict naming him heir, the Eighth Prince’s parentage could no longer escape scrutiny.
A loose-tongued maid remarked, deliberately or not, that shortly before Concubine Yi fell pregnant with the Eighth Prince, Duke Ningxuan and his wife had paid a visit to the Empress.
In the quiet courtyard, Rong Tang listened as the political climate in the capital shifted by the hour. When he finally heard this piece, he blinked in astonishment, then broke into a soft laugh.
Round and round it had gone. And now the boomerang had come home.
He wasn’t angry. But suddenly, he very much wanted to ask Su Huaijing: on the day you struck your alliance with Sheng Chengli, did you ever imagine things would come to this?
