There was a saying that Zheng Qianye once said, and it wasn’t wrong: his daughter, Zheng Yungou, had never been willing to enter the palace.
The Emperor, concealing his identity, captured Zheng Yungou’s heart in the western territories. Zheng Yungou had already discussed the matter of taking a husband with her father and brothers. The Emperor invited her for an outing to enjoy the spring scenery. Slowly, they made their way toward the capital, but as they approached the imperial hunting palace near the outskirts, they encountered an assassination attempt that had been meticulously planned.
The Emperor brought the gravely injured and unconscious Zheng Yungou back to the palace. From that moment on, Zheng Yungou never again saw the vast lands and rivers outside the palace walls.
The Emperor could only confide his deepest thoughts to Consort Xian.
Thus, only Consort Xian knew how much regret the Emperor harbored in his heart.
In the late spring of the year following the death of Imperial Noble Consort Zheng, the Emperor finally let go of himself. In the Fengning Palace, Zheng Yungou’s former residence, he dragged a chair into the courtyard and sat there alone. He let the soft breeze and gentle rain drench him without avoiding it.
Consort Xian, steeling herself, went to persuade him.
It was then that the Emperor, in a state between wakefulness and slumber, murmured, “Had I known it would come to this, I shouldn’t have brought her into the palace.”
The grand imperial tomb couldn’t contain the Emperor’s endless regret. He didn’t even dare to face the son who had almost died in the womb.
Coincidentally, the previous year, the late Empress Dowager had also passed away after a long illness. In the prime of his life, the Emperor lost both his mother and his wife, a grief from which he couldn’t extricate himself. Thus, he sent the infant Third Prince to be raised under the care of Consort Hui. A few years later, when the child started to walk and speak, the Emperor personally visited the retired Imperial Tutor Liu and invited him back to court to educate the Third Prince and teach him to read.
The chaotic situation seemed to have already shown signs when Zheng Yungou entered the palace.
Years passed, yet the muddy waters of the palace only grew murkier.
At the palace banquet, osmanthus wine was served, but its fragrance was faint, unlike the craftsmanship of Lady Wen.
Gao Yuexing tilted her head slightly and saw Li Fuxiang take a sip, only to frown.
If even he found it lacking, the taste must indeed be poor.
Gao Yuexing set down the cup she had just picked up.
Li Fuxiang noticed her gaze and seemed eager to approach.
Gao Yuexing felt that the banquet was crowded with prying eyes, making it truly inappropriate to act too boldly. So, she gave him a glance and quietly slipped away when no one was paying attention.
Gao Yuexing walked straight ahead, ignoring everything else. The sound of footsteps behind her soon caught up, maintaining a steady distance without causing disturbance.
Thinking it over, Gao Yuexing concluded that the safest place in the entire palace was still the Qianqing Palace. Without hesitation, she headed in that direction.
The Emperor had appeared at the banquet briefly earlier in the night but had since disappeared. It was unclear whether he had returned to his sleeping quarters.
As Gao Yuexing walked past the eastern side of Qianqing Palace and stepped onto a narrowing path, the footsteps behind her suddenly stopped. She had no choice but to turn back and look.
Li Fuxiang had stopped in front of an unnamed palace.
In the dim and somber twilight, Gao Yuexing saw his silhouette blur. He stood still, staring silently at the grand, winding palace.
Gao Yuexing walked up to him and stood shoulder to shoulder, looking in the same direction.
This palace, though it appeared deep and remote, was the second most prestigious place in the entire imperial city, facing Qianqing Palace from afar.
Gao Yuexing knew this palace well.
Originally, it was called Kunning Palace, the residence of empresses throughout history.
When the current Emperor conferred the title of Imperial Noble Consort upon Zheng Yungou, he intended to house her in Kunning Palace. However, the ministers of the previous dynasty and the harem unanimously opposed it, claiming it was against protocol.
How willful the Emperor was in his youth.
Since Kunning Palace was deemed inappropriate, he simply removed the plaque from the palace gate and renamed it Fengning Palace, stubbornly bestowing it upon Zheng Yungou as her residence.
Later, after Zheng Yungou’s death, the plaque inscribed by the Emperor was also taken down, and the palace became a unique and special place.
Li Fuxiang now stood before this place, and Gao Yuexing wasn’t sure if he was thinking of his birth mother. She gently asked, “Do you want to go inside and take a look?”
Li Fuxiang held her hand and said, “I heard I was born here.”
Following his lead, Gao Yuexing stepped forward as he began to recount, “Lady Xu once said that my mother suddenly went into difficult labor in the middle of the night. When she heard the news, she rushed over, only to find the bedding soaked in blood. It was a miracle I was born safely. My mother pleaded with the imperial physicians to save my life if it came down to a choice.”
Gao Yuexing’s heart felt heavy and bitter as she listened. She said, “I once attended to Lady Xu on her sickbed. She often spoke of Imperial Noble Consort Zheng. When she was pregnant with you, she was so, so eager for your arrival. Her love for you even surpassed her feelings for the Emperor.”
This conversation about the mother and son, who had never met, grew more and more heart-wrenching.
After giving birth to Li Fuxiang, Zheng Yungou, knowing her life was hanging by a thread and that her bond with her son in this lifetime would likely end there, barely managed to hang her pendant around his neck before watching helplessly as her son was carried away by his wet nurse.
In the chaos of Lady Mei’s plot to switch the babies, she either didn’t notice this detail or didn’t have time to act, leaving Li Fuxiang with this memento.
Gao Yuexing asked, “Have you ever dreamed of your mother?”
Li Fuxiang shook his head. “I don’t even know what she looked like.”
“What about her portraits?”
Li Fuxiang replied, “The Emperor said that my mother, clinging to her last breath, ordered all her portraits burned. She wanted the Emperor not to become overly fixated on her.”
Gao Yuexing was shaken to her core.
Imperial Noble Consort Zheng had seen through the Emperor long ago.
Li Fuxiang continued revealing these secrets of the inner palace, saying, “At the time, the Emperor was sitting by her bedside. My mother, hanging on with her last ounce of strength, didn’t want to be upset any further. The Emperor could only endure the pain and watch as the portraits were consumed by flames. Later, he ordered the court painters to recreate her likeness from memory. The palace painters worked meticulously, creating countless portraits, but the Emperor always felt they weren’t accurate and tore them all up. The painting the Emperor cherishes now as a memorial to my mother doesn’t even have a face. He painted it himself.”
Imperial Noble Consort Zheng had passed away.
No one in this world would ever have the fortune to glimpse her true face again.
When Li Fuxiang finished speaking, they had reached the end of the steps. Li Fuxiang reached out and pushed open the partially closed palace doors. Creak—the sound of the hinges was particularly piercing in the night.
Li Fuxiang didn’t let go of her hand.
The courtyard, old and neglected, unfolded before them like an ink painting.
At the center of the scene, a figure sat quietly under the veranda, motionless, as if lifeless, their breathing blending into the stillness of the courtyard.
For a moment, Gao Yuexing and Li Fuxiang didn’t dare to approach.
It wasn’t until the Emperor raised his head and asked, “You’ve come, haven’t you?”
Gao Yuexing suddenly felt a sense of empathy with the Emperor.
Parting in life, separation in death.
Those who have not experienced it can never truly understand the pain and torment it brings.
Gao Yuexing said, “Your Majesty.”
The Emperor gazed at them and said, “In this life, one will make countless mistakes, especially in their youthful ignorance. When I was young, my teacher once taught me: ‘To err is human, and correcting one’s mistakes is the greatest virtue.’ All lies. When a mistake is made, it is simply a mistake. Every wrong you have ever committed will one day bear its bitter fruit and return to you.”
Gao Yuexing and Li Fuxiang exchanged glances.
Behind them, the heavy palace doors creaked open once again. It was Consort Hui, dressed in resplendent attire, who entered with composure. She remarked, “Your Majesty has a new beauty in his arms. Why do you still mourn the departed?”
The Emperor remained seated, unmoving, and said, “The more I see her face, the less I can forget Yungou.”
Consort Hui cast a glance at the two children and stepped past them to stand before the Emperor. She said, “When the late Empress Dowager was alive, she advised you more than once: the Emperor is the ruler of all under heaven, and the Empress is the mother of the nation. A country cannot be without its ruler, nor without its mother. If the harem lacks an Empress of virtue, wisdom, and talent to manage it, chaos is inevitable. You gave the harem’s authority to Consort Xian, but she was once a maidservant in your bedchamber. How can she command the respect of others?”
The Emperor said nothing.
Consort Hui continued, “Your Majesty, do you still refuse to establish an Empress?”
The Emperor replied, “I will soon appoint a Crown Prince to stabilize the nation’s foundation. The future Crown Princess will undoubtedly possess virtues befitting a mother of the nation and will bring order to the harem.”
Consort Hui, as if hearing a joke, shook her head repeatedly. “Your Majesty, you remain as deluded as ever.”
The Emperor looked at Consort Hui and said, “Please understand, Lady Hui, I cannot reach the end of my life with nothing—nothing left at all.”
Consort Hui, finding the Emperor hopeless, sighed deeply and left the room.
The Emperor turned his gaze back to Li Fuxiang and extended his hand toward him.
Li Fuxiang, unwilling to defy the Emperor in the residence of his late mother, stepped forward, half-kneeling, and rested his head on the Emperor’s knee.
The Emperor said, “I no longer want to hesitate. Good child, the very best in the world, I will leave to you. With the daughter of the Gao family by your side, I am at ease. Grow well. Do not be timid, and do not fear.”
The Emperor had finally made up his mind.
The outcome, in truth, was expected.
The Emperor was a man deeply ensnared in his own obsessions, unwilling to wake up.
Imperial Noble Consort Zheng was gone.
If one day Li Fuxiang were to meet a tragic end, the Emperor might truly go mad.
The Emperor once loved conversing with Consort Xian because she was attentive and quiet, like a wooden beauty. But after Li Fuxiang was brought out from the Xiaonan Pavilion, the Emperor’s favorite person to talk to became the Yagu.
For this, he even took the trouble to learn sign language bit by bit.
He wanted to hear the Yagu recount the ten years Li Fuxiang spent in the Xiaonan Pavilion.
Even the smallest, most trivial details were things he could never tire of hearing.
The Yagu understood what the Emperor wanted to hear. Whenever she remembered some tiny detail, she would jot it down and leave it on the desk, waiting for the Emperor to peruse it during his leisure.
From these fragments, the Emperor pieced together an image of Li Fuxiang’s childhood.
The small booklet wasn’t just something the Emperor read; Gao Yuexing often snuck glances at it too.
Over seven years, the collection of memories had grown into a thick volume.
The Yagu recorded that this child cried excessively. From the moment he was held in her arms, he cried non-stop. He would eat, then sleep, and upon waking, cry again, continuing this cycle without pause for a full hundred days before finally quieting down.
Some imperial physicians speculated that Li Fuxiang’s asthma might have originated from the damage to his lungs caused by crying so intensely as an infant.
At such a young age, had he somehow felt something?
The Yagu also noted that when he first began to make sounds, he was like a little bird—noisy and incessantly chirping. He was extremely dependent on others, refusing to sleep unless he nestled in her arms. Before he was even taller than a water vat, he had learned to help fetch water.
As he grew older, he yearned to see the world outside the Xiaonan Pavilion. Fixating on the persimmon tree in the corner of the courtyard, he once climbed it but fell, dislocating his arm. The Yagu had to pay a hefty sum to the palace servants in charge of delivering meals to persuade someone to find a menial worker from the Imperial Academy of Medicine, who had some basic medical knowledge, to set Li Fuxiang’s arm back in place.
After experiencing the pain, little Li Fuxiang behaved obediently for quite a while.
The first time his asthma flared up was in early spring, during a season when willow fluff filled the air. He nearly lost his life. The Yagu was helpless, but he ultimately survived, thanks to his remarkable resilience.
Details like these were too numerous to count.
Sometimes, the Emperor thought about his own arrangements after death. He decided that the booklet must accompany him to the grave. That way, when he met Zheng Yungou in the afterlife, he could show it to her as well.