During the late emperor’s mourning period, Grand Tutor Yuan came to give lessons every day. Palace attendants often saw the young emperor wandering idly around the palace after sending the Grand Tutor off – no doubt, after being cooped up in the Tongtai for so long, the young sovereign now seized any chance to stretch her legs.
That day, after finishing the lesson, Grand Tutor Yuan specially inquired after Her Majesty’s health, reminding her that the winter chill had set in, and with frequent snow and wind, she must take care not to catch cold while walking.
Wen Yanran nodded absently, then suddenly asked, “How is Commander Ji’s health? Has he recovered?”
Grand Tutor Yuan looked troubled and sighed. “This old servant sent someone to check on him. They said that Commander Ji still cannot get up.”
Wen Yanran said, “In that case, have the imperial physicians go and take a look. If he refuses to see them, send them again a few more times.” Seeing that Grand Tutor Yuan still wished to speak, she added, “Just say that it is at My order, and that I wish Commander Ji to take care of himself. Once he’s well again, there are matters I will yet rely on him for.”
In fact, after news spread that Commander Ji had fallen ill, Grand Tutor Yuan and the others had already sent imperial physicians to treat him – but each time, the physicians were turned away at the door with various excuses.
Grand Tutor Yuan faintly sensed that the Emperor’s actions today, though outwardly an expression of concern meant to comfort Commander Ji, also carried a subtle note of intimidation. He tried to offer a few gentle words of persuasion, but when he realized Wen Yanran’s mind was set, he could only comply and take his leave.
After seeing Grand Tutor Yuan off, Wen Yanran stood in the courtyard for a while. By now she fully remembered who this Commander Ji actually was – he had been mentioned in the comments section: Ji Yue, a close aide to the emperor, had long harbored resentment toward the Wen clan. During the late emperor’s mourning period, he had even considered rebellion, but weighed down by hesitation and the lack of a proper opportunity, he ultimately gave up. His temperament was that of a startled bird – once provoked, he was prone to rash and extreme actions.
Wen Yanran stood with her hands behind her back, gazing at the snow-covered palace gardens. After a moment, Chi Yi approached quietly and murmured a few words beside her. Wen Yanran gave a slight nod to show she had heard, but did not reply right away. She remained lost in thought for a while before finally saying, “Have him come in.”
The person she was summoning was Zhang Luo. Like Chi Yi, he was a minor figure who had been suddenly promoted to serve at the Emperor’s side. Yet he carried himself with remarkable composure, treating the long-serving senior attendants around Wen Yanran with genuine deference and humility. As a result, he had been smoothly accepted by the palace staff within the Emperor’s inner circle.
Now, Zhang Luo came forward to report to the Emperor – who was seated on a wooden couch – about the tasks he had carried out that day.
“Following Your Majesty’s instructions, I went to find Captain Zhong…”
Zhang Luo replied carefully. In truth, when the Emperor had first ordered him to carry out this errand, the low-ranking palace eunuch – long accustomed to life on the lowest rungs of the court – had felt more fear and astonishment than anything else. But he quickly realized that what lay before him was an excellent opportunity for advancement.
It was well known that, having long been overlooked, the Ninth Princess in former days had had no truly dependable attendants. Now, most of the ranked eunuchs in the Imperial Household Department were already of advanced age. Zhang Luo thought, if he could only prove himself useful enough and loyal enough in the Emperor’s eyes, then when Her Majesty began to promote his trusted people – would she not naturally grant high position to those closest to her?
On the wooden couch, Wen Yanran, wrapped in a white mink cloak, leaned against the armrest with her eyes half closed, listening silently to Zhang Luo’s report. From beginning to end, she gave no comment at all. When he finished speaking, she merely inclined her head slightly, signaling for him to withdraw.
Unable to read the Emperor’s thoughts, Zhang Luo bowed and rose to his feet. He tiptoed toward the door, and just as he was about to step over the threshold, a voice from behind called out to stop him.
Wen Yanran opened her eyes. Her clear, cool gaze swept lightly over him. As the young eunuch hesitated by the doorway, wondering anxiously whether the Emperor had further orders, he heard the sovereign speak instead. “The snow hasn’t stopped these past few days. When you’re running errands outside, remember to wear an extra layer.”
Then she turned to the lady officer beside her and added, “Never mind – bring over that fur coat we set aside yesterday.”
That fur coat had been one of her old garments from the days when she was still the Ninth Princess. The palace attendants, not daring to discard any belongings left from the time the Emperor had lived in the Tongtai, had carefully stored everything away. During her walk the previous day, Wen Yanran had happened to glance at the maids sorting through those old clothes and had taken note of that particular fur coat.
Naturally, an inner attendant was not permitted to wear garments beyond his rank; yet, considering the modest living standards once allotted to the Ninth Princess, none of Wen Yanran’s old possessions could truly be considered extravagant.
Zhang Luo froze for a brief moment, then lowered his head and bowed deeply once more to the Emperor.
In winter, the sun set early. The sky was starless and moonless, dark and heavy as though covered by a thick layer of black felt. Across the imperial city, lamps and candles had begun to be lit in the main halls and along the avenues. Of them all, the Qianyuan Hall – here the late emperor’s body still lay in state – was the brightest, followed by the Western Yong Palace where Wen Yanran now resided. The other quarters, short of attendants at the moment, appeared desolate and dim by comparison.
A young palace maid, having just finished her errand, was struck by a blast of cold wind as she stepped outside. She decided to take a shortcut back, but soon lost her way among the palace gardens. To make matters worse, the old lantern she carried went out, leaving her to grope her way forward through the darkness.
After walking for some time, she suddenly heard, carried faintly through the wind, a sound she recognized at once – one that sent a shiver down her spine.
It was the sound of armor clinking – the unmistakable noise made when the Imperial Guards were on the move. In the final years of the late emperor’s reign, both the front court and the inner palace had suffered multiple purges at the hands of that tyrant. The moment the young maid heard that sound, she froze as if turned to stone, not daring to move a muscle.
Only after the troop had gone some distance did she dare to exhale – yet almost at once, unease crept over her again. If the Imperial Guards had truly been summoned into the palace or assigned to guard duty, why were they moving in darkness without so much as a lantern? Why were they, like her, groping through the night – unless they meant to conceal their presence?
Though they carried no lights, the guards moved with practiced precision. When they reached the boundary between the front court and the inner palace, half of the troop broke off northward, heading straight for the Qiyan Palace, while the remaining half silently encircled the Western Yong Palace – sealing it so tightly that not even a fly could escape.
Back when Wen Yanran had ignored her ministers’ objections and insisted on keeping the imperial clan’s children within the palace, she had, for the sake of easier management, ordered them all housed together in the side halls of the Qiyan Palace – thus, unwittingly, making it far more convenient for anyone with ill intent to capture them all at once.
Tonight was unusually silent. As the Imperial Guards surrounded the Western Yong Palace, not a single patrol happened to pass by.
Only after the encirclement was complete did the leader give a low command to his men. A burly deputy stepped forward, raised his leg, and kicked the main gate open with a heavy crash.
The doors slammed against the stone wall with a thunderous echo, and the deputy, followed by his men, rushed inside like a gust of wind.
Now that their presence could no longer be concealed, the soldiers lit their torches, illuminating the Western Yong Palace inside and out with blazing light.
Before long, the deputy who had led the charge into the hall came running out, his face dark with frustration. Striding quickly to his commander’s side, he lowered his voice and reported, “My lord – there’s no one inside.”
Not only was the Emperor nowhere to be found, but not a single attendant or servant could be located within the palace.
Just as the deputy finished his report, messages arrived from the other squad sent to seize the imperial clan’s children – the Qiyan Palace, though situated elsewhere, was found to be in much the same condition: vast, empty, and utterly deserted.
A faint clinking of armor sounded beside the deputy – one of the guards was trembling uncontrollably.
They had stormed into the palace on sheer nerve, only to find nothing at all within. Now, a creeping chill of after-fear began to rise in every heart.
The Great Zhou had stood for over three hundred years, and even those who now rose in rebellion could not help but feel a lingering awe toward the Wen clan.
The deputy grew anxious. “Since our movements have already been discovered, we might as well break straight out of Jianping. That little emperor won’t be able to catch up with us so soon anyway.”
The leader was silent for a long moment, then slowly shook his head. His tone was firm. “No. It’s far too soon to flee the palace.”
The firelight crackled, casting shifting shadows across his face. Anyone familiar with him would have recognized the man at once – he was Ji Yue, Commander Ji, current Commander of the Imperial Guards’ Central Division.
Ji Yue’s expression was dark as water. Seasoned and worldly as he was, he quickly forced down his agitation; the confusion born of tension gradually settled into clarity. He reasoned, “If Wen Jiu were completely certain of our movements – if she truly had us in her grasp – she wouldn’t have merely hidden herself upon noticing something amiss. She’d have sent men to seize us outright and throw us into prison.”
The deputy suddenly understood. “That’s true. If she were that confident, she wouldn’t have sent an imperial physician earlier today just to sound us out.”
Ji Yue gave a cold, mirthless laugh. “Wen Jiu isn’t even fifteen yet, and she has no trusted allies in court. That she chose to hide instead of confronting us directly – it may look calculated, but it only shows that she’s all show and no substance.”
He stood there for a moment, eyes closing briefly. When he opened them again, they were filled with a steely light. “She’s buying time. If we truly let fear drive us to retreat from Jianping, we’ll be walking right into her trap – giving her exactly the chance she wants to purge the palace clean.”
The duty of the Imperial Guards was to protect the imperial city. Its members all came from families of clean background and had long benefited from the Zhou dynasty’s favor. Even as Commander of the Central Guard, Ji Yue did not have the authority to mobilize all the troops under the Commanders’ order. Those who had followed him into the palace tonight were the trusted men and officers he had gradually gathered over the years.
Precisely because of that, if Ji Yue and his men were to flee the palace under cover of night, the remaining Imperial Guards would inevitably turn their allegiance to the young emperor.
Ji Yue said, “We’ve spent years building our position here in Jianping, but we have no foothold outside the city. Once we leave, we’ll lose even the advantage of terrain and become mere fugitives depending on others’ mercy. It’s better to stay – if we can find the young emperor, we can turn everything around in a single move.”
The deputy grew anxious. “But the Taiqi Palace is enormous! We don’t even know where the young emperor’s run off to – how are we supposed to catch her?”
He didn’t finish his thought: the Taiqi Palace alone was vast enough, and its northern side bordered both the Gui Palace and the Yao Palace. If they really had to search room by room, the loyalists within Jianping would hear the commotion long before they finished and come rushing to the Emperor’s aid.
Ji Yue reasoned, “She didn’t leave alone – she took a group of imperial clan children with her. That would slow her down, so she can’t have gone far. And our informants inside the palace haven’t sent any word…” His gaze sharpened, and he said with certainty, “Wen Jiu must have gone to the Tianfu Palace!”
The Tianfu Palace was the residence of the State Preceptor. For generations, all holders of that title had borne the surname Wen; by blood, their power was inextricably bound to that of the imperial throne. Yet their status as a collateral branch of the family kept them from ever laying direct claim to the crown. For Wen Yanran, newly ascended and still lacking truly trustworthy allies, they were among the very few she could place genuine faith in.
