Cannot accept this.
The Empress smiled, her gaze unwavering.
“What’s so rare about being unwilling to accept something?” she said slowly. “Is there anyone in this world who hasn’t felt that way at some point? Haven’t you?”
Of course, he had.
“If you’re already unwilling to accept it, why neglect your own life?” the Empress said lightly. “No one else cares for it anyway…”
Duke Jin’an remained prostrate on the ground, unmoving, his body trembling slightly.
“Thank you, Your Majesty, for saving my life,” he said.
If the Empress hadn’t arrived in time and skillfully smoothed things over with her self-reproach, today’s incident would likely have spiraled beyond control.
No, no—it wouldn’t have been beyond control for everyone else. They would have found a way to resolve it perfectly—only he would have been left with no way out.
The Empress shook her head.
“There’s no need to thank me. I didn’t do it for you,” she said, her gaze fixed on the dim and chilly room.
Your Majesty, Your Majesty, let me feed you your medicine. Don’t be afraid of the bitterness…
Your Majesty, today the tutor told a funny story—let me share it with you…
That’s why the greatest suffering in this world is gaining something only to lose it. If one never had it to begin with, there would be nothing to grieve over.
“…All these years, you’ve taken care of the Second Prince. At the very least, he lived happily and joyfully all this time,” the Empress said. “After all, he’s called me ‘Your Majesty’ for so many years, and yet I’ve given him less than you have. This time, consider it a gift of happiness from me to him. If he knew you suffered misfortune because of this, he wouldn’t be happy either.”
Duke Jin’an lay prostrate on the ground, his shoulders trembling as choked sobs escaped him.
Had he not, too, forced himself to live a seemingly happy and carefree life?
The Empress allowed him a moment to weep and grieve.
“You may weep here, but once you leave this place, you must think about what to do next,” she said slowly, exhaling a long breath as if expelling all the air from her lungs. “Although I stopped you from making a bigger mistake, the error you made today has already been spoken. What you choose to do from now on is your own affair—yours and yours alone.”
In the end, in this world of comings and goings, all we truly have is ourselves.
“Finally, you must remember this,” the Empress said, her gaze fixed on Duke Jin’an. “The Emperor is a wise ruler.”
At the same time, outside the palace, someone was also speaking these words.
“…Perhaps he wasn’t before, but now he certainly is,” said Old Master Chen.
A so-called wise ruler does not necessarily mean the emperor is exceptionally brilliant or fiercely powerful. On the contrary—to speak a treasonous truth—ministers would rather not serve an emperor like First Emperor of Qin or Emperor Wu of Han. What they truly desire is a ruler with modest talent, or even average ability, as long as he fulfills one condition. That alone would make him a sage lord.
That condition is clarity of mind.
He must understand who he is and what he must do. Only by knowing what he must do can he recognize what he cannot do.
It is the simplest thing in the world, yet also the hardest to achieve. After all, many can see through things, but few can let go.
For an ailing emperor with few heirs, as long as he is a wise ruler, the loss of a prince is indeed a profound grief. Yet it is not enough to drive him to act irrationally. After all, beyond being a father, he is also a sovereign responsible for the continuity of the realm.
“Even if the incident involving the Second Prince was an accident—let alone if it were truly intentional…” Old Master Chen began.
Before he could finish, Chen Shao coughed sharply, cutting him off.
Though they were speaking within the privacy of their home, some words of outright treason were still too dangerous to utter.
The news from the palace had been vague and ambiguous. They had heard what they were meant to hear, but there were things they were not supposed to hear—let alone repeat.
Old Master Chen smiled slightly and let the unspoken words fade.
“…Considering the continuation of the imperial line, would the Emperor truly dare to take severe action against the First Prince?” he continued.
Of course not. With the First Prince now the only remaining heir of the Emperor’s direct line, he would likely be enshrined and protected like a precious relic—shielded from the slightest storm or hardship.
“The Emperor is already fifty years old,” Old Master Chen said meaningfully.
Let alone whether the Emperor, in his current state of health, could father another son—even if one were born, could an ailing emperor live long enough to see the prince grow to adulthood? And even then, there was no guarantee the child would survive to maturity.
This logic was clear to everyone. Otherwise, why do you think the Empress rushed to the palace to weep and plead guilty?
The Second Prince wasn’t her own son—what did it matter if he was injured? As long as she maintained her position as Empress, she would become Empress Dowager no matter which prince ascended the throne. But if she insisted on investigating whether the elder brother had harmed the younger, it would not only be a futile effort but would inevitably draw the suspicion and displeasure of the Emperor and the Empress Dowager. When the First Prince eventually took the throne, he would never allow a woman who had once treated him this way to remain as Empress Dowager—if she even managed to survive peacefully until his coronation.
Such are the affairs of the royal family…
A prince was injured—that was all. It wasn’t as if such things hadn’t happened before. Besides, there was still another prince in the palace. So, to the court officials, the day’s upheaval was not a matter of great concern. They shook their heads, sighed over the Emperor’s difficulties in securing his lineage, and then moved on.
Chen Shao shook his head, dismissing the topic, and turned to discuss other matters with his father.
“This is not a major issue…”
The night grew deeper, and the howling wind grew fiercer. The First Prince’s palace was brightly lit, with countless palace maids and eunuchs standing along the corridors.
Yet, inside the chamber, it was empty except for the Imperial Consort, who sat on the daybed. Gently patting the disheartened First Prince, she spoke in a soft, murmuring voice.
“…You don’t understand—when people are young, they are fragile and difficult to nurture. Little ghosts and minor demons often cling to them. Why else do you think children so easily stumble and fall? One moment they’re walking, the next they’ve taken a tumble?”
The First Prince’s emotions eased slightly, and he lifted his head to look at her.
“Wh-why?” he asked, his voice trembling.
“It’s because of those little ghosts and spirits pushing and shoving,” the Imperial Consort replied with a gentle smile, reaching out to stroke his earlobe. “That’s why it’s truly not easy for a child to grow up safe and sound.”
The First Prince swallowed hard, his eyes still filled with fear.
“R-really?” he stammered.
Suddenly, the Imperial Consort tightened her grip on his earlobe, and the First Prince cried out in pain.
“Of course it’s true! Why would I lie to you? Remember this,” she said, her willow-leaf eyebrows furrowing sternly. “The Second Prince’s time was simply up—Heaven took him back. It has nothing to do with anyone!”
The First Prince winced in pain, tears streaming down his face as he nodded.
The Imperial Consort released her grip, her expression softening once more as she soothingly patted his shoulder.
“You must also remember—you are now your father’s only son. In the future, you will inherit the realm and continue the bloodline of the Fang imperial family. No one would dare touch you,” she said slowly. “And no one can touch you.”
The First Prince looked at her, tears still in his eyes, and nodded.
The Imperial Consort looked at him and smiled softly.
“Good boy,” she said, then her smile faded, replaced by a heavy, sorrowful expression. “It’s all because you’re still too young and not strong enough—otherwise, you could have held onto the Second Prince…”
At these words, the First Prince, who had just begun to calm down, instantly paled again.
The Imperial Consort gripped his shoulders firmly, steadying him, and stared straight into his eyes.
“Say it with me!” she commanded in a low, stern voice. “Say, ‘It’s all because I’m too young and not strong enough—otherwise, I could have held onto the Second Prince!'”
The First Prince trembled, his teeth chattering as he stammered.
He… he… couldn’t hold on…
“Say it! ‘It’s all because I’m too young and not strong enough—I couldn’t hold onto the Second Prince!'”
“Say it again.”
Over and over, the low, insistent voice repeated, until the wind that had howled all night gradually stilled, and the sky began to lighten with the dawn.
The First Prince had stopped trembling and was now yawning wearily.
“It’s all because I’m too young…” he murmured, “and not strong enough. Otherwise, I could have held onto the Second Prince…”
As he spoke, his nose twitched involuntarily.
Yes, it was all because he wasn’t strong enough. He truly hadn’t been able to hold on back then…
“Your Majesty, it’s all my fault for being too weak. I couldn’t hold onto the Second Prince. He called me ‘Brother, Brother,’ and I… I couldn’t save him…”
With a loud sob, the First Prince burst into tears.
Watching the prince weep openly, the Imperial Consort finally let out a sigh of relief. A faint smile flickered across her face before she quickly suppressed it. She reached out and drew her son close once more, soothing him gently in a soft voice.
Although the Second Prince had been declared beyond saving, he was not yet dead. Life in the palace continued undisturbed. In the early morning, breakfast was prepared and delivered to various halls.
Watching the food being brought in, a eunuch gestured for it to be set down. Once the servants had withdrawn, he did not enter the chamber of Duke Jin’an. Instead, he turned and walked toward the rear.
The door to the storeroom housing the New Year’s gifts from the Qu-zhou Prince’s residence stood open. Through the doorway, the eunuch could see Duke Jin’an seated inside, still wearing the same brocade robes from the day before. His legs were crossed, and on his feet were the same white socks—now stained black from running—but otherwise, everything about him remained unchanged from yesterday.
The eunuch halted his steps, but the sound of his footsteps had already alerted the Duke Jin’an, who turned his head.
“Brother, shall we go to Father Emperor’s place to look at the maps?”
The Second Prince’s cheerful face beamed up at him, his voice bright and eager.
“Yes, yes—I’ll go with you, I’ll go with you,” Duke Jin’an replied hurriedly, rising to his feet as if afraid he might be too late.
But he was indeed too late. No sooner had the words left his mouth than the child before him vanished into nothingness. Only the eunuch remained, standing there with a sorrowful expression, watching him.
Duke Jin’an slowly turned around, his gaze sweeping across the shelves in the room and the dazzling array of items displayed on them.
He walked over slowly, reaching out to touch each one in turn.
The truth was, these gifts were the same every year. The truth was, he didn’t like them at all. The truth was, they brought him no joy—he had only ever pretended…
Pretended to be happy, pretended to make others believe he still had family who cared about him.
But in reality, there was none. No one remembered him. No one had ever spared even a thought to prepare a gift sincerely meant for him.
There was nothing! Nothing at all!
Why did he keep lying to himself? Why did he deceive others? Who even cared? Who would ever care?
Who wanted to see these New Year’s gifts he never truly wanted? Who wanted to keep pretending to cherish them? Who wanted to fabricate the illusion of a family that cared—only to lose the one person who had been right beside him, whose care he could see, touch, and feel?
Wake up!
Duke Jin’an snatched a sword from the shelf and swung it fiercely at the gift boxes and brocades before him. Boxes tumbled, silk tore, shelves collapsed—the room erupted into a cacophony of crashing and shattering.
Wake up! Wake up! You have nothing—nothing at all! You had nothing in the past, you have nothing now, and you will have nothing in the future!
