When the Empress Dowager posed this question, many in the room inwardly breathed a sigh of relief – finally.
Chen Shao clenched his fist, feeling the damp sweat in his palm.
That brief moment just now had been almost suffocating.
Yet, this girl…
He couldn’t help but glance toward Cheng Jiao-niang.
Amid the fierce and tumultuous commotion that had just erupted in the hall, she had remained standing with serene composure. Though the incident revolved entirely around her, she seemed almost like an idle spectator, detached from the chaos.
Of course, this occasion was different from the previous impeachment by Feng Lin. Offering a self-defense here would hardly convince anyone, nor would the Empress Dowager lend an ear. Unexpectedly, she did not attempt to justify herself but simply nodded in admission.
Every matter holds two sides, fortune and misfortune are intertwined. Her ability to summon lightning had brought today’s calamity upon her – yet it was also that very ability that allowed her to resolve it.
It was as simple as that. All his earlier tension and Zhang Chun’s eloquent efforts now seemed wasted.
This girl – time and again, she put them through such agonizing suspense, only to effortlessly dissolve the crisis in the end, leaving them feeling almost foolish.
No, it wasn’t that they were foolish. Rather, they were too clever, overthinking every possibility, while she, perhaps due to her past affliction, approached matters directly, stripping away complexity to address the core need…
And the core need – that was the key. Everyone harbors selfish desires; everyone has something they seek.
“Then how can this be verified?”
The Empress Dowager’s voice cut through Chen Shao’s wandering thoughts. He quickly composed himself and turned his gaze toward Cheng Jiao-niang.
“I can demonstrate my ability to summon lightning on the next thunderstorm day, in the presence of witnesses,” Cheng Jiao-niang replied.
“Wait for the next storm? What if there are no thunderstorms for a year or even longer?” a court official interjected.
This was undoubtedly one of Gao Lingjun’s faction.
Gao Lingjun himself had now fallen silent, so quiet that his earlier frenzied agitation seemed never to have happened.
This silence was certainly not surrender – beneath his lowered gaze, a chilling, ominous light undoubtedly flickered.
“Indeed. Prince Ping cannot afford to wait,” the Empress Dowager remarked.
“It will not take that long. Within three to five days, there will surely be another thunderstorm,” Cheng Jiao-niang replied.
“Lady Cheng truly is remarkable – capable of summoning wind and rain at will,” another court official commented with a faint, mocking smile.
Cheng Jiao-niang turned her gaze toward him.
“The wind and rain are already there, and they signal their arrival to the world through various signs,” she said. “If you cannot perceive them, it is only because you lack discernment.”
Someone in the hall let out an involuntary chuckle but immediately recoiled in horror, lowering their head in fear.
Laughing at such a moment was nothing short of courting death.
Fortunately, all attention remained fixed on Cheng Jiao-niang, sparing the unfortunate soul any notice.
The court official’s face turned ashen, and he snorted in indignation. Yet there was little he could say in retort.
“Truly, you are both from Jiang-zhou,” he muttered under his breath – a quiet jab that also subtly vented Gao Lingjun’s frustration over being admonished by Zhang Chun earlier. His voice was so low, however, that Zhang Jiangzhou did not catch a word.
“Since that is the case, let the Imperial Archives arrange it,” the Empress Dowager said, her voice weary with exhaustion. She raised a hand to massage her temples, the strain of the situation evident in her bearing.
Chen Shao stepped forward to accept the command.
“Given the uncertain state of His Majesty’s condition, we officials should take turns remaining in the palace on duty,” he added.
The Empress Dowager waved her hand weakly, signaling her consent.
“Let Master Chen and the others decide,” she replied, then turned her gaze toward the unconscious emperor. Grief surged within her once more.
“Oh, Your Majesty…”
Leaning against the imperial couch, the Empress Dowager broke into loud sobs.
In an instant, the room filled with the sound of weeping.
Meanwhile, outside the palace, news of Prince Ping’s tragic death and the Emperor’s critical condition had already spread. With the palace gates sealed shut and the court officials still detained inside, details remained unclear, fueling rampant rumors and speculation.
Gao Lingjun had dared to storm the palace gates by brandishing the jade belt bestowed by the late emperor, but no one else had the audacity to follow suit. At such a time, anyone attempting to force entry would likely be cut down by the imperial guards at the gate – and deservedly so.
Yet the fact that Gao Lingjun had charged in with the jade belt suggested the reports were almost certainly true. Panic immediately swept through the officials outside the palace, plunging them into chaos.
In Master Zhou’s study, the room was packed with people. Seven or eight scholarly advisers were gathered there, all writing feverishly.
“Keep it concise, keep it simple – they’re not fools either. What matters most is sending these letters out quickly,” Master Zhou urged, pacing back and forth as he spoke.
“Write several for the northwest region – they’re not all in the same location.”
“For Shan-zhou, two letters will suffice – one to the clan chief and another to the prefect.”
“My lord, the prefect certainly won’t lack letters from us,” one of the advisers remarked.
Master Zhou let out a dismissive sound.
“That doesn’t mean the Zhou family should be left out,” he insisted.
With the entire family and clan rooted in Shan-zhou, appearances had to be maintained.
The adviser nodded hastily and responded with a respectful “Yes,” then bent back over his writing.
Entering the adjoining room, Master Zhou found his wife and several maids rummaging through chests and cabinets, pulling out fabrics and garments needed for mourning attire.
The sight grated on his nerves, so he turned and walked out. The courtyard was similarly bustling – younger members of the family, along with stewards and servants, were busy taking down festive lanterns and covering crimson decorative carvings.
Amid the commotion, only one person seemed idle.
“Is Prince Ping really dead?” Zhou Fu murmured, still in a daze.
“Dead for real – how could this be false? Who would dare spread such a rumor recklessly?” Master Zhou snapped impatiently. “Even the Emperor has…”
Though they were within their own home, Master Zhou didn’t dare utter the final word.
Zhou Fu turned to look at him.
“Then… there’ll be no wedding,” he said quietly.
Huh? What did you say?
Master Zhou was momentarily stunned.
“Jiao-niang won’t have to get married,” Zhou Fu repeated.
If the Emperor passed away, weddings would certainly be prohibited during the official mourning period. Even if he survived but remained ill, the wedding could no longer proceed.
Master Zhou let out an “Oh.”
“That would be appropriate,” he replied.
“Father, Prince Ping is dead,” Zhou Fu said again, emphasizing the word dead.
Prince Ping…
Master Zhou paused, then suddenly realized something. His expression shifted abruptly.
“…Father, Secretariat Editor Liu has been struck by a sudden illness.”
“Of course, she will eliminate him. She has always dealt swiftly with those who dare covet what is hers.”
“I don’t know how she managed it. Perhaps it was like using another’s force to strike back, just as she shot the thugs dead – or like when thunder and fire struck down the abbot of Small Xuanmiao Temple and her adulterer in Jiang-zhou.”
Voices drifted in and out, now near, now distant.
They’re all dead…
Secretariat Editor Liu, that temple abbess, the street thugs in front of Tai Ping Residence, Feng Lin who was disgraced and driven out of the capital…
Those people – those who crossed her, those who coveted her wealth, those who threatened her, those who stood against her…
“Have you forgotten who first proposed the marriage match? Who first stirred up this trouble?”
It was Prince Ping!
This young and only heir apparent, a future emperor who would likely reign for a long time – his favor or displeasure would inevitably shape the court for years to come, and that influence would extend to his descendants as well…
With Prince Ping alive, there would be no chance for their Zhou and Cheng families to rise again…
“The marriage is a trivial matter.”
Master Zhou recalled the words the young lady had repeated several times.
And how true that was – not just the marriage, but even Prince Ping was a trivial matter…
Even Prince Ping is now dead…
Was it… her?
Master Zhou wanted to ask, but he dared not utter the question even at the cost of his life. Instead, his legs went weak, and he reached out to steady himself against a pillar in the corridor.
Oh, my dear ancestors in heaven!
…
“See? I told you, Banqin, there was no need to make a wedding dress. Anyone who gets involved with your lady is bound to meet misfortune.”
In the Zhang family residence, Old Master Zhang chuckled.
His words were met with even louder sobs from the young girl.
“Oh, Master, please don’t tease Ban Qin anymore,” an elderly servant said, stamping his foot in frustration. “What kind of time is this for jokes?”
He quickly turned to comfort the weeping maid.
“Nothing is certain yet, but even if… well, in case of a national mourning period, the wedding can simply be held later… That way, you can take your time preparing the wedding dress properly.”
“Ah, but that’s not necessarily true,” Old Master Zhang cut in immediately. “Ban Qin isn’t crying just because the wedding dress won’t be used, is she?”
The elderly servant felt the young maid in front of him stiffen slightly.
“Ban Qin, His Highness Prince Ping… was struck dead by lightning,” Old Master Zhang said, his tone carrying a meaningful weight. “Is that why you’re crying?”
Struck dead by lightning… struck dead by lightning…
The maid slumped to the ground, weeping uncontrollably.
“…Oh, Master, you really… Why did you have to bring that up?” the old servant exclaimed.
“…What’s wrong with mentioning it? If we don’t talk about it, does that mean others won’t think about it? Who are we fooling…”
“…Master, are you gloating or something? Seems to me you haven’t suffered a hunger episode in far too long…”
“…Ah, Wan Ping, you lot – are you eating the Zhang family’s rice or the Cheng family’s? Why are you all taking her side? It’s not like I caused the trouble, so why are you all venting at me? Just my luck – I always say, anyone who gets involved with her is bound to face misfortune…”
…
“Truly unexpected.”
A soft sigh came from behind.
Cheng Jiao-niang glanced back and saw Duke Jin’an walking slowly a few steps behind, his expression somber.
They had been granted permission to leave the palace. By now, evening was approaching, and the massive palace complex behind them grew even more imposing in the fading light of dusk.
“Truly unexpected,” Duke Jin’an murmured again, also gazing at the sky behind them. “A clear day can change so abruptly.”
Though he had hoped for Prince Ping’s death many times and had even schemed to inflict fatal illnesses upon him, those plans had never come to fruition.
Who could have imagined that Prince Ping would die so suddenly – and in such a manner…
He had witnessed the lightning strike with his own eyes. Even now, recalling it sent a shudder of shock through his mind.
Dead…
His eyes lingered on the palace silhouette, as if he could still see the lonely figure lying on the ground, unrecognizable…
Pity? Satisfaction?
He couldn’t quite name the emotion within him – it was a bitter, tangled mix.
Yet…
His hand, hanging at his side, clenched into a fist.
What infuriated him most was how this scourge had managed to drag others down with him, even in death.
“This is impermanence,” Cheng Jiao-niang said.
The way of heaven is ever-changing.
“But this is also natural,” she added.
Duke Jin’an looked at her and nodded.
“Yes, impermanence is the natural order,” he replied. “There is nothing to fear.”
As they stepped out of the palace gates, the heavy doors swung shut behind them, closing with a hasty, almost nervous finality.
Carriages that had earlier been allowed to wait along the Imperial Avenue had all been driven away. Cheng Jiao-niang and Duke Jin’an had no choice but to walk the length of the avenue on foot.
It was only after leaving the Imperial Avenue that they finally spotted a carriage waiting by the roadside.
“Miss!” Ban Qin’s voice rang out, choked with tears as she hurried forward, not even bothering to lift the lantern in her haste.
The flickering lights along the Imperial Avenue cast a dim, wavering glow over the surrounding roads, making the path ahead seem even more obscure.
“Let’s go,” Cheng Jiao-niang said.
“Allow me to escort you,” Duke Jin’an offered. “After tonight, I fear it may not be so easy for us to meet again.”
“Lady Cheng.”
A voice called out from nearby.
Cheng Jiao-niang turned to see Qin Hu stepping slowly out from the shadows by a wall.
“Young Master Qin,” she said, a note of surprise in her voice.
He really had been waiting all this time…
“Your Highness,” Qin Hu said to Duke Jin’an, “I would like a private word with Lady Cheng, if I may.”
Duke Jin’an nodded without another word, then turned and walked toward his own carriage, departing swiftly.
“Young Master Qin, I appreciate you…” Cheng Jiao-niang began.
But before she could finish, Qin Hu took a step closer, cutting her off.
“Was it… you?” he asked hoarsely.
Under the flickering lamplight, Cheng Jiao-niang’s expression grew still.
