Emperor Jinglong ultimately chose not to send Shen Qi to lead the search for the missing Imperial Censor Su. Instead, he appointed Long Quan, commander of the Left Wing of the Tengxiang Guard, to take temporary command of 5,000 Embroidered Uniform Guard soldiers and head to Shaanxi.
It was now the fourth day of the eighth month, nine days since Su Yan had fallen into the gorge—
Chu Yuan spent three or four fruitless days searching, with messenger pigeons taking another three days to return. The deployment of troops was further delayed by two events: the unexpected injury of the original Embroidered Uniform Guard commander, Xin Zhenhai, and an assassination attempt on the Crown Prince. Only after these setbacks did Long Quan finally set out with his men—by which time, Su Yan was already en route from Dingyuan to Qingshui Camp in Lingzhou.
On the twelfth of the eighth month, Su Yan reunited with Chu Yuan and his group at White Cloud Inn. That night, carrier pigeons delivered several encrypted messages to the capital.
The imperial court received these messages during the Mid-Autumn Festival banquet held at the Forbidden City.
Unlike other holidays, this banquet wasn’t open to high-ranking officials; the festival of reunion allowed ministers to return home to their families. The event thus became a private feast for the royal family.
With the late Empress having passed away and the position of Empress Consort vacant, the Moon Festival rituals in the imperial garden were presided over by the Empress Dowager.
After cutting and distributing mooncakes among the concubines, the Empress Dowager took the opportunity to subtly remind the Emperor to consider appointing a new Empress.
Emperor Jinglong, distracted, deflected her remarks with half-hearted replies. Claiming he needed to change robes and clear his head, he excused himself, leaving the disappointed gazes of Imperial Concubine Wei, cradling her infant son, and the other three consorts behind.
As soon as his Royal Father left, Crown Prince Zhu Helin, unwilling to face his royal grandmother’s stern demeanor alone, also slipped away.
Yu Wang wished to leave too but was persuaded by the Empress Dowager to stay and dine with her. As a dutiful son, he picked crab meat for her, dipping it in vinegar.
The Empress Dowager ate a bite of crab dumpling and inquired, “I heard the Crown Prince was recently attacked? How is he now?”
Washing the fishy scent off his hands in the Suye Soup, Yu Wang thought, That was ages ago. You’re only asking now? You could’ve inquired directly when he was here.
He knew his royal mother didn’t favor Zhu Helin, partly due to her dislike of the late Empress, but also because Zhu Helin’s personality clashed with hers.
For the past fourteen years, with only Zhu Helin as a male heir, the Empress Dowager had little to say on the matter, other than urging the Emperor to spend more time in the harem.
This year was different. Imperial Concubine Wei had given birth to a second prince, Zhu Hezhao, earning her considerable favor. Riding this wave, she hinted at a promotion, aspiring to be named Imperial Noble Consort.
The Empress Dowager was the biological aunt of the Wei family and was especially fond of the newly born little prince. Naturally, she was more than happy to lend her support.
Imperial Concubine Wei played the delicate and charming role, while the Empress Dowager fanned the flames. Some court officials began to bring up the matter of establishing an Empress once again. Emperor Jinglong, troubled by both the court and the inner palace, was so vexed that when the Second Prince’s one-month celebration arrived, he even considered promoting Imperial Concubine Wei to Imperial Noble Consort.
The assassination attempt at Lingguang Temple changed everything. Fengan Marquis lost an arm, and the Wei clan retaliated fiercely against Su Yan, joining forces with court officials and the Empress Dowager to drive him out of the capital.
The night before his departure, the Su residence was attacked and ransacked by thugs, and Su Yan himself barely escaped an attempt on his life. This completely enraged Emperor Jinglong, who ordered Marquis Xianan, Wei Yan, and Fengan Marquis, Wei Jun, to be harshly reprimanded for an entire month. It was only after the Empress Dowager’s desperate pleas that he finally relented—just barely stopping short of infuriating Wei Jun to death.
As a result, Imperial Concubine Wei’s hopes of promotion were shattered.
She wept and threw tantrums for over a month, but soon realized that her once foolproof tricks had lost their effect. This time, her imperial cousin had truly hardened his heart. He no longer cared about their years of intimacy, nor about their childhood bond. Other than occasionally visiting the Second Prince, he never stepped foot into Yongning Palace again—let alone spent the night there.
Imperial Concubine Wei suspected that some concubine or new palace maid had bewitched the emperor. But after some careful inquiries, she was shocked to discover that in the past two months, the emperor had not once extinguished the lantern of any palace, nor had he spent the night with anyone. Every evening, he either taught the Crown Prince before retiring alone to Yangxin Hall or stayed in the Southern Study, working on memorials until dawn.
…The emperor was only thirty-five, yet had already grown weary of women?
Imperial Concubine Wei was baffled and secretly ordered the imperial kitchen to prepare a variety of aphrodisiac dishes for him.
At first, Emperor Jinglong paid no mind and casually consumed a bowl of deer blood paste—only to be left unbearably restless that night. Even after rinsing in cold water, the heat in his body refused to subside.
Taking advantage of the opportunity, Imperial Concubine Wei dressed in her most alluring attire and personally delivered a bowl of bird’s nest with rock sugar to Yangxin Hall. Of course, her real intent was not to offer food but to climb into his bed.
She did manage to climb into the dragon bed, but the emperor rejected her advances outright. Right before her eyes, he cooled himself down on his own, then calmly got dressed and left without a second glance.
Imperial Concubine Wei understood his message loud and clear— It’s not that I can’t. I’m just not interested in you. Stop wasting your efforts.
Feeling deeply humiliated, she cried in the empty bedchamber for an entire night. The next day, for the sake of her dignity, she put on an act of having been greatly favored and returned to Yongning Palace in a grand, ostentatious palanquin.
That night, the emperor sat alone in the imperial study for two whole hours, absently turning a finely carved jade pendant between his fingers. After some time, he opened a hidden drawer, retrieved a memorial from Shaanxi, and flipped through it repeatedly.
At the Mid-Autumn Palace Banquet, only a few days had passed since the incident, and the emperor naturally showed no goodwill toward Imperial Concubine Wei. His demeanor toward the Empress Dowager was also noticeably colder. Before long, he made an excuse to leave.
His imperial carriage turned toward the Southern Study. Moments later, a small head peeked around the study door—Crown Prince Zhu Helin.
Emperor Jinglong noticed his son and smiled, beckoning him inside. “Why have you left the banquet so soon? Didn’t the dishes suit your taste this year?”
“Well, didn’t Royal Father leave too?” Zhu Helin slumped into a chair, looking dispirited. “Thinking about Qinghe… not knowing where he’s suffering right now… I’ve completely lost my appetite. Royal Father, do you think Qinghe might—”
The words caught in his throat. His lips moved soundlessly, like a fish gasping for air. His eyes, filled with barely concealed fear and anxiety, searched his father’s face for reassurance.
Suppressing his own rising frustration, the emperor replied calmly, “He will be found.”
“But the Embroidered Uniform Guard have been gone for eleven days. If they were riding at full speed day and night, they should have reached Shaanxi by now! Why hasn’t any news come back yet?” Zhu Helin, overwhelmed with worry, momentarily forgot that even messenger pigeons needed time to cover such a vast distance.
The emperor studied his son’s expression and asked, “You seem very anxious.”
Zhu Helin froze, then countered, “Of course I’m anxious! Isn’t Royal Father worried too?”
Though not particularly scheming, Zhu Helin was not blind either. He had long noticed that his Royal father treated Su Yan differently from other officials. No matter how much the emperor tried to conceal it in public, it did not escape his son’s keen observation.
At times, he even suspected that his Royal father harbored… unspeakable feelings toward Su Yan.
And the reason he said “also”—was because Su Yan had been appearing frequently in his dreams as well.
With his carnal awareness awakened and after having studied several erotic paintings, Zhu Helin was no longer entirely ignorant of such matters. He now understood that what he felt for Su Yan was not merely a youthful bond of loyalty and admiration—it was something far more intense, more desperate, more volatile… and utterly consuming.
This emotion made him feel like a newly matured male beast, beginning to sense a crisis and a competitive awareness toward other males who shared the same hunting and mating goals as him—even if that other male was his own father.
He stared into his Royal father’s eyes, searching for a clear answer, carrying a fearless stubbornness, like a newborn calf unafraid of tigers.
Emperor Jinglong weighed the intensity of his son’s gaze and slowly said, “The key is not whether one is anxious, but whether one understands their own capabilities. Helin, you are the crown prince. From birth, you have had more than others, and you bear more responsibilities. In the future, you will face more ‘urgency,’ more ‘dilemmas,’ more ‘anger,’ and even moments of ‘helplessness.’ If you cannot make a clear judgment of the situation and your abilities—if you cannot ensure a decisive victory or a flawless capture—then the best course of action is to hold back, lay your traps in the shadows, and wait for the right moment to strike.”
At this moment, Zhu Helin’s mind was entirely occupied with Su Yan’s whereabouts. He had no patience for lectures and felt that his Royal father was deliberately evading the question, revealing his own guilty conscience. He pursed his lips and said, “I accept your teachings. But is Royal Father truly not worried or anxious?”
Emperor Jinglong shook his head slightly and sighed. “One day, you will understand. The sooner that day comes, the fewer detours you will take.”
Zhu Helin thought to himself: As long as you don’t set your sights on the person I favor, my path will be much easier.
As they spoke, an attendant came running in, carrying a secret report delivered by a carrier pigeon.
The emperor opened it and glanced over it briefly, the corners of his lips curling into a smile.
The crown prince leaned over to read a few lines and exclaimed in delight, “He’s been found! He’s in Qingshui Camp, Lingzhou!” A great weight lifted from his heart, filling him with overwhelming relief. The sleepless nights and tasteless meals of late were all soothed and settled in this moment.
“You’re very happy?” the emperor suddenly asked.
Zhu Helin replied, “Of course! Qinghe has been found, safe and sound—isn’t that something to be happy about?”
The emperor folded the secret letter and tucked it into his memorials. “All men have emotions, but a ruler’s joy and anger differ from ordinary people’s. Joy should be concealed, lest others detect your weakness and use it to curry favor or manipulate you. Anger must be precise—those who must be removed should be dealt with swiftly. One must never hesitate when the time comes to act.”
Zhu Helin felt that his Royal Father had been acting quite peculiar recently. Every night, he was forced to stay in the Hall of Mental Cultivation, not only to learn how to handle state affairs but also to endure long lectures where his Royal Father often used topics as excuses to impart broader life lessons. It was as if the emperor wanted to make up for fourteen years of indulgence and neglect in teaching by cramming all the missed guidance into a short period, hastening Zhu Helin’s maturity.
Lowering his head, Zhu Helin pretended to listen obediently, though his restless eyes darted about. He was eager to return to the Eastern Palace and immediately dispatch a messenger to Lingzhou, conveying his thoughts and a handwritten letter to Su Yan. He wanted to ask when Su Yan might return to the capital. The Mid-Autumn Festival had already passed, but there was still the Double Ninth Festival—and if not then, surely Su Yan would be back to celebrate the New Year?
The emperor noticed his son’s wandering thoughts and knew that Zhu Helin’s mind was thousands of miles away. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed him. “You may go.”
As Zhu Helin rose to leave, the emperor added, “From now on, you’re not allowed to leave the palace without permission. If I catch you sneaking out again, I’ll have your legs broken.”
Zhu Helin hunched his shoulders, laughing awkwardly. “Isn’t the Northern Surveillance Bureau currently investigating the assassins who targeted me? Once they’ve caught the culprits, I should be able to leave the palace, right? Staying here every day—either at the Wenhua Hall, the training grounds, or the Hall of Mental Cultivation reviewing documents—is driving me crazy!”
The emperor tapped Zhu Helin’s forehead with a hard-covered memorial. “Stop causing trouble and stay obediently in the palace.”
Zhu Helin’s sharp eyes caught the handwriting on the memorial’s cover—it was in Su Yan’s script. His suspicions deepened. His Royal Father must have been emotionally attached to the document; otherwise, why would he keep Su Yan’s memorial in his possession, neither forwarding it to the cabinet for discussion nor archiving it? Zhu Helin himself had never even seen its contents.
What exactly had Qinghe written to the emperor? Could it be something casual and lighthearted, like the letters he wrote Zhu Helin, filled with small, personal details? Or had Su Yan disguised amorous sentiments and passionate promises as official correspondence?
—What kind of relationship had developed between his Royal Father and Su Yan?
The more Zhu Helin thought about it, the more agitated he became. His heart itched with frustration, and he felt an urge to blurt out his questions, even if it meant provoking his Royal Father’s wrath. At least he would know for certain.
But the emperor’s earlier lesson unexpectedly echoed in his mind. He had thought it had gone in one ear and out the other, but it had lodged itself in his heart:
“If you cannot clearly assess a situation or your own capabilities, and cannot ensure a decisive victory, the best course of action is to remain still, lay your traps quietly, and wait for the right moment to strike.”
…Royal Father is right. Zhu Helin lowered his gaze, restraining his impulsive nature. He bowed and said, “This son takes his leave. Wishing Royal Father a joyful Mid-Autumn Festival and that all your wishes come true.”
All wishes come true? The emperor turned to gaze at the full moon outside the window, sighing softly. “Yet unplucked remains the verdant cassia branch; I cannot stop lamenting.”
As Zhu Helin exited the imperial study, the line of poetry lingered in his mind.
“To pluck the cassia branch” symbolized victory and success in the imperial exams. But the emperor wasn’t a disappointed scholar, so what was this grief and longing he spoke of?
Could it be that the cassia branch the emperor wished to pluck wasn’t a metaphor for success, but for this year’s top-ranked scholar? Someone he was determined to obtain, no matter the cost?
The more Zhu Helin pondered, the more unsettled and irritated he became. A memory surfaced from several months ago when he and Su Yan traveled to the Eastern Garden to attend the Dragon Boat Festival. On the carriage ride, Su Yan had shared an anecdote.
Su Yan had said that in the Western lands, there was a tradition of weaving laurel branches into crowns to honor champions. Moreover, when the sun god—what was his name again? Apollo, or something—fell in love with the river god’s daughter, he broke off a laurel branch to express his passionate pursuit. Tragically, the woman preferred to transform into a laurel tree rather than accept his love, ending in heartbreak.
Su Yan concluded, “In our dynasty, even if the emperor pursues someone, the pursued should have the right to refuse.”
And how had Zhu Helin responded?
“Pursue?” he had sneered. “That’s called bestowing grace. If the emperor fancies someone and wants to take her as a consort, that’s her good fortune for several lifetimes. Refuse? She wouldn’t dare! That would be defying the imperial decree, punishable by the extermination of her entire family!”
“If the emperor fancies someone… Good fortune for several lifetimes… Dare to refuse… Extermination of the entire family…”
Those words, spoken by Zhu Helin himself, buzzed in his ears.
What if the emperor’s fancy wasn’t for a woman? What if, to protect his family, Su Yan had no choice but to endure humiliation—or worse, willingly submitted to the emperor’s will?
D*mn it, I’ve shot myself in the foot! Zhu Helin stood in the shadow of a corridor, the intoxicating scent of osmanthus flowers drifting in the moonlit air. Suddenly, he raised his hand and gave himself a hard slap across the face.
