Held tightly in the Emperor’s embrace, Su Yan inhaled the faint imperial fragrance of brocade and bedding. He felt utterly at peace, utterly safe.
All the storms, dust, and hardships of the past year, the perilous journey of the last month, seemed to dissolve in this moment, as though a flock of startled magpies had finally found a resting tree. Every sorrow melted away in this embrace.
“Your Majesty,” he said softly, “please take back the death edict, won’t you?”
“Lan Gonggong has already gone to summon Master Yingxu. As for Ah Zhui, since I’m still in the palace, he surely hasn’t gone far. He’s probably hiding somewhere nearby. Once I step outside, I can call for him.”
The Emperor patted Su Yan’s back gently.
“Go to the desk over there. Open the middle drawer. Bring me the painting rolled up inside, and a brush already dipped in ink.”
Su Yan ignored the diversion and continued: “Ah Zhui is now a grandmaster of martial arts, and Master Yingxu is the finest surgeon alive. Together, they’ll definitely cure Your Majesty’s head ailment…”
The Emperor sighed lightly and began to rub his back instead of patting it.
“Be good. Otherwise, my head will start hurting again.”
Su Yan knew it was an excuse, but he couldn’t defy him. Rising obediently, he fetched the painting and laid it gently on the coverlet. He tucked the inked brush behind his ear, careful not to stain the brocade or his clothes.
The Emperor gestured for him to open it.
Su Yan slowly unrolled the scroll, it was a painting titled Wind over Lotus after the Rain.
A summer garden pond: lotus leaves swayed gracefully in the breeze; dewdrops rolled freely across their jade-green surfaces, almost ready to drip. Beneath them, the tail of a fish flickered faintly through rippling water.
The brushwork balanced strength and softness, the lines pure and refined. The clean elegance and vitality of the lotus were vividly captured, both technically and in spirit, it was exquisite beyond compare. Su Yan could tell at once, it was the Emperor’s own work.
“This painting was done on the Dragon Boat Festival, two years ago,” said the Emperor.
Two years ago, the Dragon Boat Festival after Su Yan had just entered the palace as a Shima of the Imperial Classics, having been caned in open court over that scandalous Eastern Palace Little Yellow Book incident.
“At the time, I meant to give you this painting, along with half a poem, but… for some reason, I hid it away. And once hidden, it stayed so for more than two years.”
Su Yan looked at the two lines inscribed beside the painting, written in the Emperor’s elegant, powerful hand: “The pure lotus loves its clear green, yet cannot bear the touch of lingering rain.”
He recited the couplet softly, then laughed under his breath.
“I know why Your Majesty dared not give it to me then, afraid I’d misread the intent behind it, the way a lustful mind sees only lust.”
The Emperor shook his head.
“You did not misread. Even then, I had feelings for you. It troubled and confused me. I would mock myself for it, try to fill in the lotus pond in my heart, but each time I saw you, I couldn’t help planting a few more. And little by little, they grew and grew… Those were days of turmoil and self-denial, feelings I could scarcely put into words.”
“And yet I never saw it at all…” Su Yan gazed at him, eyes glistening, his voice warm. “In my eyes, Your Majesty has always been calm, composed, above it all.”
“At least in the end, the clouds parted and the moon shone through,” the Emperor said softly. “To spend one night entwined with you surpasses countless mortal unions.”
He leaned forward, plucked the brush from behind Su Yan’s ear, and handed it to him.
“Use this brush to finish the remaining two lines of the poem, will you?”
Su Yan hesitated. “My calligraphy is nothing like Yours, and my poems are worse, just doggerel.”
“At the Qionglin Banquet you once met Du Fu, didn’t you?” The Emperor smiled faintly. “And yet didn’t you also write, ‘In the depths of falling petals, I count the passing years’?”
Su Yan’s face turned red, whether from shame over the crude verse he’d written in his early days after transmigrating, or from embarrassment that the Emperor knew about the love poem he’d once penned for Shen Qi, even he couldn’t tell.
“I’m afraid I’d only spoil it,” he muttered. “A dog’s tail added to a sable coat.”
“Don’t worry, it won’t be seen by anyone else. I’m taking this painting with me into the imperial tomb.”
“Your Majesty!”
“Go on, write,” the Emperor coaxed him gently. “Go on now.”
Su Yan held the brush and pondered for a moment, but inspiration failed him. He looked up at the emperor pitifully.
The emperor reached out and gently touched his face in encouragement.
Seeing the faint exhaustion and weakness on the emperor’s features, the subtle furrows between his brows that deepened as if in pain, Su Yan’s heart clenched in alarm. “Your Majesty, are you unwell again…? Is your head hurting?”
The emperor forced a faint smile and placed a smooth porcelain pillow beneath the paper. “It’s fine. I’m just waiting for you to finish the last two lines.”
Su Yan cast one last worried glance at him, then turned back to the painting. Some words surfaced in his mind; he raised the brush and, with light and flowing strokes, added two lines:
“How could one know the lotus awaits the rain,
All year, it meets but once.”
The emperor gazed at Su Yan’s pale fingertips and softly recited,
“I pity the pure green lotus, unable to bear the night’s lingering rain.
How could one know the lotus awaits the rain,
All year, it meets but once.”
—I pity the lotus for its pure jade-green, afraid it cannot endure the drenching of the long night’s rain. Yet who would have thought, the rain the lotus longs for comes but once a year, just like this fleeting summer soon to end.
Su Yan suddenly tossed the brush from his hand; it clattered past the edge of the bed, knocking the scroll and porcelain pillow down to the floorboards. Then, in one motion, he lifted the brocade quilt, kicked off his boots, and crawled inside.
“You talk about ‘one night joined as husband and wife, surpassing countless couples in the world’, I’ll show you how real couples make love night after night! We won’t be like this, once a year, only once…”
His voice choked as his trembling hands tugged at his belt and robe ties.
The emperor tried to hold him, but his breathing quickened; suddenly, he pressed a hand over his mouth and nose.
“You don’t need to move, I’ll do it myself!” Su Yan sobbed as he straddled the emperor’s waist, bracing himself on both shoulders, only to see dark red blood seeping between the emperor’s fingers.
Biting back his cry, Su Yan gently pried open the emperor’s hand. “It’s fine… it’s fine… I’ll wipe it off, just a little blood…”
He pulled out a handkerchief and carefully wiped away the crimson streaming from the emperor’s nose. Afraid the blood might flow backward, he turned the emperor slightly to the side, blotting and wiping while tears streamed down his face.
“Please… please, let Doctor Yingxu and Ah Zhui try! You stubborn old man, what are you so afraid of, what are you afraid of!”
The bleeding had come fast, and stopped just as quickly. The handkerchief was already soaked through. The emperor took a pillow towel to clean himself, his voice quiet: “I was afraid the one I might never see again would not come. But now that you’re here, what’s left to fear? As for the cutting surgery… no one has yet survived it. There’s no need for me to defy the heavens. To leave this world with a trace of imperial dignity is enough.”
Su Yan could no longer hold back. He buried his face in the emperor’s chest, his tears soaking through the robes. “Why… why!”
Why had it started as something that seemed like simple vascular headaches, yet worsened into this? From the emperor’s symptoms, from Ah Zhui’s account, he could only draw the conclusion he dreaded most, a brain tumor.
The temporary blindness, caused by pressure from the tumor or a blood clot against the optic nerve. The drowsiness, the fainting, also typical signs of a tumor, or even cerebral herniation.
He knew what cerebral herniation was. In his previous life, when he accompanied Professor Liu to a hospital for a brain CT, he had chatted with a patient waiting nearby, an optimistic man with brain cancer.
“I’ve got it right here, deep in the middle, a glioma.” The patient had tapped his head, making a comical face. “You know what’s the worst part about this thing? Not the surgery, not even the high recurrence rate, it’s when it causes brain herniation. You know what that is? Intracranial pressure rises or something, don’t really get the science, but the doctor said it might press on the respiratory or cardiac centers, and then bam, breathing and heartbeat just stop. So one moment I could be eating, watching TV, and the next, snap!” He mimed an overstretched rubber band suddenly breaking.
Su Yan shook his head hard.
The emperor stroked the back of his head. “Don’t cry. Life and death, day and night, they follow nature’s law. Even an emperor is no different from other men.”
“…You’re only thirty-eight! You’re not even halfway through your life, what kind of d*mned ‘natural law’ is that?” Su Yan wept and cursed, clutching the emperor’s robe tightly. “I don’t care! I don’t accept it! I’ll call Doctor Chen and Ah Zhui right now, tie you down, drug you if I have to, but you’re getting that surgery!”
The emperor sighed deeply. When Su Yan tried to pull away, he grasped his sleeve. “Wait a little longer. It won’t make a difference now. Go summon the crown prince. I have words he must hear.”
Seeing the emperor relent, Su Yan took it as agreement. He straightened his robe, wiped his tears, and stepped out of the chamber to give the order.
Moments later, Zhu Helin arrived in haste. Su Yan had wiped his tears clean, but his reddened eyes and nose betrayed him. Zhu Helin’s heart ached; he held Su Yan’s hand, but no words came.
Su Yan led him to the bedchamber, bent to pick up the fallen scroll, porcelain pillow, and brush, setting them carefully back in place.
At the foot of the bed, Zhu Helin suddenly dropped to his knees with a thud. Crawling forward on his knees, he grasped the emperor’s hand resting on the bed’s edge and, through tears, called out: “Royal Father!”
The emperor studied the son he had not seen for some time. He patted his shoulder, nodding slowly. “Tanned, taller, your shoulders are stronger now… Can you bear the weight of the empire?”
Zhu Helin shook his head in panic. “Royal Father, your son is not yet—”
Before he could finish, the emperor’s face hardened. His tone turned stern, disappointed: “Can or not, you must! I’ve shielded you from the wind and rain for seventeen years, do you mean to hide beneath my wings all your life? From the day you went to Nanjing, to the day you returned, how many have labored and bled for you? How many have traveled thousands of miles for your sake? If you dare utter even a single ‘no,’ you’ll have failed every one of those who paved your path with their flesh and blood!”
Zhu Helin froze. Then, as if struck to his core, the confusion and pain in his eyes gave way to resolve and determination.
“Your son… can!” he declared, placing the emperor’s palm on his own forehead, his voice steady as an oath. “Your son will devote himself wholly, and never bring shame upon Your Majesty.”
Only then did the emperor’s expression soften. He rubbed the crown of Zhu Helin’s head gently, as he had when the boy was small. “Seventeen years old now… your hair can be tied up. Wear a full topknot, it’ll make you look more like a man.”
Zhu Helin nodded vigorously.
“The Empress passed away, and afterward, I had three more children with palace consorts, twin princesses and a prince. You’ve always felt uneasy about that, haven’t you?”
Zhu Helin shook his head, hesitated for a moment, then gave a small nod.
The Emperor sighed silently. “I know. Especially after Zhao’er was born, resentment took root in your heart.”
“Your son was only fearful,” Zhu Helin said, his voice low. “Afraid that my own impulsive temper and ingrained flaws would never meet Royal Father’s expectations… and also afraid… afraid that my younger brother, being so clever and lovable, would win Royal Father’s favor away from me. Later, when Royal Father became sterner toward me, I worried I’d fallen from grace. I even feared…” He swallowed the rest of his words, unable to voice them, and bowed his head in shame, his forehead pressing to the bed’s edge, his posture filled with genuine remorse. “Your son was wrong! When I heard the imperial edict in Fengtian Hall that day, I knew I had been utterly mistaken… Royal Father had not yet despised me.”
“Not ‘not yet,’ but ‘never once did.’”
The Emperor looked at the small golden coronet atop his son’s head, crafted from a design he had drawn himself and commissioned for Zhu Helin’s twelfth birthday. His son had loved it deeply, calling it “Royal Father’s painted crown.” Though five years had passed and the crown now fit a little too snugly, Zhu Helin still refused to take it off, such a long-hearted, sentimental child. How had he ever thought his son fickle and capricious, so easily swayed by novelty?
The Emperor couldn’t help a faint, soundless smile. “When you were born, you were full-term, but wrinkled and red from the birthing water, far less comely than Zhao’er. Yet at first sight, I was filled with joy, as though a bowl of warm sweet soup had overturned in my heart. I told your mother, ‘This shall be the Crown Prince of Great Ming. I will teach him well, so that one day he may be a ruler of a prosperous age.’”
“When your mother passed early, I pitied you for losing her and spoiled you for fifteen years. Only when storms gathered overhead did I suddenly realize I could not treat you merely as my son. What you are to inherit is not just my blood, but the empire itself, its mountains and rivers, its countless lives. The time I have to shelter you is limited. I had no choice but to push you, temper you, use harsh demands to forge you again and again, for the sake of this very moment.”
Zhu Helin lifted his head to look at his Royal Father, his eyes red, brimming with tears. In that instant, he finally understood the Emperor’s painstaking intentions:
All the restraint, the waiting, the seeming inaction, had been a calculated patience, a way to lure out treachery and crush it all at once, clearing every obstacle for his succession. The coldness, the rebukes, even the exile, were all the actions of a Royal Father who knew he was dying, forcing his heir to mature, to grow strong enough to shoulder the weight of the realm.
Suppressing the tremor in his voice, Zhu Helin asked the last thorn that had long pricked his heart: “Royal Father… why did you name my younger brother ‘Zhao’?”
That single character, “Zhao,” had always carried the shadow of change and reform, brimming with political meaning. It had been the first bucket of cold water poured upon his proud heart, so cold it had woken him from nightmares for several nights, as though he were being dragged from divine heights down into the dirt.
The Emperor paused, surprised that a name had wounded him so deeply. Perhaps, as between all fathers and sons, no matter how deep their love, some things in their hearts would always move in opposite directions.
Looking at his eldest, the Emperor said, “Because he is the grandson of the Wei family, the son of the woman the Empress Dowager forced upon me. ‘The heart of Sima Zhao is known to all’, I named him ‘Zhao’ as a warning to myself, to never forget the ruin that comes when powerful ministers usurp the throne.”
Zhu Helin’s eyes widened. He suddenly turned sharply toward Su Yan—
He remembered the day of Zhu Hezhao’s birth, in the side hall of the Longde Palace at the East Court. When he had learned his brother’s name, he had gone mad with rage, and it was Qinghe who had cooled him with those very same words.
Back then, the Emperor had barely known Qinghe, he couldn’t have revealed such a private thought. Which meant… they had shared the same understanding, without ever speaking it aloud?
Zhu Helin’s heart twisted strangely. Yet any trace of personal jealousy was now insignificant, crushed entirely by the Emperor’s next words.
“The position of Crown Prince,” the Emperor said evenly, “I have never once considered giving to the Second Prince. Helin, I believe in you. One day, you will be a ruler of your own golden age.”
Zhu Helin buried his face in his Royal Father’s blanket, weeping uncontrollably.
The Emperor patted his shoulder gently. “Enough. One after another, you’re all crying like children… Have the palace attendants summon the ministers waiting outside the courtyard. There is one final matter I must announce.”
Though the phrase “final matter” pierced his heart with dread, the Crown Prince obeyed through his tears.
The foremost figures of the court entered: the Grand Councillors of the Inner Cabinet, the Six Ministries’ heads, the Chief Censor of the Imperial Court, and, of course, the historian of court affairs, the Recorder of Daily Conduct. They all knelt before the Emperor’s bed, faces heavy and solemn.
This time, the Emperor remained lucid for an unusually long while. His spirit was exhausted, yet some fierce resolve burned within him, masking all frailty.
He instructed Lan Xi, “Bring the wine.”
Lan Xi came with a wine pot and poured, only a single cup.
The Emperor motioned for him to set the cup upon the floor before the gathered ministers. “This pot,” he said, “contains wine laced with deadly crane’s-red poison. One sip, and there is no cure.”
The words chilled the air. The ministers exchanged alarmed looks, uncertain of the Emperor’s intent.
Was he about to grant death to one among them, to prevent any from overpowering a young successor and seizing control of the court?
Ignoring their unease, the Emperor continued, “All know that I have trusted Su Qinghe, deeming him virtuous and capable, a man fit to govern a realm. Zhen also knows, the Crown Prince and them have been close friends since youth.”
—Then it can’t be Minister Su, thought the ministers anxiously. Could it be… me?
“When Zhen sits upon the throne, Zhen can allow him free rein to realize his ambitions. But once I am gone, will that same closeness to the new sovereign lead him to wield undue power? To influence the imperial will with his own hand?” The Emperor turned to Su Yan, brows furrowed. “Qinghe, it is not that I doubt your loyalty. But the empire must come first. Zhen cannot hand my son a court where your presence would stand as so great a risk. Moreover… Zhen would truly like you to accompany me to the underworld. Go before me. By my tomb, a place has already been prepared for you.”
Zhu Helin was stunned. “Royal Father, what are you saying?!” he cried out in disbelief.
To be buried in the imperial tomb! For a deceased minister, it was the highest honor, proof of the emperor’s ultimate favor. But for one still alive, it was a road with no return, a glorious death sentence.
The Recorder of Daily Conduct, Linghu, lifted his head in shock.
Later, his account of this “poisoned wine incident” would be passed down in the imperial chronicles for generations—
“When the Emperor lay dying, he summoned his chief ministers to entrust them with the succession. He presented poisoned wine to Su Yan, ordering him to accompany the Emperor in burial. Su Yan’s expression did not change. He firmly refused the Crown Prince’s and the ministers’ pleas for mercy, drank the cup to the last drop, and kowtowed to thank the Emperor’s grace. The Crown Prince wept so bitterly that he fainted, only revived after the imperial physicians treated him with needles. Su Yan lay beside the Emperor’s couch awaiting death, without a trace of resentment, his face calm. Yet after a long while, the poison did not take effect.
The Emperor said, ‘All can see his steadfast composure; I, too, am moved by his loyal heart. Such a true minister and man of the realm must continue to serve the new ruler. When his own years are done, he shall join me in burial.’ Thus he ordered the Crown Prince to take Su Yan as his teacher and to treat him as such for life.”
The ministers, awed and speechless, quietly withdrew from Yangxin Hall, bearing the Emperor’s final instructions and the weighty duty of aiding the new sovereign.
Only Zhu Helin remained furious, pacing the bedchamber in indignation. “Teacher and student? I don’t accept it! Qinghe is, he’s my, my classmate and playmate! How did he suddenly become my teacher? Absurd! He’s only three years older than me, what right does he have to be my teacher?!”
“With my word,” the Emperor replied calmly. “Whether you accept it or not, he is your teacher. ‘A teacher for a day, a Father for life.’ Don’t forget the bonds of propriety.”
The words “bonds of propriety” struck the Crown Prince like a blow to the head. He was so dazed that when attendants came to drag him from the chamber, he forgot even to struggle, his face a storm of disbelief and outrage.
Su Yan could only stare speechlessly at the scene. When the chamber was finally empty again, leaving just the two of them, he let out a long breath. “Your Majesty… what painstaking thought you give to everything.”
“You’re not pleased?” the Emperor asked.
Su Yan said quietly, “It’s not a matter of pleased or not… I just think, Your Majesty needn’t trouble yourself with such elaborate arrangements. You should save your strength for the operation.”
The Emperor leaned back against his cushions, eyes closed, silent.
Su Yan thought he was angry, that his painstaking loyalty had gone unappreciated, even misunderstood. A pang of guilt hit him; it was no time to be stubborn. After a few seconds’ hesitation, he set aside his dignity, shuffled forward, and climbed onto the imperial bed, lying beside the Emperor.
The Emperor still kept his eyes shut and said nothing, but shifted inward slightly, leaving room for him to lie comfortably.
Su Yan smiled faintly, silently, and turned to wrap his arms around the Emperor, resting his face against the other’s chest, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat, gentle, like the ebb of ocean waves.
“Still sulking because I didn’t thank you properly?” Su Yan murmured, his voice soft and teasing, ending with a trace of playfulness. “Fine, when they shave your head later, I promise I won’t laugh at you.”
The Emperor drew a deep breath and slipped an arm around his shoulders. “I’m not angry. Just tired. I’d like to sleep a little.”
Su Yan suddenly tensed and looked up, alarmed. “No! You can’t sleep! What if you don’t wake up again? Wait, let me get someone!”
But the Emperor’s hand pressed his shoulder, holding him still. His voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m truly weary. Let me rest quietly like this awhile. I just want to hear you talk… or sing to me.”
His voice grew weaker, heavy with exhaustion and release, as if a great tortoise, long burdened by the weight of the heavens, was finally setting it down and swimming freely through the eastern seas once more.
Su Yan froze, trembling all over, even his teeth chattering.
The Emperor’s hand gently stroked his back. “You know,” he murmured faintly, “I’ve heard you speak, recite poetry, beat drums, but I’ve never heard you sing. Will you sing something for me?”
Su Yan bit his finger to stop the trembling, then whispered hoarsely, “What… what song would Your Majesty like to hear?”
“Anything,” said the Emperor. “Even a song from your childhood.”
Su Yan’s breathing grew ragged. His eyes blurred with tears, but the quiver in his voice stilled. “All right… then I’ll sing a childhood song,” he said, and tears rolled silently down his face.
He began to hum a soft folk tune in the dialect of Fujian. The Emperor couldn’t understand the words, but listened intently all the same.
When he finished the first round, Su Yan sang it again, this time in the official tongue.
Now the Emperor could hear the lyrics:
“Bright moonlight shines on the pond,
Riding a bamboo horse, I cross Hongtang.
The waters of Hongtang are deep, I cannot wade,
My lady rows a boat to fetch her man.
She asks him long, she asks him short,
She asks when he will return again.”
The Emperor tightened his hold around Su Yan and let out a sigh too deep for words.
Su Yan clutched at the Emperor’s robes, repeating the last line again and again,
“She asks him long, she asks him short,
She asks when he will return again.”
The Emperor murmured faintly, “When will I return… It’s my fault, leaving you waiting in vain, my beloved.”
Outside the chamber, the Grand Eunuch of the Palace Service knelt in silence, tears soaking his sleeves as he bowed.
The familiar melody drifted faintly through the door. Lan Xi felt a sudden urge to join in with his hometown accent, only to realize, with a shock, that after so many years away, he had forgotten how.
On the dragon bed, Su Yan felt the heartbeat beneath his ear grow slower and slower, until it nearly stopped.
“Your Majesty!” he cried, jerking upright.
The Emperor opened his eyes, gazing at him with such intensity, as though trying to memorize his face.
Then, suddenly, he smiled. His eyes shone with a light almost joyous, his complexion flush with color again. He sat up, gripped Su Yan’s hand tightly, and said, “Look, it’s dawn.”
Su Yan, overjoyed by the sudden change, wiped his tears and nodded. “Yes… the fifth watch is nearly past.”
The Emperor seemed ten years younger, still holding Su Yan’s hand. “Come,” he said, “let’s go up to the pavilion and watch the sunrise together.”
Su Yan didn’t want to see the sunrise, he only wished the Emperor would hurry and undergo the operation, before it was too late to save him.
The emperor said, “After we’ve watched the sunrise, whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it.”
“This time you won’t brush me off again, will you?”
“The Son of Heaven’s word is as weighty as nine tripod cauldrons.”
So Su Yan helped him put on his outer robe, and the two ascended the three-story glazed-tile pavilion connected to Yangxin Hall, climbing all the way to the rooftop.
The morning sun rose from the horizon, its rays blazing and magnificent, making the glazed tiles shimmer with dazzling color.
The emperor, like a young man on his first date, sat beside his beloved at the edge of the high platform, hand in hand, overlooking the waking capital below.
The palace and the distant imperial city were gradually illuminated by sunlight, like a bright tidal wave, the light swept over rooftops, alleys, and the early risers beginning their day, turning the whole world radiant and alive.
“How magnificent…” Su Yan couldn’t help but sigh.
The emperor said, “To come here to watch the sunrise is to see not only the sunrise, but the capital at sunrise.”
“Did Your Majesty often come here before?” Su Yan asked.
“In the past, I came alone,” the emperor said. “Today, standing beside you, it feels entirely different.”
“Not just today,” Su Yan replied softly, “but tomorrow, the day after, and all the countless sunrises to come, I’ll watch them all with Your Majesty.”
The emperor smiled silently. “Good,” he said. Then added, “This land is mine, but it is also yours, and it belongs to all under heaven.”
They fell silent.
Suddenly, Su Yan felt a weight on one shoulder, the emperor’s head had gently fallen against it.
He didn’t turn, didn’t cry. He only tried with all his strength to take in this entire splendid, living world before him.
The sun blazed, bathing the empire of Great Ming in the light of a new day.
Su Yan knew that Zhu Jintang was here,
He and the empire, both present.
