After that, the Emperor’s heart condition showed no signs of improvement. The planned September trip to the south of the Yangtze River was canceled, and as winter approached, his condition became increasingly severe. Initially, he could occasionally appear at court meetings, but after October, he was completely bedridden. The imperial physicians kept silent, only reporting good news and suppressing bad news. Despite this, some well-informed people had learned through various channels that the Emperor was likely not doing well and were secretly preparing.
On the fifth day of the eleventh month of the fourth year of Changzhi’s reign, the first snow of winter fell in the capital.
In the dead of night, a man in a cloak and wind cap knocked on the side gate of the Yan residence, whispering to the butler: “Please have your master come out immediately and go to the palace. Gonggong Yuan has sent a message that something is wrong.”
A small carriage stopped outside the Zhangxuan Gate, and a man in white walked down, where Yuan Zhen was waiting, hurriedly calling a young eunuch to hold an umbrella: “My lord, you’ve finally arrived. Hurry, or it will be too late…”
“What’s the rush,” a snowflake landed on his eyelashes and melted into a small droplet. Yan Xiaohan walked slowly towards the palace, casually saying, “Dying at whose hands is still dying. It’s just a matter of time.”
Inside the Yangxin Palace, candlelight flickered.
The Emperor, who had suffered for months, was now reduced to skin and bones, barely able to hold up the blanket. His face was as white as paper, his lips turning dark, his breathing almost inaudible, his eye sockets deeply sunken. Not a trace remained of his once elegant and handsome appearance.
Fu Ling wiped his face meticulously with a damp cloth. Her gaze lingered on the Emperor’s forehead and nose, counting his faint breaths.
Her fingers gripping the cloth involuntarily tightened, as if clutching an emerging dangerous thought.
He looked like he could stop breathing at any moment, his throat fragile enough to snap with a slight squeeze.
Fu Ling’s wrist trembled, almost unable to hold the cloth. Yet, as if guided by an invisible string, she fearfully and persistently moved the wet cloth towards the Emperor’s mouth and nose.
