On July 12th, the day of the Yanying Hall meeting, Yan Xiaohan returned to the capital, bringing Fu Shen’s armor and official seal, and went directly to the palace. The hall fell silent, and without a single extra word, he slammed the iron armor onto the table, causing Xue Sheng’s teacup to shatter with a loud clang.
The armor still bore unmistakable bloodstains.
The court officials from the Northern Frontier’s four states burst into tears, while others lowered their eyes or remained silent. Xue Sheng’s face was dark as water, and the Emperor of Changzhi felt uneasy, involuntarily softening his tone: “Yan, you’ve worked hard. Please sit… Someone, bring tea.”
Yuan Zhen, the favored palace eunuch, quickly stepped forward to pour tea for Yan Xiaohan, respectfully saying, “Sir, please.”
Yan Xiaohan swept a cold glance at him, causing Yuan Zhen to shrink back and quickly retreat to the Emperor’s side.
“Jing Guogong has fought for the country for many years, with merits of supporting the state. He should be honored in the Golden Terrace and immortalized in the Qilin Hall,” said the new Minister of Rites, Chen Zhi, trembling.
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“Precisely,” Yan Xiaohan suddenly interjected, “I heard the young Master Fu has not yet inherited his title. A few days ago, he was even missing. Has he been found, Minister Xue?”
Xue Sheng, looking exhausted with heavy dark circles, replied languidly: “How would I know about the Fu family’s affairs? Are you joking, Sir Yan?”
“Even in my grief over Jing Guogong’s death, I wouldn’t joke now,” Yan Xiaohan said coldly. “Minister Xue, do you know what rumors are spreading outside? I must ask: who pushed the court into this storm?”
His words were ambiguous but heavily implied, causing everyone to prick up their ears, anticipating a shocking revelation.
“Go back, I understand,” Yan Xiaohan said, “It’s just a few months. I can still wait.”
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.
This man had once been her lifelong support and destination, but he had also personally destroyed their years of marital affection and sent her only brother to his death.
In the imperial family, there is no father-son, no brotherly, and naturally… no spousal love.
“Creak,” the palace door opened wide, and a gust of wind swept into the warm palace. Fu Ling’s expression changed, and she quickly withdrew her hand as if burned, throwing the cloth into the water basin and standing up, shouting sharply: “Who’s outside?”
“Do not be afraid, Your Highness.”
Yan Xiaohan walked in from the door, bowed to her, and had Yuan Zhen close the door. He walked to the imperial bed and lowered his head to check the Emperor’s condition.
Fu Ling recognized Yan Xiaohan. She knew he had helped her before, but she also hated him for defiling her brother. Feeling guilty, her tone was slightly cold and panicked: “Why are you here?”
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“To help you,” Yan Xiaohan said calmly, “As the Crown Prince’s mother, it’s better not to be tainted with the stigma of regicide.”
Fu Ling was stunned: “You…”
“Has Your Highness forgotten? I have people around you,” Yan Xiaohan lifted the incense burner lid and sprinkled new incense. Then he explained leisurely: “Even without your intervention, the Emperor’s final day is tonight. Let me handle such an infamously disgraceful deed. Don’t dirty your hands.”
His tone and demeanor carried an inexplicably trustworthy feeling. Fu Ling stared blankly at his mourning clothes, simultaneously disbelieving and suddenly understanding, murmuring: “The Emperor’s illness… was all your doing? Was it for… him?”
The Emperor on the bed convulsed, breathing rapidly, making “he-he” phlegm sounds.
“It is for him, but not entirely because of this incident,” Yan Xiaohan smiled, “Hasn’t Your Highness noticed? Since arriving in the capital, the Emperor has never had an heir.”
After the Emperor’s return to the capital, he secretly instructed Yuan Zhen to add medicine to the Emperor’s tea.
People of the time favored tea, and the Emperor especially loved it. Yuan Zhen had gained the Emperor’s favor with his tea-brewing skills. Yan Xiaohan provided a herb similar in shape and smell to tea leaves, toxic and capable of reducing fertility. After drinking this “contraceptive tea” for years, the Emperor indeed produced no royal offspring.
This medicine originally had a cardiotonic effect. Combined with the purple incense Yan Xiaohan just lit, it could easily induce symptoms similar to heart disease. The imperial physicians, unable to detect poisoning, continued to prescribe heart medication, which only worsened his condition. Over time, the illness became increasingly severe, and now it was beyond recovery.
Yan Xiaohan had originally planned to proceed slowly, waiting for the Crown Prince to grow up before letting the Emperor die of heart disease. But he had underestimated the ambitions of Xue Sheng and the Emperor, and hadn’t expected Fu Ya to intervene, pushing the situation to an irreversible point.
“The night is long. I’ll stay and watch. Your Highness should rest. There’s much to do tomorrow,” Yan Xiaohan turned to the silent eunuch by the door, “Yuan Zhen, escort the Empress to the side palace.”
Fu Ling was forcibly “invited” into the side hall.
She lay on the couch fully dressed, her countless thoughts tangling into an unsolvable mess in her mind, until she finally fell into a dazed sleep near dawn.
In a hazy state, a distant bell seemed to sound, and she stepped into emptiness in her dream, her heart skipping a beat as she suddenly awoke.
