The condition was: after getting off the bed and wandering elsewhere, regardless of the bed’s owner or whether she might get pregnant, Wan Zhenyi would always have a gift for them – a potent abortion drug that they must accept and consume without hesitation.
Take it or not, you must take it.
If the fox spirit was weak and the drug caused her unfortunate early death, so be it. What mattered was ensuring the fetus was eliminated to prevent disaster for Wan Zhenyi herself.
Wan Zhenyi sneered: “Compete with me? No way!”
Her servants fawned: “Those little bitches don’t know their place, trying to challenge her.”
Wan Zhenyi angrily said: “I’ll teach them a lesson they won’t forget.”
Some timid servants asked: “What if the Emperor finds out?”
Wan Zhenyi was arrogant: “I’m here, what is there to fear? The Emperor wouldn’t dare touch me.”
The servants bowed: “Your Highness is wise!”
She was truly completely blind.
Wan Zhen’er had already fallen into a half-crazy state, her heart racing and ready to explode. In Wan Zhen’er’s eyes, an indescribable rage flickered, only a gambler who had staked everything could be so angry.
She cursed while throwing things in her palace, smashing everything into a mess, debris scattered everywhere.
“It’s over, it’s over,” flashed through Wan Zhen’er’s mind.
How could it not be over?
All of the Emperor’s concubines, whether passionate or not, who didn’t hate Wan Zhen’er to the bone? She was insidious, venomous, jealous, and cruel. They couldn’t provoke her, nor could they avoid her. Everyone feared Wan Zhen’er and was terrified at the mere mention of her name. In their dreams, they wished to flay her alive, pull out her tendons, drink her blood, and eat her flesh to satisfy their hatred – Wan Zhen’er knew this.
Wan Zhen’er also knew that flowers do not bloom for a hundred days.
Ten years the river flows east, ten years it flows west. As the wheel of fortune turns, it would soon be Wan Zhen’er’s turn to experience being bullied and neglected by the Emperor. Everyone was waiting to see the scene of beating a fallen dog, gleefully thinking: Wan Zhen’er’s luck was about to run out.
The Emperor finally understood that he had fallen into Wan Zhen’er’s trap and misspoke. He hurriedly waved his hand and explained: “My love, my beloved concubine, I didn’t mean that! Don’t, don’t overthink it. I, I really didn’t mean that.”
Wan Zhen’er sighed, tears falling: “This is the truth. I have no hope in this lifetime.”
The Emperor was at a loss when a eunuch rushed in, his face pale: “Your Majesty, something terrible has happened! The Crown Prince has suddenly died from a violent illness.”
The Emperor stood up, his face changing dramatically: “What happened?”
The eunuch choked on his sobs: “He was fine today but suddenly started foaming at the mouth and then passed away.”
A fleeting joy flickered in Wan Zhen’er’s eyes and disappeared. She asked with a concerned expression: “Did the Crown Prince eat something wrong?”
The eunuch continued to kowtow: “This servant doesn’t know.”
The Emperor collapsed into a chair, grief-stricken, tears glistening in his eyes. He couldn’t utter a sound.
Wan Zhen’er walked over and embraced the Emperor, stroking his hair, as if comforting a small child.
She spoke softly: “Your Majesty, you must restrain your grief and not be too sad.”
The Emperor couldn’t help but sob, deeply sorrowful.
Was this predestined? Destined to be childless in this lifetime?
Regarding the Crown Prince’s sudden “violent illness”, people in the palace secretly whispered in private. How could the previously healthy, lively, and adorable young Crown Prince suddenly die so abruptly, with no warning?
Except for the Emperor, everyone knew this was definitely Wan Zhen’er’s doing.
Due to lack of evidence, it was merely speculation. No one dared to speak out or raise suspicions.
The Crown Prince’s mother, Concubine Bai Xian, could only swallow her grief and anger, not daring to speak out.
The Emperor did not pursue the matter, even in his grief. If it was truly Wan Zhen’er who had caused this, what could he do? Without a son, he could still live, but without Wan Zhen’er, his world would be darkness. He would find no reason to continue living. Wan Zhen’er was his everything.
The Emperor only wanted Wan Zhen’er.
No! No! No!
The only thing the Emperor did was to posthumously grant his second son, Zhu Youji, the title of Mourning Gong, to comfort the soul of his not-yet-four-month-old son in heaven.
It was not the Emperor who was anxious about not having a son, but the court officials.
How could the Emperor not have a son? Without a heir, there was no royal succession. Without a royal succession, it was not just the Emperor’s personal matter, but a national issue.
Some officials submitted memorials, arguing that for the preservation of the Zhu surname, the Emperor should spread his seed widely and shower love across the land.
The Emperor was somewhat annoyed.
Whose bed he slept in was none of their business.
The Cabinet Grand Secretary Peng Shi boldly stated: “Currently, there are many concubines in the inner palace, yet no princes have been born. This is likely because Your Majesty favors only one, and though she is showered with grace, she has passed her childbearing years. Please consider the ancestors and the state, and spread your love.”
Peng Shi spoke the truth and made a reasonable argument.
The Emperor couldn’t explode in anger. He just had an iron-blue expression and impatiently said: “This is my personal matter. Do not interfere. I know what to do.”
The officials looked at each other.
Everyone under heaven knew that the Emperor was madly in love with Wan Zhen’er.
I’ve seen infatuation before, but I’ve never seen anyone as infatuated as the Emperor. After meeting Wan Zhen’er, a woman seventeen years his senior, he was captivated for life—a fateful entanglement he would never regret, devoted to her from start to finish.
Many things are perhaps arranged by heaven, beyond one’s control.
Who knows?
Loving someone needs no reason.
Love is simply love.
Wan Zhen’er’s spies were everywhere, and the Emperor’s words quickly reached her ears through her lackeys, who repeated them verbatim. Wan Zhen’er was delighted, beaming with satisfaction. Look, the Emperor has spoken—who could possibly challenge her now?
Wan Zhen’er’s arrogance grew even more unbridled and unbounded.
Wan Zhen’er never imagined that not only had one fish slipped through her net right under her nose, but another would follow—and this fish would leap over the dragon gate.
This escaped fish was initiated by someone surnamed Ji, so unremarkable that she was simply called: Ji Shi.
Ji Shi came from a southern barbarian tribe in Guangxi.
” Not only did they sacrifice themselves, but they also condemned their wives and daughters, forcing them from masters to slaves, sent to the imperial palace to experience the “joy” of servitude—their lives no longer their own, becoming disposable objects, with the most tragic fate of generational slavery.
Ji Shi, once a tribal official’s precious daughter, had now become one of these unfortunate souls.
Ji Shi was naturally beautiful, an unprocessed beauty: large, bright eyes, a gentle gaze, white and delicate teeth, translucent skin, and a smile so beautiful it defied reason. She was universally adored. Queen Wang spotted her immediately during servant selection—young, intelligent, quick-witted, and nimble.
Queen Wang loved her.
Ironically, although Queen Wang was the Emperor’s legitimate wife, the official empress of the three thousand beauties in the inner court, in reality, she and her husband were completely disconnected. They barely saw each other throughout the year, let alone share any intimate moments. She was essentially a figurehead.
