The palace corridor stretched long, its vermilion walls reflecting a heavy, dark crimson in the twilight.
The rain-soaked bluestone ground was still damp, mirroring the faint glow of the palace lanterns just lit — flickering on and off, like scattered shards of gold leaf.
Li Chengyu walked ahead, his pace neither fast nor slow, each step placed steadily and firmly. The hem of his dark brocade robes swayed gently in the night breeze, carrying an unhurried composure.
Li Chengyan followed behind, half a step lagging.
That half step.
It was not the distance dictated by rank and propriety.
Rather, it was deliberate — as if he did not wish to walk shoulder to shoulder with the man ahead. As if something weighed on his mind, and his steps had unconsciously grown heavier.
Li Chengyu did not look back.
The Emperor's words earlier today weighed heavily on everyone's hearts.
Two princes sent together to oversee disaster relief — whoever performed better, whoever performed worse, all the court officials were watching, and so were the affected commoners.
This was no longer like the spring examinations, where they competed quietly over who recommended more talented candidates.
Disaster relief was different.
These were tangible achievements — visible, measurable.
Refugees properly sheltered, floods contained, plague prevented, relief grain delivered to the mouths of the people without a single grain missing — accomplish these things, and the court officials would see it, the people would remember it, and the Emperor would be marking every detail.
The people's hearts.
The officials' hearts.
The Emperor's heart.
Succeed in disaster relief, and all three were won at once — it was paving the road to that supreme position, and paving it in the most solid, most honorable way possible.
Li Chengyu understood this very clearly, so from the moment he left the imperial study, he had already begun planning.
He did not immediately head to the Grand Secretariat to oversee the deployment of supplies. He Jian of the Ministry of Revenue was a steady, experienced man — since he had pledged in the Emperor's presence, he would not slip up on such matters.
Nor did he need to personally push the Three Thousand Battalion; with the Emperor's oral edict delivered, those men would be more eager than anyone, for escorting relief grain was a prime opportunity for merit.
The Great Qian dynasty had enjoyed prolonged peace, and military men rarely got chances to distinguish themselves.
He needed to go to Kunning Palace.
To pay his respects to the Empress.
First, to seek guidance, to seek support.
The Empress had governed the inner palace for many years. Though she held no authority over the outer court, behind her stood the Duke of Qin's estate — its connections, its informants, its invisible reserves of resources and channels — none of which could be underestimated.
Disaster relief was a tangled web.
Manpower, funds, grain, materials, coordination — every single item was needed in abundance, and every single one could get stuck at some bottleneck. If he could borrow some strength from the Empress — even just a few more connections, a few more letters of introduction — it would give him more confidence in the relief efforts.
This was his advantage, and he was no fool; he would not leave it unused.
Second, he wanted to bid the Empress farewell.
Yunyang Commandery lay over eight hundred li from the capital. Even at full gallop, it would take days to reach. This relief mission would take at least a month or two. As a son, reporting his whereabouts and offering a word of safety before departure was filial duty.
Lost in thought, Li Chengyu's mind unconsciously drifted toward the silent figure behind him.
He tilted his head slightly.
His peripheral vision swept over Li Chengyan.
The lantern light fell across Li Chengyan's face, outlining his still-youthful features with clarity. Those eyes, ordinarily sharp and aggressive, were now unusually unfocused.
Not the dazed look of exhaustion — more that absent-minded air of a man with something heavy on his mind, his thoughts somewhere far away.
Li Chengyu's brow twitched almost imperceptibly.
As princes of similar age, he and Li Chengyan had no shortage of contact.
Before the crown prince's attempted coup, he had thought his brother somewhat reckless — hot-blooded, young, wearing his emotions on his sleeve. Though not without cunning, Li Chengyan had never seemed a real threat.
But events had proven otherwise.
He had underestimated this younger brother.
The crown prince, with an intricately planned palace rebellion and his own downfall, had paved a golden road for Li Chengyan to ascend to the position of heir apparent. Such sacrifice could not be explained by ordinary brotherly affection.
Since then, Li Chengyu had never again let his guard down around him.
By Li Chengyan's usual temperament, with the Emperor handing down such a major task as disaster relief and sending the both of them together — this was clearly another test, another stage for rivalry.
Li Chengyan should have been excited.
He should have been rubbing his hands in anticipation, sworn to victory, perhaps even walked up to Li Chengyu and, with a tone of feigned carelessness laced with hidden provocation, said something like, "Sixth Brother, this time let's each prove our own worth."
That was the Li Chengyan he remembered.
But tonight...
Li Chengyan was too quiet. Too unlike himself.
Since leaving the imperial study, he had spoken only a few bland pleasantries, his tone perfunctory, as if going through the motions. When Li Chengyu had slowed his pace earlier to wait for him, the younger prince had made no move to catch up. He simply trudged along behind, head down, like a quail soaked by the rain.
Li Chengyu's unease thickened in the silence. Yunyang Commandery fell under the jurisdiction of the Northern River Provincial Administration Commission — and who was the provincial commissioner?
Sun Youde.
And who was Sun Youde?
The biological father of Li Chengyan's consort mother, Consort Sun. Nominally, Li Chengyu's own maternal grandfather.
Last year, the Ministry of Works had allocated a hundred thousand taels for river engineering, and the Northern River region had been responsible for its own oversight and construction. Now the embankment had collapsed, the funds had been tampered with — could the Northern River provincial commissioner escape blame?
If Sun Youde was corrupt, how could Li Chengyan remain untarnished? His distracted, listless demeanor — could it be that the embezzlement truly involved them?
If he had a clear conscience, why act this way?
Li Chengyu's suspicions deepened.
But his expression remained unchanged.
Still that steady, unhurried bearing. He stopped, turned, and looked at Li Chengyan, his tone carrying just the right amount of brotherly concern, along with a trace of subtle inquiry.
"Eighth Brother, prepare well tonight. Disaster relief is no small matter — the Emperor is watching all of us."
That tone, that demeanor — clearly meant as guidance, as care, as the duty of an elder brother. But to Li Chengyan's ears, every word grated.
Li Chengyan raised his eyes, meeting Li Chengyu's gaze.
There was irritation in that look.
Guardedness.
And a seething anger barely held in check, unwilling to be seen through.
He let out a cold snort before speaking, his voice lower and colder than usual: "Sixth Brother, worry about yourself. My affairs are none of your business."
With that, he did not wait for a reply. He spun around abruptly, his robes slicing a sharp arc through the damp post-rain air, and strode off in another direction.
His steps were quick and urgent, splashing fine droplets of water across the wet bluestone — as if fleeing something, or as if avoiding something.
Li Chengyu stood in the palace corridor.
He watched Li Chengyan's retreating figure grow smaller and smaller, vanishing at last into the twilight at the corridor's end. The light in his deep, still eyes flickered.
The night breeze swept past, lifting a corner of his dark brocade robe.
He withdrew his gaze.
Turned and continued toward Kunning Palace...
...
The candlelight in Shuiyun Palace was dimly muted in the rainy night.
This palace, situated in the northwest corner of the imperial compound, stood far from the imperial garden — and farther still from the Hall of Heavenly Purity.
The vermilion paint on the palace walls had already begun to peel in places, and the corners were overrun with rain-soaked vines, swaying gently in the wind like countless beckoning hands.
Consort Sun was already preparing for bed.
She wore a plain sleeping robe with a simple white outer garment, her long hair loose over her shoulders. She sat before her dressing table, facing the bronze mirror, removing the last hairpin from her hair.
The woman in the mirror.
Gentle features.
Yet unable to hide the fine lines at the corners of her eyes.
Those were the marks left by time, and also the traces of all the unspeakable bitterness of the harem over the years, carved one by one into her skin.
Her hand paused slightly.
In the bronze mirror, the half-open window behind her was reflected, outside which lay the pitch-black night. Rain was blown in by the wind, striking the windowsill with a faint pattering sound.
“Your Ladyship.” A low voice came from outside the door, that of a palace maid. “The Eighth Prince requests an audience.”
Consort Sun snapped back to reality, her fingers trembling, and the hairpin slipped from her grasp, rolling a few times across the dressing table with a crisp, light clatter.
Chengyan?
Why would the boy come at such a late hour?
Her heart sank slightly.
Since the boy had grown up, he rarely came to Shuiyun Palace of his own accord. Every time he came, it was either to ask something of her or because he had something weighing on his mind, and most of the time, it was nothing good.
She rose, gathered her outer garment, tied the sash, smoothed her collar, and examined herself in the mirror for a moment to confirm that nothing was amiss, before saying, “Let him in.”
Li Chengyan pushed the door open.
He was still wearing the indigo brocade robe he had donned for the council in the imperial study, but the spirited vigor between his brows was now veiled by a faint shadow.
Like a sharp blade that had suddenly been nicked by something, leaving a tiny notch.
He walked over and stood before Consort Sun.
Clasping his hands in his fist.
Bowing slightly.
The gesture of respect was still proper, yet there was little reverence in his bearing—it was more like someone going through the motions, completing a task he had no choice but to finish.
“Consort Mother.”
Consort Sun looked at him, silent for a moment, then raised her hand and said to the maids beside her, “Leave us.”
The maids obeyed and withdrew, and the door of the hall was gently closed, shutting out the patter of rain and sealing the two of them in a dim and oppressive silence.
“Speak, then. What is it?” Consort Sun said, her voice carrying a hint of barely perceptible weariness. She looked at her son, her gaze complicated—maternal love, helplessness, and a deep, well-hidden ache.
Li Chengyan did not sit down. He stood where he was, head slightly lowered, as if organizing his thoughts, or as if steeling himself for something.
“Consort Mother, there’s been a flood in Yunyang. I’m leaving tomorrow to relieve the disaster.”
Consort Sun was taken aback.
Yunyang—wasn’t that in the Beihe region? Why would a relief mission be assigned to her son? Was it the Emperor’s intent?
She looked at Li Chengyan’s face, etched with troubled thoughts, and suddenly understood. This errand, more than likely, was to be undertaken together with the Sixth Prince. Another trial. Another contest.
She was silent for a long time.
The candle flame danced gently in its holder, casting the shadows of mother and son on the wall, stretching them now long, now short.
“Must you fight for that position?” she said at last, her voice very soft, as if afraid of being overheard beyond the walls, or as if afraid of waking something that should never be awakened. “Can you not just give it up?”
She paused, took half a step forward, and fixed her eyes on Li Chengyan’s face. That gaze held entreaty, heartache, and a fear she dared not even acknowledge to herself.
“You were never the rightful heir to begin with, and now with such matters arising…”
Before she could finish, Li Chengyan lifted his head abruptly.
“I’m here to inform you, that’s all,” he cut her off, his tone impatient, as if holding something back, or as if resisting something. “At this point, how could I possibly not fight? And on what grounds should I not?”
On what grounds should he not.
These words landed with tremendous weight, like a stone thrown into a stagnant pool, its ripples spreading outward, one circle after another, through the dim hall.
Consort Sun opened her mouth to speak, but found her throat dry, and no words would come.
Li Chengyan looked at her, at her hesitant, pained expression, and let out a silent laugh somewhere inside himself—a laugh laced with too many things: resentment, rage, humiliation, and a shame carved into his very bones, trampled upon by others.
The crown prince, Li Chengqian!
That man, through a meticulously orchestrated palace coup, through his own fall, had thrust him onto the stage. From an overlooked Eighth Prince, he had become the loyal son and filial minister in everyone’s eyes, one of the strongest contenders for the position of heir.
If he had never learned the truth of his own birth, perhaps he truly would have been content as a wealthy, idle prince.
Just as his Consort Mother wished—living a stable life, not fighting, not striving, not wading into the bloody intrigues of the court.
But he already knew.
That man had paved a path for him with his own life.
Even if the end of that road was a cliff, even if his odds were less than six in ten, he had to walk it. Why, after the crown prince’s death, should the position rightfully fall to the legitimate-born Li Chengyu?
No!
Now that he stood on this stage, now that he had been pushed into the spotlight, why shouldn’t he fight? Why shouldn’t he claim the highest seat?
The atmosphere in the hall seemed to freeze into ice.
Mother and son stood less than three feet apart, eyes locked, yet they might as well have been separated by an invisible chasm. Neither spoke. Only the candle flame made its faint crackling sounds in the holder, one after another, as if tolling the death knell of the silence.
After what felt like an eternity, Li Chengyan took a deep breath, forced the surging emotions back down, and his tone softened somewhat, but remained firm with a will that brooked no argument.
“The Yunyang public funds affair does have some connection to us, but so what? Did we force anyone to be corrupt? We merely conducted legitimate business.”
He paused, and the sharpness in his eyes grew. “However, to be safe, I’ll make sure everything is cleaned up. Does Consort Mother have any message she wishes to send to Grandfather? You could write a letter, and I’ll bring it with me on this trip.”
Consort Sun watched her son, watched that familiar yet unfamiliar ruthlessness between his brows, and felt as if a handful of crushed ice had been rubbed into her chest—cold and painful, yet she could find no words to stop him.
He had grown up.
At some point, he had stopped consulting her about matters. Like tonight—he had not come to ask for her opinion, but to inform her of his decision.
And whether that was good or bad, she truly could not tell.
She suddenly recalled events from many years ago.
Back then, she had just entered the palace, of the lowest rank, residing in the most remote courtyard.
One night after a banquet, the crown prince, Li Chengqian, had wandered to the wrong place, and in the darkness, what should not have happened happened. What was even more unforeseen was that after just one time, she had become pregnant!
Fortunately, the crown prince was crafty.
He kept everything concealed without a single leak.
To simply be alive had been more than she had dared to hope for. She had never expected anything more. Yet now, Li Chengyan’s ambitions had been ignited.
A person who was inherently meant to remain in the shadows,
yet insisted on stepping into the light.
Consort Sun's thoughts churned a thousand times, but in the end, she said nothing—because some things were not hers to decide. All she could do was write a letter reporting that she was safe, and have him carry it to Beihe.
She turned, walked to the writing desk, spread out a sheet of letter paper, and lifted the brush.
The words in the letter were gentle and proper—nothing more than a daughter's concern for her father at home, a word that all was well in the palace, and a plea for him to take care of his health.
She did not mention anything else in the letter. Not a single word.
After writing the last character, she set down the brush, folded the paper neatly, slipped it into an envelope, and wrote a few upright characters on the envelope—For Father's Personal Reading.
Then she turned and handed it to Li Chengyan.
"Deliver this to your maternal grandfather for me."
Li Chengyan took the letter. His movements paused for a moment, then he gave a slight nod. He tucked the letter close to his chest, said nothing more, and simply bowed once again.
Then he turned.
And strode out with long steps.
The hall door closed behind him with a dull, muffled thud.
Consort Sun gazed at the shut door. The candle flame burned quietly in its lamp, casting her lonely shadow against the wall—still and unmoving.
She stood for a while.
Then turned.
Step by step, she walked back to the vanity table.
She looked at herself in the bronze mirror, and a sudden restlessness rose in her heart. She flipped the mirror face-down on the table. Another long silence. At last, she let out a long, lingering sigh.
