Two and a half years—not long, not short.
Long enough for the political landscape at court to be completely overturned, long enough for the Eastern Palace staff to grow from a rough assembly into a well-oiled team, and long enough for the old emperor's hair at his temples to shift from salt-and-pepper to pure white.
The abdication edict came abruptly.
Yet it was hardly unexpected.
When that strip of gleaming yellow silk was sent out from the palace to be proclaimed to the realm, the shock among the courtiers was far less dramatic than anticipated—as if everyone had known that this day would come sooner or later, and was merely waiting for the right moment.
The edict, written in the old emperor's own hand, was terse in wording but unmistakable in meaning: weary with age and governance, and finding the Crown Prince filial and virtuous, he had decided to pass the throne to his son, retire as Grand Emperor, and spend his remaining years in peace.
No preamble, no probing—just the final decision set down in ink.
With a single stroke of the brush, the first voluntary abdication since the founding of the Great Qian dynasty became a settled fact.
Crown Prince Li Chengyu received the edict and immediately submitted a memorial declining the honor.
The memorial was written with impeccable formality, every word sincere, every sentence humble—claiming that he was "of shallow virtue and meager merit, unfit to assume the great seat," and beseeching his father to retract the decree and select another worthy candidate.
When this resignation memorial reached the emperor’s desk, the old sovereign read it once, set it aside, and wrote four characters in reply: "Denied. Draft another."
The second edict came down swiftly.
This time, the wording was heavier than the first—"Heaven's mandate is fixed; the people's hearts have turned to you." The Crown Prince, as the eldest legitimate son, was filial, benevolent, frugal, and respectful, fully worthy of ascending the throne, and must not decline again.
Li Chengyu knelt before the imperial presence, received the edict with both hands, his expression grave.
He kowtowed once more and declined once more.
"Your son is lacking in talent and learning, and fears he would fail Your Majesty's trust. I beg Your Majesty to reconsider."
The old emperor looked at his son kneeling before him, his eyes carrying satisfaction, emotion, and a faint trace of relief that was hard to discern.
"I have already reconsidered," he said. His voice was not loud, but his tone brooked no argument. "Draft the edict."
By the time the third imperial exhortation was issued, the court officials could no longer remain silent.
Left Chancellor Lu Fang and Right Chancellor Du Hui led a joint memorial from the entire bureaucracy, urging the Crown Prince to obey Heaven's will and answer the people's expectations by assuming the throne without delay. The memorials piled high on the imperial desk, every character repeating the same message—Your Highness, please stop declining.
At last, Li Chengyu made no further refusal.
He knelt in front of Qianqing Hall to receive the abdication edict, performed the grand ritual of three kneelings and nine prostrations, and spoke in a calm, restrained voice: "Your son accepts Heaven's mandate with deference, and shall not fail His Majesty's trust."
Deference to Heaven's mandate.
Four words, spoken with perfect balance—neither betraying eagerness, nor seeming insincere.
The Minister of Rites let out a breath he had been holding, wiped the sweat from his brow, and sang out: "The ceremony is concluded—"
Bells and drums rang out together, echoing across the entire imperial city.
Thousands of officials cheered, "Long live the Emperor," the voices rolling in waves across the square before the Meridian Gate, reverberating for a long time.
Seated upon the dragon throne, the old emperor listened to those cries of "Long live," and slowly a smile crept across his lips.
The abdication ceremony was extraordinarily elaborate in its procedures.
From offering sacrifices to Heaven, Earth, the ancestral temple, and the altars of grain and soil, to receiving congratulations at the great hall, proclaiming the edict to the realm, and then receiving the court's homage and hosting the banquet for the ministers—each and every step was governed by strict ritual regulations, with no room for error.
The officials of the Ministry of Rites worked meticulously for two full months, rehearsing each segment countless times, before daring to present it before the throne on that day.
Fortunately, everything went off without a hitch.
No flaw appeared.
When the final procedure was completed, when Li Chengyu took the imperial seal from his father's hands, when that heavy square jade fell into his palm, everyone knew—
The heavens over the Great Qian dynasty had changed.
From this day forth, the Sixth Son would be Sixth Emperor.
And the old emperor, who had sat on the throne for decades, would from now on be the Grand Emperor Emeritus.
The civil and military officials dispersed, each returning to their posts.
The square before the Hall of Heavenly Purity gradually emptied, leaving only a few eunuchs tidying up the ceremonial paraphernalia, their steps light and quick, not daring to make any extraneous sound.
The old emperor stood atop the stone steps, hands clasped behind his back.
He wore plain robes today—no crown, no dragon-embroidered vestments, only a simple dark-colored straight gown. It made him look several years younger than usual, and far more approachable.
Li Chengyu stood at his side, half a step behind.
That was proper etiquette.
Even though the old emperor was no longer the reigning sovereign, in name he remained the Grand Emperor—still the ruler, still the father. Li Chengyu, as the new emperor, could not neglect a single formality.
The old emperor turned his head, glanced at him, and the corner of his mouth curved upward slightly. "Walk with me."
Li Chengyu bowed slightly. "Yes, Father."
The two walked one after the other, slowly, along the palace path toward the imperial garden.
The eunuchs followed at a distance—close enough not to lose sight, far enough not to intrude—like puppets pulled by invisible strings, carefully maintaining the precise distance required.
The old emperor did not walk quickly.
In fact, one might say he strolled.
His steps were brisk, his expression serene, his whole bearing seeming several years younger than in recent days. It was as if some great weight had been lifted from his shoulders; even his spine seemed straighter.
Li Chengyu followed behind him, his gaze resting on his father's retreating figure.
He said nothing.
But he could tell—his father was in exceptionally good spirits.
Not the kind of forced good mood maintained for appearances, but a genuine lightness that seemed to emanate from the very marrow of his bones.
Like a stone that had pressed down for decades had finally been removed from his shoulders, leaving him lighter all over.
The flowers in the imperial garden were in full bloom.
It was late spring—peonies had faded, but peonies-of-the-south were at their peak, vast swaths of pink and white and crimson spreading beneath the setting sun, like a lush, richly colored painting.
The old emperor stopped at the edge of the flower beds. He bent down and gently touched the petal of a peony-of-the-south, his motion as delicate as if he were handling something precious.
"When I was young," he said, his voice not loud, as if talking to himself, "I loved peonies. I thought they bloomed grandly, magnificently, befitting my station."
He straightened up, his gaze drifting over the sea of blossoms, a faint smile at the corner of his lips. "Now, I find the peonies-of-the-south quite lovely as well. They bloom vividly, yet without ostentation. And when they wilt, one doesn't feel a sense of loss."
Li Chengyu stood behind him, saying nothing.
The old emperor turned around and looked at him—a look containing a measure of scrutiny, a measure of satisfaction, and a measure of something unnameable, some unspoken emotion.
"During my years on the throne," he said, his tone flat, not so much summarizing as giving final counsel as a father, "I did much, and I also erred much. Some things, I did not do well enough. You must make up for them in the years to come."
Li Chengyu bowed respectfully. "Father speaks too gravely. Your reign spanned decades of diligent governance. The Great Qian prospered and its people lived in peace. As your son, I can only strive to fulfill my duties with utmost care, daring not the slightest negligence."
Hearing these words, the old emperor's lips curved. He made no comment, merely waved a hand. "Enough with the formalities. I won't say more. From now on, the Great Qian is in your hands."
The words were spoken lightly, as if discussing some mundane household chore.
But to Li Chengyu's ears, they carried the weight of Mount Tai itself.
He drew a deep breath, clasped his hands in salute, and bowed deeply. "Rest assured, Father. Your son will do everything in his power and will not fail the trust you have placed in me."
The old emperor let out a soft chuckle at his solemn display, but said nothing in response.
The two continued walking.
Through the flower groves, around the rockeries, along the pebble-paved path, they made their way deep into the imperial garden until they reached the old locust tree at its farthest end.
The setting sun filtered down through the branches and leaves, stretching their shadows long across the bluestone ground—one in front, one behind—like a pair of silent silhouettes.
The old emperor stopped.
Li Chengyu stopped as well.
All around was quiet, save for the rustle of wind through the treetops and the faint chirping of birds in the distance.
The old emperor suddenly turned around and took half a step forward.
Li Chengyu stiffened slightly.
The distance between them had suddenly grown much closer.
The old emperor leaned in, bringing his mouth close to Li Chengyu's ear, his voice lowered to a whisper—so soft that only the two of them could hear.
"When the opportunity arises, find some excuse to bring Old Ninth back."
Li Chengyu's pupils contracted slightly.
The old emperor did not look at him. His gaze rested on the old locust tree, and his tone remained as flat as ever—but beneath that flatness lay a tenderness that only a father could reveal.
"I am old now." He paused, his voice dropping even lower. "In these final days, I hope to have my children by my side."
Having said this, he did not wait for Li Chengyu's reply. He turned and walked deeper into the imperial garden, hands clasped behind his back.
The setting sun fell upon his shoulders, bathing his retreating figure in a warm, golden glow.
His stride remained brisk, his posture upright and proud, as if the words he had just spoken were nothing more than a casual remark.
But Li Chengyu stood there beneath the old locust tree, watching that figure grow ever more distant, and did not move for a long time.
Old Ninth.
Cheng Lu.
The child who had been sent to the Marquis of Weiyuan's residence—transformed from a Ninth Prince into a young lady of the household.
His father knew.
Or rather—had his father known all along?
Li Chengyu's throat bobbed. An indescribable emotion surged within him. He had believed that matter was hidden well, that his father's lack of inquiry meant a lack of awareness, that the carefully woven excuses and explanations were flawless enough.
But it turned out his father had known everything.
He simply had never spoken of it.
Li Chengyu inhaled deeply and pressed the churning emotions back down into his chest. Facing the fading silhouette in the distance, he offered a solemn bow.
"Your son obeys the imperial decree."
The voice was low, yet every word rang clear.
The old emperor did not turn back. He merely paused for a moment, then continued forward, his figure gradually dissolving into the encroaching twilight.
Li Chengyu straightened up, standing beneath the old locust tree, gazing at the direction where his father had vanished, and was silent for a long time.
The sun sank low. Dusk settled in from all sides.
The flowers in the imperial garden blurred against the afterglow, like a painting soaked in water, all colors bleeding together until one could no longer tell where the blossoms ended and the leaves began.
Li Chengyu withdrew his gaze and turned toward the Hall of Heavenly Purity.
His steps were steady.
His expression was calm.
Nothing about him betrayed any difference.
But in his mind, he was already scheming—how to bring Old Ninth back, under what pretext, and where to place him, all without arousing suspicion.
These matters required careful consideration.
...
Weiyuan Marquis Manor, the House of Peaceful Residence.
Pei Cijing returned from his post.
The setting sun was just right, neither hot nor cold, and the breeze carried the fragrance of flowers, mingled with the warm, sun-baked scent of earth—refreshing and soothing to the spirit.
The moment he stepped into the courtyard, he caught sight of a plump little toddler waddling in circles in the middle of the yard, huffing and puffing.
The child was no more than a year and a half old, dressed in a bright red bib, with a thin short shirt over it, revealing chubby little arms and legs like fresh lotus roots, pale and tender, like a sticky rice dumpling just pulled from water.
He wasn't walking fast.
In fact, one could say he was walking very slowly.
His two short legs wobbled unsteadily, like a little penguin that had just learned to stand. Every step was taken with great care, yet carried a stubborn streak of refusal to give up.
Two steps, then a wobble.
Two more steps, then another wobble.
But he never fell.
A young maidservant stood nearby, watching over him, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on this little treasure. Seeing him wobble dangerously, she quickly stepped forward, bent down, and reached out a hand to steady him.
But the toddler raised one small hand and gently pushed her away.
No big movement.
No great force.
Yet that air of "I can do it myself, I don't need your help" was written plainly across his little face.
Pushed back, the maidservant dared not step forward again, so she retreated half a step, keeping both hands hovering in the air, ready at any moment to catch her young master should he stumble.
Pei Cijing stood beneath the veranda, watching this scene, and a warmth he couldn't quite name suddenly surged in his chest.
This was his offspring.
Independent, self-reliant, never asking for help.
This personality—it was just like him.
Exactly like him!
The corners of his mouth curled up involuntarily, and he stepped down from the veranda, walking toward the little milk bun still wobbling in circles.
The toddler was so focused on wrestling with his own short legs that he didn't notice anyone approaching from behind.
Pei Cijing walked up behind him, bent down, reached out both hands, and scooped up the round little bundle, lifting him high above his head.
"Oho, whose little divine beast is this, so amazing?"
The toddler, suddenly hoisted up, was startled for a moment, then opened his mouth and let out a string of crisp, bubbling giggles.
The laughter was bright and clear, like silver bells swaying in the wind, jingling and clanging, utterly delightful.
His two little legs kicked wildly in the air, his small hands flailing as if trying to catch the clouds above. The setting sun fell upon his fair little face, making his round eyes sparkle like they were filled with shards of gold.
Pei Cijing lifted him even higher, tilting his head up to look at him, and asked with a smile: "Did you miss Daddy?"
The toddler giggled, and in his garbled baby voice, called out: "Daddy—"
The voice was soft, sticky, like freshly steamed rice cake—sweet and clinging, plastering itself to one's heart, impossible to peel off.
Pei Cijing's heart melted in an instant.
He lowered his son, holding him in his arms, one hand supporting the little bottom, the other protecting his back, and pressed his chin against the boy's fuzzy little head, rubbing it gently.
The toddler, tickled by the sensation, laughed again, his tiny hands grabbing at Pei Cijing's collar and tugging hard, as if to say, "Daddy, stop rubbing, it tickles."
The little maid finally snapped back to her senses and hurried forward to bow: "Greetings, young master."
Pei Cijing waved a hand to signal she needn't stand on ceremony, then glanced down at the little one in his arms, and looked up at the sky.
The sun had already sunk more than halfway below the horizon, and dusk was creeping in from all directions.
"Come on, let's go find your mother."
Holding his son, he strode toward the room.
The baby lay against his father's shoulder, tiny hands clutching his collar, quiet and peaceful, only occasionally letting out a few muffled "ahh" sounds, as if whispering secrets to his daddy.
Listening to that soft, sticky voice, the curve of Pei Cijing's lips refused to go down no matter what.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Inside the room, Shen Ninghuan was sitting by the window, brush in hand, writing something. At the sound of footsteps, she looked up and saw two figures, one big and one small, walking in through the twilight.
The last rays of the setting sun spilled in from beyond the door, gilding father and son in a warm gold.
The little one lay on the big one's shoulder, serene and still.
The big one held the little one, steady and sure.
Shen Ninghuan watched the scene, a smile slowly blooming at the corners of her mouth. She set down her brush and rose to her feet.
"You're back?"
Pei Cijing walked over to her, still holding their son, and answered with a smile: "I'm back."
The baby caught sight of his mother, and immediately lifted his face from his father's shoulder, reaching out both little hands toward Shen Ninghuan, babbling: "Mama—Mama—"
Shen Ninghuan took the child into her arms, held him close, and gently pressed a kiss to his forehead. The baby squinted with pleasure, let out two soft giggles, and then nestled quietly in his mother's embrace, burying his little face in the crook of her neck like a kitten that had found its nest.
Pei Cijing stood beside them, watching the tender sight of his wife and son, and that warm surge in his chest welled up again.
He took half a step forward, stretched out his arms, and gathered both wife and child into his embrace.
Shen Ninghuan was momentarily startled, then looked up at him.
Pei Cijing didn't explain. He simply lowered his head and gave her forehead a light peck.
The little dumpling pinned between them squirmed uncomfortably, letting out muffled sounds of protest, his tiny hands pushing against the two of them—as if to say, "Don't just cuddle each other, I'm still here!"
Pei Cijing glanced down at the restless little rascal in his arms, and the corner of his mouth quirked up.
Just as he thought.
Third wheels start from the cradle.
He smiled, and with his wife and son in his arms, stood quietly for a moment in the dusk.
A lamp was lit inside the room, casting a warm, glowing light that wrapped the three of them together. Their shadows fell on the wall—one large, two small—leaning into each other, inseparable.
Outside the window, the last sliver of sunset sank below the horizon.
Night had come.
But inside this room, it was still warm.
