Within the imperial study, the smoke from the dragon-bone incense rose in curling wisps.
The smoke was exceedingly thin and faint, at first retaining its shape, strand after strand intertwining, only to dissipate as it rose midway, veiling the entire hall in a hazy dream. The bright yellow curtains, dampened by the smoke, appeared from a distance as if seen through a thin layer of mist.
The charcoal fire in the incense burner blazed brightly.
Occasionally, a faint “crackle” sounded, and in this silence—heavy as if frozen solid—it struck with unusual clarity, like a tap at the ear, or like something shattering silently.
Hua Yuan knelt prostrate on the floor.
His forehead nearly pressed against the icy golden bricks, not daring to move.
He had held this position for a long time now.
So long that his knees had gone numb, so long that the sweat soaking his underrobe clung to his skin, sticky and uncomfortable, like a cold, damp snake coiled upon his back.
Yet he dared not move.
He dared not even let his breathing be heard.
Behind the imperial desk, the aging emperor sat upon the dragon throne, clutching a memorial in his hand, but his gaze was fixed on some distant spot in the void, turning no pages for what seemed an eternity.
Silence.
A deathly silence.
Hua Yuan could only feel a chill at the back of his neck, as if an invisible blade were suspended there—not yet fallen, but the lingering terror of that imminent descent was more suffocating than the blade itself.
Inwardly, he let out a silent sigh.
This profession of imperial physician—
Truly a walk on the edge of a knife.
Yet on his face, he revealed not a trace. He only lowered his posture further, pressed himself tighter, wishing he could shrink into a speck of dust, invisible to all.
Again, a long while passed.
So long that Hua Yuan almost believed the emperor had forgotten he still knelt there—until a voice finally came from above.
“Hua Yuan.”
The voice was neither high nor low, revealing neither joy nor anger, like a pool of dead water, calm enough to make one’s hair stand on end.
Hua Yuan shuddered, hastily knocking his head to the floor: “Your servant is here.”
His forehead struck the golden bricks with a dull thud.
“You have already examined the Crown Prince’s remains,” the emperor said. His voice paused briefly, as if weighing his words, or as if suppressing some emotion.
A moment later, he continued: “You say he suddenly coughed blood and died because his time was already short, and it was the result of emotional turmoil?”
The words came very slowly.
Each character seemed squeezed out between clenched teeth, falling one by one to the ground, weighing heavily on the heart.
Hua Yuan kept his head down, not daring to lift his eyes to see the emperor’s expression. He replied in a respectful tone: “In answer to Your Majesty, it is indeed so.”
As his voice faded, the imperial study fell silent once more.
So silent that one could hear the faint crackling of the dragon-bone incense as it burned, the footsteps of patrolling guards on the palace paths far beyond the window, and the sound of his own heartbeat—dum, dum, dum—each beat heavier and faster than the last, like someone drumming inside his chest.
Hua Yuan held his breath, waiting for the emperor to question him further.
Sure enough.
After a moment, the emperor spoke again.
His voice still gave no hint of emotion, but now it carried a trace more inquiry, like a fine needle pricking in: “Why would the Crown Prince have so little time left? Had he contracted some terminal illness?”
The words were spoken very lightly.
So lightly they seemed like a mutter to himself, like words meant only for his own ears.
But Hua Yuan knew very well that this was no mutter—the old emperor was asking him.
He took a deep breath, forcing down the surging tension, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible: “Your Majesty, I have carefully examined the Crown Prince’s pulse records and personally inspected his remains. Based on my observations, the Crown Prince did not suffer from any terminal illness.”
He paused.
It seemed he was weighing his words.
Some things, said too lightly, would not do; said too heavily, would also not do. They had to be just right—so that His Majesty would grasp the meaning on his own.
“Then what was it?” The old emperor’s voice lifted slightly, carrying a note of confusion and a trace of urgency.
Hua Yuan bit his lip and spoke the answer he had revised countless times: “In my humble opinion, the Crown Prince had long been overworked, his mind and body exhausted, causing a severe depletion of his vital energy and damage to his internal organs. Last night at the palace banquet, his emotions surged violently, and this caused his qi and blood to collapse—thus—”
He did not finish the sentence.
He did not need to.
Some words, left only half-spoken, allowed His Majesty to reach his own conclusions—far better than any outright explanation.
The imperial study fell silent for a long time.
So long that Hua Yuan felt his own heartbeat was loud enough to be heard throughout the room, so long that the chill from the golden bricks seemed to seep into his very bones.
The old emperor made no sound.
Hua Yuan dared not look up; he could only judge the emperor’s actions by sound—the rustle of a memorial being set down, the clink of a teacup lifted and then replaced, the faint creak of a chair shifting.
Then.
He heard an extremely soft sigh.
That sigh was so light it was almost inaudible, yet in this silent hall, it fell like a stone dropped into a deep pond, sending ripples spreading in rings, circling outward, lingering long after.
“Worn out?”
The old emperor murmured to himself, his voice filled with disbelief, yet also with a hint of dawning realization.
When those two words left his lips, his gaze grew distant, as if recalling something long past, or as if confirming a fact he had never truly considered.
Hua Yuan dared not respond. He lay prostrate, utterly still.
Even his breathing was kept shallow and slow.
The old emperor did not question him further; he seemed to have forgotten that his subject still knelt there.
His eyes fixed on some void in the distance, his expression profound and complex, as if remembering some remote matter, or as if reevaluating a person he had once believed he knew.
He had ascended the throne when he was only in his twenties, still in his prime.
His father, the late emperor, had passed away in the thirteenth year of his reign. He himself had been Crown Prince for less than four years.
Four years—compared to thirty-six.
That gap was enormous.
So enormous that he had never truly grasped what it meant to be “Crown Prince for thirty-six years.” One cannot understand what one has never experienced.
Now, in retrospect, the Crown Prince’s life had indeed been far from easy.
After the Prince came of age, the emperor, to train him, began gradually handing over some of the less important state affairs. At first, they were trivial matters—repairing palaces, resettling refugees, reviewing minor cases.
The Crown Prince handled everything excellently.
Each task was completed immaculately, every detail considered exhaustively. His reviews of memorials were clear and orderly, his audiences with officials were proper and measured. He never made mistakes, never overstepped.
The emperor was satisfied.
So he started delegating more and more state affairs to the Crown Prince.
From the unimportant, to the rather important, and then to the matters of utmost importance; from a few items, to a dozen or more, and then to nearly all decisions; from occasional, to frequent, and then to almost every instance.
He could no longer remember which year it had started.
On the imperial court, seven or eight out of every ten memorials were reviewed and approved by the Crown Prince. Those thorny issues, those tangled disputes, those affairs of state that demanded immense effort and care—the Crown Prince bore them all.
And what about him, the Emperor?
All he had to do was give the final approval.
He had extricated himself from the complex web of governance, gaining vast stretches of time to do as he pleased—stroll through the rear gardens admiring the flowers, walk his birds in the imperial park, compose poems and flirt with his young and beautiful consorts, indulging in romance and pleasure.
He had thoroughly enjoyed those days.
Carefree, at ease, unfettered, and joyful—this was truly how an emperor should live, he thought.
He had believed it was normal, even considering himself a wise sovereign who knew how to delegate authority and train his heir. As for the Crown Prince, some hardship was only right—if he did not become familiar with state affairs before ascending the throne, wouldn't he be flustered and chaotic when he finally took over everything?
But now, looking back...
Although the Crown Prince was the heir apparent, he had never actually sat upon that dragon throne. He was not the true sovereign, and so his actions were far more constrained than a real ruler's.
He had to satisfy his father, the Emperor, never daring to slack off; he had to earn the respect of the court officials, never bold enough to make the slightest mistake; and he had to guard against those brothers who coveted his position, never allowing himself a moment's relaxation.
Above and below, inside and out—everything had to be handled perfectly.
Comprehensive in every way, leaving no loopholes.
All these years.
The Crown Prince had always done it exceptionally well.
So well that the Emperor could find no fault with him, so well that everyone took it for granted that the Crown Prince was supposed to be like that.
But behind that word "well," how many sleepless nights were there? How many moments of exhaustive deliberation? How many times had his heart and mind been drained to the point of collapse?
The old emperor's gaze faltered slightly.
He recalled that in the last few years, the Crown Prince's temples had become grayer than his own.
When had those white hairs begun to appear?
He could no longer remember.
All he knew was that every time he saw the Crown Prince, his temples had turned a little whiter than the time before, and the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes had grown a little deeper. His whole being seemed as if something were slowly draining him, bit by bit.
But he had never taken it to heart.
He had simply thought it was natural aging—a matter of common human experience, a trial that the Crown Prince was meant to endure.
Now, in retrospect...
It was exhaustion.
It was depletion.
The old emperor let out a long sigh.
That sigh carried within it too many things too complex to articulate. He glanced at Hua Yuan, who was still kneeling on the floor, and suddenly waved his hand in an impatient gesture, as if shooing away a trivial, bothersome insect: "I have heard you. You may withdraw."
Hua Yuan felt an immense relief, almost collapsing to the ground.
"Your servant takes his leave."
He rose, head bowed and back hunched, retreating step by step.
Each step was steady and slow, without the slightest sign of panic or any extraneous sound—as if an army of thousands were watching his every move.
Only when he reached the doorway did he turn and hurry out.
Once past the threshold of the imperial study, Hua Yuan finally exhaled a long breath.
As he breathed out, his legs went weak, as though all the bones had been pulled from his body. His undergarments were soaked through with cold sweat, clinging to his skin.
A wind blew.
It was chillingly cold.
The chill crept from his spine straight down to the depths of his heart.
Hua Yuan leaned against the pillar of the corridor for a long while before he felt as though he had come back to life.
He looked up at the sky.
The sky was blue, the clouds were white, and the sunlight was warm.
Everything was just as it had been when he arrived.
But he felt as though he had aged several years.
“Sigh—”
He let out a silent wail in his heart.
This profession as an imperial physician was getting harder and harder to bear.
The Hua family had served every generation in the Imperial Medical Academy since the time of the Great Dry Founder Emperor, attending to countless emperors over the ages. What storms hadn’t they weathered?
But this reign—this one was the hardest to serve!
First, there was the Ninth Prince’s condition of external male and internal female imbalance. Now, the Crown Prince had died in a failed coup.
One crisis after another.
Every single one was a matter of life and death requiring the sort of loyalty no one could shrink from.
And yet, he could not run, could not hide. He had to serve as an imperial physician whether he wanted to or not—the Hua family’s reputation in medicine was too great. The imperial decree summoned him directly by drafting him into service; how could he defy such an order?
Hua Yuan gave a bitter laugh, dragging his trembling legs step by step back toward the Imperial Medical Academy.
He needed to get back and drink a good bowl of calming soup.
To steady his nerves.
...
Inside the Imperial Study.
After Hua Yuan withdrew, the old emperor sat alone for a long time.
The smoke from the dragon’s-sandalwood incense still rose in curling wisps.
Everything was just as before.
But the old emperor felt as though the room had become much emptier. Even the incense smoke seemed lonely, drifting aimlessly back and forth through the hall, unable to find a place to settle, and finally dissipating into nothingness.
He finally picked up his brush.
It was time to make the final judgment on the Crown Prince’s matter.
The tip of the brush was dipped in cinnabar, a deep poisonous red. As he set down the first stroke on the memorial, the old emperor’s hand paused for a moment.
The red of the cinnabar was dazzling.
Like blood.
He wrote word by word—
“During the palace banquet, ruffians caused a disturbance, alarming the imperial presence. The Crown Prince, Li Chengqian, suffered from excessive shock, his old illness returned, and he has died.”
He finished writing.
The old emperor set down his brush, staring at those lines for a long, silent moment.
The sunlight streaming through the ornate lattice window cast dappled shadows across the memorial scroll. The character ‘died’ was half-hidden in shadow, faint and vague, as though it might vanish at any moment.
Some truths need not be written on paper.
The Crown Prince had nothing to do with this matter.
The Crown Prince died of illness.
That was the answer he would give to the world.
As for the Crown Prince’s household—they were to move out of the Eastern Palace, reduced in rank to common imperial clan members.
Part of it was for the sake of the bond between father and son.
The Crown Prince was, after all, his son, whom he had raised for thirty-six years. Even if he had committed a grave crime, the man was already dead. For the sake of his descendants, the emperor did not want to bring about total extermination.
To spare a life, to provide a bowl of rice—this was the last shred of mercy he, as a father, could offer.
The other part was for the dignity of the imperial family.
A father killing his son—even among the common people, this would be an enormous scandal. Among the imperial family, it would be an even greater joke. If word got out that the Crown Prince had failed in rebellion, where would the majesty of the imperial family lie? What would become of the court’s honor? And how would future histories record it?
The Crown Prince was already dead. Let this matter be covered up as best it could.
The old emperor turned over the page he had written and began to deal with the matters that followed.
Those who deserved punishment must be judged.
The Crown Prince’s trusted followers, the rebels involved in the coup, the traitors who took his bribes and fought for him—not one could be spared. Kill the chicken to scare the monkey, make an example to warn others. Let everyone witness what the price would be for betraying the Emperor.
As for those who deserved rewards, he would not be stingy.
Those who fought desperately to protect the emperor, those who charged the enemy with valor, those who rendered meritorious service in this palace coup—all must be richly rewarded. Only with clear rewards and punishments will the court officials remain unwaveringly loyal and know whom to follow for a taste of the spoils.
The old emperor picked up his brush and began to draft the list of commendations.
He wrote smoothly.
A name, a reward, a word of praise—fluid and effortless, as if guided by a singular stroke of inspiration.
Until—
He reached the name of the Eighth Prince, Li Chengqian.
The tip of the brush hovered over the paper, reluctant to descend.
The old emperor gazed at that name, silent for a long time.
On the night of the coup, the Eighth Prince had appeared at the most critical moment, pressing his sword against the crown prince’s neck, forcing the crown prince’s men to stand down. At that time, the old emperor himself would have already been captured by the crown prince.
He was the hero who saved the emperor.
The champion who rescued the realm from the brink of collapse.
In everyone’s eyes, he was a loyal son and a devoted subject.
But…
A faint flicker passed through the old emperor’s eyes.
In that gaze lay scrutiny, hesitation, and a trace of unease he himself dared not fully examine.
Was everything that night truly just a coincidence?
