The first thing that caught Wu Dingyan’s eye was the majestic Meridian Gate tower.
The layout before him formed a concave shape. To the north stood a vermillion gate tower, nine rooms wide and seventy feet tall, perched atop a solid platform. The east and west wings each extended into a city tower, connected by covered corridors with peaked roofs, with two lofty buildings at their ends. These three sides connected like five towering peaks, or like a giant with slightly bent arms embracing the vast square before it.
In Jinling, Wu Dingyan had heard people say that the Meridian Gate square was paved with golden bricks that shone brilliantly. Though he could now see the Meridian Gate with his own eyes, he couldn’t verify this claim, as the square before him had transformed into a turbulent lake of murky waters.
This wasn’t mere waterlogging or pooling—it had truly become a lake. Looking down from the Imperial Ancestral Temple, nothing was visible—not the riverside willows, not the imperial pathways on either side, not the que gates and corridors. The traces of the inner Golden Water River channels on both sides and the square itself had been completely erased, leaving only a vast expanse of turbid white water that made the Meridian Gate appear like a solitary island in a lake.
Days of endless rain had overwhelmed the Inner Golden Water River’s drainage capacity, causing it to backflow and water levels to rise frantically, directly covering the Meridian Gate square and surrounding areas. Fortunately, the Meridian Gate tower stood firm, blocking the flood from spreading further—otherwise, the entire Forbidden City behind it would have become a dragon’s palace.
However, it was precisely because of the gate tower’s obstruction that the flood waters had nowhere to go, accumulating in front of the gate to form this extraordinary sight of an inland lake. A stone sundial that originally stood in front of the Meridian Gate now had its base and pillars almost completely submerged, indicating the water was at least four feet deep. Moreover, with the torrential rain showing no signs of letting up, things would likely only get worse.
It was astounding to see the center of imperial power so embarrassingly flooded.
Yet this scene wasn’t what surprised Wu Dingyan the most. What left him utterly astonished was that there were still people in the square!
To be precise, amid the vast waters of the square, there were three islands, with two groups of people and a coffin. On the eastern side of the Meridian Gate square was a makeshift platform hastily constructed from bamboo poles and wooden planks, barely rising above the flood waters. Judging from its chaotic structure, it seemed to have been continuously raised as the water level rose.
Above the platform stood more than ten large embroidered red silk umbrellas. These were originally ceremonial items but had now become actual rain shelters. Under the frontmost umbrella stood an elderly woman wearing imperial robes and a phoenix crown, her bearing dignified—even without seeing her face, one could tell she was Empress Zhang. She stood ramrod straight, eyes fixed forward, like an exhausted lioness guarding her den.
Beside her clung two young men, both wearing mourning clothes. They were swaying with exhaustion, and if their mother hadn’t been supporting them, they would likely have collapsed and fallen asleep—these must be Prince Yue and Prince Xiangxian.
Behind the two princes stood rows of civil officials and nobles in plain cyan mourning robes, some old, some in their prime, all with flowing beards. Wu Dingyan didn’t recognize any of them, but their ranks must have been high. These men huddled under the umbrellas, constantly exchanging glances and occasionally whispering to each other. One of them stood slightly apart from the rest.
On the western side of the Meridian Gate square was another hastily constructed platform, with far fewer people than on the eastern side. Only the person standing at the front was particularly eye-catching. This man was powerfully built with a dark face and stiff beard. Though he wore a plain black robe on the outside, the distinctive crimson color of princely garments could be glimpsed underneath. Wu Dingyan’s heart stirred—could this be Prince Han Zhu Gaoxu, the mastermind behind the plot of the two capitals?
Thinking this, he couldn’t help but look more closely. Though exhaustion showed on Zhu Gaoxu’s face, he seemed sustained by some powerful force, his eyes wide and fists clenched, staring intently at the opposite side like a hungry tiger. It seemed that if the other side showed even the slightest weakness, he would leap forward and tear them apart.
Behind him stood only one person, presumably the crown prince Zhu Zhantan, Prince Han’s second son.
These two platforms, east and west, faced each other across the water in a standoff. Neither Empress Zhang nor Zhu Gaoxu made any further moves. Both sides remained tense, seeming to both fear and guard against each other as if something maintained a delicate balance between them.
After observing for a moment, Wu Dingyan noticed a third platform between the other two, in the center of the Meridian Gate square. This platform was more elaborate than the other two, with square beams and round pillars, hanging white silk, and a tall memorial banner inscribed with six characters: “Imperial Coffin of the Late Emperor.” In the center of the platform was, surprisingly, a cart without horses.
The cart tilted forward, its two long shafts decorated with golden dragons resting on the ground. The carriage was extremely large, bearing a black, glossy coffin, with a thick rope trailing from its rear.
Although Wu Dingyan didn’t understand the intricacies of court rituals, one look at the coffin confirmed it must contain Emperor Hongxi. East: the Empress and officials; West: the Prince; North: the Emperor. Unexpectedly, the main players in the capital had gathered in such an eerie formation before the Meridian Gate.
What madness had possessed them? Why, with the Meridian Gate so flooded, did no one move? Why let Emperor Hongxi’s coffin sway on its platform? He couldn’t understand it. If Yu Qian were here, he could surely explain the reasoning, or even if Ye He or Ruan An were present, they might discern something. But on his own, he couldn’t fathom the reasons behind this.
His original plan had been to find a way to speak with Empress Zhang. But now she was one of the focal points of the entire scene at the Meridian Gate, making it impossible to approach secretly. Moreover, with the Meridian Gate Square now a vast expanse of water and the three platforms forming isolated islands, how could he get close? Surely he couldn’t swim over in full view of everyone?
Wu Dingyan shifted slightly, broadening his view. He noticed that beyond these three platforms, large numbers of imperial guards held various key positions, creating a tense atmosphere and forming an iron-tight perimeter around the area. If not for the raging floods dividing these soldiers, he wouldn’t have been able to slip in so easily.
Lying on the Imperial Ancestral Temple roof, Wu Dingyan sighed. From this height, the scene before the Meridian Gate looked like a treacherous whirlpool, with undercurrents surging beneath, colliding to create a fragile balance. He had a strong intuition that if someone ignorant of the situation rashly stepped in, they would be completely torn apart by the suddenly unbalanced, violent forces…
In this game, all the pieces were towering trees—what could an ant possibly accomplish?
Wu Dingyan lay on the temple roof for a long time, still unable to make sense of it all, while the situation below remained unchanged. He even began to admire those nobles before the Meridian Gate—these usually pampered individuals had somehow managed to endure so long in the heavy rain, truly remarkable. The allure of imperial power had transformed them all into superhumans.
Near noon—this was just Wu Dingyan’s guess, as the weather made it impossible to judge the time—the situation finally showed a slight change.
Two young eunuchs, rowing a small boat found somewhere, struggled through the waters before the Meridian Gate. They rowed to the edge of the eastern platform and, braving the rain, lifted several large food boxes from the boat, delivering steaming hot buns and pastries to the officials. This standoff had already lasted quite some time.
Wu Dingyan’s eyes flickered, and he quietly climbed down from the temple roof. Avoiding the guards’ line of sight, he crept behind the Left Que Gate between the Imperial Ancestral Temple and the Meridian Gate. As the temple was the most revered of all halls, its threshold was higher than others, successfully keeping the flood waters out. The small boat that had just delivered food was moored in front of the Left Que Gate.
The two young eunuchs disembarked and crouched on the steps, catching their breath. An old eunuch with slanted eyes came running over, scolding them: “Lazy bones! Hurry up and transport more wooden planks to raise the platform—look how high the water’s getting! If anyone up there gets flooded, you’ll both be beaten to death!”
The young eunuchs sighed and stumbled away again. The old eunuch cursed a few more times, wiped the raindrops from his face, and was about to bend down to shake the water from his boots when suddenly an arm reached out from behind the gate, grabbing him by the throat and forcefully dragging him behind the large cypress trees next to the Left Que Gate.
The cypress trees here were lush and thick—anyone who stepped among them would be completely hidden from outside view.
“Now, you’re going to answer my questions honestly, or else…” The arm suddenly tightened its grip, making the old eunuch’s eyes bulge.
The old eunuch nodded desperately, and the arm loosened slightly. Being quite pragmatic, he didn’t try to struggle but instead asked submissively what the honorable one wanted to know.
“First, tell me who you are?”
The old eunuch identified himself as Hai Shou, saying he had served in the palace since the beginning of the Yongle reign and was now a Minor Supervisor in the Imperial Stables.
“Oh, so you’re a colleague of Zhu Buhua.”
Hai Shou heard this and smiled bitterly: “Your honor doesn’t understand our Imperial Stables. Though I’m a Minor Supervisor, I only handle miscellaneous attendance duties, nothing like the real authority of Superintendent Zhu. I wouldn’t dare call myself his colleague.”
Wu Dingyan said, “Then you must be clear about what’s been happening in the palace these past few days?”
Instead of answering, Hai Shou let out a long sigh: “In all my years in the palace, this old servant has never seen such a situation.”
“Tell me about it.”
“But… who exactly are you? Why are you asking about these things?”
“Stop wasting time, just speak!”
Hai Shou nodded fearfully: “Alright, but where should I begin?”
“Start from when the Emperor fell unconscious, tell me everything.”
And so, amid the pounding rain, Hai Shou began to stammer out his story.
“I won’t go into the earlier details, let’s start from May 12th. That day, after the Emperor took Prince Han’s miraculous life-saving medicine, his breathing returned, his pulse came back, and everyone in the palace was overjoyed. But His Majesty wouldn’t wake up, so we could only drip chicken broth made from ginseng, turtle, and deer blood into his mouth, hoping to sustain his life. Whether it was Empress Zhang, Prince Han, or those officials claiming to be blessed by fate, none of them rested, praying day and night. But alas, on May 24th, His Majesty still passed away suddenly, without leaving a single word.”
At this point, Hai Shou choked up, though whether from genuine emotion or acting was unclear: “That’s when Prince Han stepped forward and said that since the Emperor had passed, we needed to quickly summon the Crown Prince back, so several Grand Secretaries drafted an imperial edict urgently summoning the Crown Prince from Nanjing.”
Wu Dingyan laughed coldly inside. By then it had been six days since the treasure ship explosion, yet Prince Han was still putting on this act.
Hai Shou continued: “After the late Emperor’s passing, there was a whole set of palace protocols. First, the body had to be bathed, groomed, hair combed, and clothes changed, then placed in the Qin’an Hall—this is called the minor encoffining. Next, the Emperor’s remains were to be moved into the imperial coffin, with ritual vessels, spirit silks, memorial banners, and tablets arranged, to receive mourning from the succeeding Emperor, consorts, and officials—this is called the major encoffining…”
“Stop rambling, get to the point!”
“Ah, yes… The minor encoffining went fine. But during the major encoffining stage, big trouble arose.” At this point, Hai Shou carefully chose his words and continued cautiously, “The most important part of the major encoffining is when the succeeding Emperor leads everyone in mourning. But who was the succeeding Emperor? It should be the Crown Prince, but he was far away in Nanjing, unable to return in time. That’s when Prince Han stepped forward and said, since the Crown Prince wasn’t present, he as the uncle should take on this duty—and that’s where things got complicated.”
“It’s just burning incense and kowtowing, what’s so complicated about that?”
“You may think so, and so did Empress Zhang—she nodded in agreement. Just as Prince Han was about to bow, Yang Shaofou suddenly stepped forward, declaring this is unacceptable!” Hai Shou, sensing his interrogator’s unfamiliarity with court politics, helpfully explained, “This Yang Shaofou was a former official from Emperor Hongxi’s household, named Yang Shiqi. He’s now Junior Tutor, Acting Vice Minister of Rites, and Grand Secretary of the Huagai Hall, so he’s extremely sensitive about ritual matters. He told Empress Zhang that the mourning ritual during the major encoffining symbolizes the succession of imperial authority and cannot be carelessly given to the wrong person.”
“I don’t understand. Make it clearer.”
“In other words, whoever leads the mourning ceremony for the late Emperor during the major encoffining would be recognized as having legitimacy to inherit the throne.”
Hai Shou felt the arm around his neck tremble slightly and hurriedly continued: “You must know that Prince Han had ambitions for that dragon throne. After Yang Shiqi’s reminder, Empress Zhang broke out in a cold sweat, realizing Prince Han intended to contest the succession through the funeral rites. She had nearly fallen for it and immediately refused.
“But even if not Prince Han, someone had to lead the mourning ceremony. After much thought, Empress Zhang decided that since the Crown Prince hadn’t returned, she would choose between her other two sons, Prince Yue and Prince Xiangxian. But before Prince Han could object, the court officials themselves split into factions. Think about it—only one person could lead the ceremony, but there were two princes. Yang Shiqi said Prince Yue should be chosen as he was older, but another official named Lü Zhen argued that Prince Xiangxian was more intelligent and precocious, so he should be chosen.
“This Lü Zhen was an old official from Emperor Yongle’s reign, senior to Yang Shiqi, and currently served as Guardian of the Crown Prince and Acting Minister of Rites. So in matters of ritual, his opinion carried special weight, more than others. His opposition stemmed from an old grudge.” Hai Shou’s voice took on a storyteller’s cadence. “Last year—well, not even a year ago—when Emperor Hongxi first ascended the throne, he wore mourning clothes for twenty-seven days. Lord Lü submitted a memorial suggesting that according to ancient custom, it was time to change to formal attire. But Yang Shiqi argued that filial piety wasn’t complete and the mourning should continue longer. Emperor Hongxi ultimately followed Yang Shiqi’s advice, greatly humiliating Lü Zhen. The two have harbored deep resentment since then. Who would have thought that in less than a year, they’d clash again over imperial funeral rites?”
“Get to the point,” Wu Dingyan urged impatiently.
“Their quarrel wouldn’t have mattered much, but it troubled everyone else. Choosing a prince at this point was practically like choosing an emperor—who would dare take sides? As a result, everyone kept their eyes down and refused to express an opinion. Originally, Empress Zhang and those high officials could have suppressed Prince Han, but once Lü Zhen raised this issue, unity crumbled on their side, and Prince Han couldn’t be contained.”
Hai Shou sighed heavily: “The various factions arguing wasn’t the main problem—the Emperor’s body couldn’t just lie there forever. They finally reached a compromise: Empress Zhang would lead the mourning, with Prince Han, Prince Yue, and Prince Xiangxian performing the rituals side by side. Only then was the major encoffining completed.”
“…Interesting. Was such a trivial matter worth all this arguing?”
“One daren’t say that. In our Great Ming, there are no small matters in ritual. Every detail relates to who inherits the dragon throne—much to contest indeed. This incident made everyone understand. From the day of the major encoffining, no one dared leave the Forbidden City, each fearing that the situation would change dramatically in their absence. As a result, everyone remained crowded in the Qin’an Hall, eating, drinking, and relieving themselves nearby, watching and restraining each other. One could only pity Empress Zhang, a mere woman, forced to endure all this to prevent treacherous schemes. It was truly heartbreaking.”
Hai Shou wiped his tears and continued without prompting: “Ancient texts say: ‘The Son of Heaven is to be encoffined within seven days.’ The late Emperor passed on May 24th, yet these people stayed in the palace until June 1st—truly admirable… But when it came time for the funeral procession, new troubles arose.”
Wu Dingyan’s arm relaxed slightly—he was finally approaching the truth.
“According to ritual law, on the day of the funeral procession, the succeeding Emperor should stand facing west and personally request the imperial coffin be placed on the dragon hearse. Oh yes, the dragon hearse is the funeral carriage bearing the Emperor’s body, with two dragons painted on the front shafts and a thick mourning rope at the rear. It’s this old servant’s masterpiece from the Imperial Stables… ack, don’t squeeze, I’ll continue… Most crucially, the succeeding Emperor must grasp the mourning rope, wailing while guiding the hearse from Qin’an Hall through the Meridian Gate to the Front Gate. Then the officials console him and cut the rope to signify the end of mourning. Only then does the succeeding Emperor stop pulling the cart and proceed to the Imperial Ancestral Temple for the farewell ritual.”
Hai Shou was very familiar with these procedures. He explained clearly that while Empress Zhang leading the mourning during the major encoffining could be overlooked, she wouldn’t be suitable for the funeral procession. Whoever guided the dragon hearse would directly declare to the world their claim to the imperial succession.
“This time, Prince Han truly couldn’t sit still. He said he would pull his brother’s coffin through the Meridian Gate. Empress Zhang said since seven days had passed, the Crown Prince should arrive soon—better to wait for him. At this crucial moment, Lü Zhen suddenly spoke up again. With feigned grief, he said his family had just received a pigeon message from Nanjing saying the Crown Prince’s treasure ship had exploded upon reaching the Eastern Water Gate, possibly the work of White Lotus cultists.”
At this point, Hai Shou’s voice began to tremble, clearly quite shocked by these events himself.
“When this news spread, the hall erupted in chaos, and Empress Zhang nearly fainted. Yang Shiqi stepped forward to accuse Lü Zhen of talking nonsense, but Lü Zhen didn’t argue, only saying it was family information. Every court official had their informants in Nanjing and sent people home to check. Indeed, similar reports came back these past few days, though the messages were ambiguous—some said the Crown Prince died in the explosion, others said he was taken into the palace, contradicting each other, but the ship’s explosion was undeniable.
“When in our Great Ming’s history has there been such an earth-shattering case? Originally, Empress Zhang was just waiting for the Crown Prince’s return, but now she could no longer hold on.
“Only Junior Tutor Yang stood firm, insisting that the Crown Prince’s fate was still unknown and it was too early to discuss succession. But by then, Emperor Hongxi’s body had begun to decay and had to be moved. Empress Zhang tried her old strategy of choosing between her two sons as substitutes, but the result was the same—Lü Zhen insisted on choosing Prince Xiangxian, preventing any resolution. Finally, with no other option, she ordered us eunuchs from the Imperial Stables to move the dragon hearse with the imperial coffin to the Meridian Gate.
“From Qin’an Hall to the Meridian Gate was within the palace, so we inner court officials pushing the hearse could barely be justified. But from the Meridian Gate to the Front Gate, though just a few dozen steps, the Imperial Ancestral Temple was right there—it required the succeeding Emperor to pull the rope and guide the hearse. This time, Prince Han and Empress Zhang truly showed their true colors. She accused him of harboring treacherous intentions and coveting the throne, while he cursed her… err, this old servant dares not repeat it, but essentially accused her of failing to respect the late Emperor’s wishes. Prince Han also said that the empire Emperor Taizong had fought so hard to establish couldn’t be entrusted to a child and his widowed mother. He claimed he didn’t want the throne, only to serve as regent until the child came of age. Heh, he probably didn’t believe that himself.
“The officials naturally objected, all opposing him. Prince Han turned to berate them, saying the court lacked upright ministers, was full of evil, and only princes training troops could maintain order. Ah, these words truly cornered everyone.”
“What was wrong with those words?”
“Those were the exact words Emperor Taizong wrote in his proclamation when he launched his campaign to purge the court. Everyone knows this. If these officials criticized him for an uncle replacing his nephew, they would essentially be criticizing Emperor Taizong as well. So Prince Han’s words served as a protective charm—no one could or dared refute them.”
At this point, Hai Shou couldn’t help looking up at the sky: “While the court endlessly debated without concluding, the heavens grew impatient. It had been raining continuously these past few days, but yesterday it suddenly became particularly heavy. Usually, the nobles would seek shelter from the rain, but the dragon hearse carried the Emperor’s coffin—once it passed through the Meridian Gate, there was no turning back. If the hearse didn’t move, how could anyone dare leave? This was the crucial moment for determining the succession, so… so everyone stayed put.
“It was manageable at first—the inner court had prepared over ten large ceremonial umbrellas, barely enough. But who knew the rain would keep getting heavier, until finally the water from the Golden Water River backflowed. Yet none of those nobles would leave, all standing their ground, refusing to step back. What could we inner court servants do? We could only desperately pile up things for them to stand on, and eventually built three platforms in front of the Meridian Gate to avoid the embarrassment of having an empress and princes drown in front of the Forbidden City… What a mess this all is.”
Hai Shou hardly needed coercion anymore, complaints pouring out like beans from a bamboo tube—clearly, he had been holding these thoughts in for too long.
“What about the Brave Warriors of the Imperial Stables? The Twenty-two Guards? What are the Three Battalions and Five Cities Command doing?”
Historically, all political struggles were backed by military force. The situation before the Meridian Gate had evolved into such a scene—it was worth pondering what role the surrounding imperial guards and city garrison played in this.
Hai Shou’s lips quivered, seemingly bitter: “They’re in a difficult position too. Prince Han has only openly contested the ritual throughout, never mentioning usurpation, only regency. You know Prince Han has prestige among the military—unless he openly rebels, the various commanders can’t easily intervene.” At this point, his voice lowered, “Going deeper, with the Empress’s two children both being young, if a new emperor must be chosen, why not choose a familiar adult…?” His voice became barely audible at the end.
No wonder even when the city walls collapsed, the garrison troops remained still. It seemed the imperial guard commanders all had their own thoughts, refusing to take sides, their only action being to tightly lock down the Forbidden City and the city’s nine gates. Before the palace reached a decision, not a single soldier dared move, fearing misunderstanding.
But this neutrality from the imperial guards was itself a stance—clearly Prince Han had put in considerable effort there.
Wu Dingyan looked toward the Meridian Gate again, seeing much more now. This indescribable deadlock was a balance formed by natural disasters, terrain, and various subtle human hearts restraining each other. The smartest, fiercest, and noblest people in all of Great Ming gathered together, tangled into a huge, complex knot, a dense web, as deep as the sea.
Heaven seemed like a clever jester, casually manipulating events to present the audience with a riddle both absurd and utterly real.
“Ah, if only the Crown Prince were here…” Hai Shou choked up, continuously wiping his face with his sleeve—whether from rain or tears was unclear.
If he were here, all of Prince Han’s actions would lose legitimacy; if he were here, no one would hesitate between sides; if he were here, no deadlock would remain a deadlock.
“I see, tch, how troublesome.”
Hai Shou heard this sigh from the person behind him. He didn’t understand what this mysterious figure was complaining about. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his neck, then collapsed with a “thud,” instantly losing consciousness…
Empress Zhang softly exhaled a turbid breath, rolling her shoulders to try to relieve the pressure from the phoenix crown above.
This three-tiered crown was adorned with nine golden dragons holding pearls in front, below which were nine gold phoenixes with kingfisher feathers, precious stones, pearl pendants, and orchid-leaf decorations at the temples—no more magnificent crown existed in the world. The Empress only wore it beside the Emperor during the most important ceremonial occasions.
Zhang had never known this nine-dragon-nine-phoenix crown could be so heavy. She had worn it for a full day and night now, feeling as if she carried a mountain on her head, her neck and shoulders aching beyond endurance, her entire body swaying. Yet she dared not remove it for even a moment.
By custom, she should have been wearing mourning clothes, not this ceremonial dress and phoenix crown. But only the most formal, highest-ranked regalia could prominently display the Empress’s status and suppress the overwhelming ferocity across from her. Like a peacock displaying its most beautiful feathers only when threatened by a powerful enemy.
The past ten-plus days had been like a nightmare. Empress Zhang’s emotions had shifted from anger to panic, then gradually slid into an abyss of despair. She was exhausted, desperately wanting to collapse into her husband’s or son’s arms and weep. But one lay motionless in his coffin, while the other was shattered to pieces in distant Nanjing.
Through the heavy curtain of rain, the silhouettes of Prince Han and his heir appeared somewhat fierce. They had poisoned the Emperor and Crown Prince, bought off the imperial guards and ministers, and planned everything. As long as this standoff continued, the scales would slowly tip in their favor.
Unconsciously, her body began to bend forward. Zhang suddenly became alert, straightened her spine, and withdrew her hands from her two sons’ grasp to support both sides of her phoenix crown. Now this crown alone reminded her of her identity and duty—if it fell, she wasn’t sure she could maintain her composure.
After securing the crown, Empress Zhang lowered her arms, about to take her princes’ hands again, when she heard a sound.
Creak, creak, creak.
The sound wasn’t particularly loud through the rain, but it was distinct. Empress Zhang’s gaze shifted slightly from Prince Han, noticing a eunuch rowing a small boat through the murky water toward them. She had seen this supply boat many times, though this eunuch’s figure was unfamiliar. But given how long the standoff had lasted, rotation among the eunuchs wasn’t surprising.
Empress Zhang returned her attention to the opposite platform, focusing all her attention there. But the creaking sound drew closer, and she glanced again, her delicate brows furrowing slightly. What was this boat doing? Usually, it docked behind the platform, but this time it brazenly crossed the central axis, entering the waters between the three platforms and the dragon hearse, almost at the most conspicuous position.
Not only Empress Zhang, but the officials and Prince Han noticed this discordant dark spot, beginning to whisper among themselves.
Who was rowing this boat? Such impropriety! Empress Zhang was quite displeased and about to rebuke them when the tall, thin eunuch wobbled to his feet at the boat’s bow and, in a resonant voice that cut through the rain, shouted: “Wu Dingyan, constable of Yingtian Prefecture in Southern Zhili, brings a message from the Crown Prince to Her Majesty the Empress—he lives and will soon return to the capital!”
His voice wasn’t as thunderous as Yu Qian’s, and his words were crude, but no one cared about such minor flaws. Even if lightning had struck before the Meridian Gate at that moment, no one would have heard it, for all ears were filled with Wu Dingyan’s latter words: the Crown Prince lives and will soon return.
The Crown Prince lives and will soon return.
The Crown Prince lives and will soon return.
Empress Zhang swayed, nearly collapsing; Prince Han froze, his blood seeming to instantly congeal; as for the officials accustomed to calculating before acting, they were stunned in place by the implications of these words. The entire Meridian Gate square had its voice and soul stolen by this single sentence. If not for the countless ripples still spreading across the water’s surface, one might have mistaken this for a motionless painting in the meticulous-heavy color style.
All eyes from every direction converged like a thousand arrows on this small boat. Wu Dingyan stood at the bow with folded arms, his expression calm, as if watching the sunset over the city walls from the banks of the Qinhuai River.
He didn’t understand court politics or the intricacies of palace power struggles, nor could he untangle this mess. But why try to untangle it? Simply cutting through it was easiest. No matter how complex the situation before the Meridian Gate, Wu Dingyan focused on one point: with the Crown Prince’s appearance, everything would resolve itself.
Among the officials, Yang Shiqi and Lü Zhen reacted first. This pair of enemies exchanged glances and, with surprising synchronicity, stepped forward together, shouting: “Who comes here?”
“Wu Dingyan, constable of Yingtian Prefecture in Southern Zhili—didn’t I just say that?” Wu Dingyan replied somewhat helplessly.
This title caused the officials to exchange glances. Yingtian Prefecture? A constable? How could such a lowly, unranked minor official be connected to the Crown Prince? At this moment, Empress Zhang rushed out from under the ceremonial umbrella into the rain, stumbling to the platform’s edge, asking hoarsely: “The Crown Prince, how is the Crown Prince?”
Wu Dingyan clasped his fists and proclaimed loudly: “Reporting to Your Majesty, the Crown Prince wasn’t killed in the explosion in Nanjing. He’s now traveling north along the Grand Canal and will reach the capital tomorrow. He sent me ahead with this news.”
“My son…” Empress Zhang cried out at this sudden good news, collapsing at the platform’s edge. Princes Yue and Xiangxian embraced their mother from both sides, unable to contain their joy at hearing their elder brother was safe. The standoff before the Meridian Gate began to descend into chaos.
“Wait!”
A thunderous shout suddenly rang out behind Wu Dingyan. He turned around, finally facing the mastermind behind the plot of the two capitals. Prince Han had recovered from his shock—his notably yellow teeth grinding back and forth as if wanting to swallow Wu Dingyan whole.
But it wasn’t he who had shouted, but his heir Zhu Zhantan. He looked identical to his father, only with a thinner, more sinister face: “Wait! Why should we believe you?”
Wu Dingyan looked at him: “Don’t you know perfectly well whether the Crown Prince is dead or not? You sent quite a few people to intercept us between Jinling and the capital.”
“Slanderous lies!” Zhu Zhantan sneered, “You’re just some insignificant cur who appeared from nowhere—you think you can fool Her Majesty the Empress and the court officials with empty words without proof?”
Wu Dingyan frowned—he didn’t understand “insignificant,” but “cur” was clear enough. At this point, Yang Shiqi spoke: “Since you say the Crown Prince sent you, you must have credentials. Could you show them to us?” Lü Zhen glared at him and added viciously: “If not, it’s the crime of deceiving the throne, punishable by death by a thousand cuts!”
By now, Empress Zhang had recovered from her excitement. She looked at Wu Dingyan without speaking, clearly agreeing with the others’ words. This man had appeared from nowhere, with unclear origins—it would indeed be hard to convince everyone without proof. Wu Dingyan smiled slightly; this was exactly the effect he wanted.
Under everyone’s gaze, he slowly reached into his robes and took out an oilcloth package containing a bamboo tube. Inside the tube were two letters—one written by the Crown Prince before departure, detailing his arduous journey from Nanjing to Beijing, with Zhang Quan’s endorsement; the other was Empress Zhang’s secret letter to Nanjing.
The court officials were familiar with both Crown Prince Zhu Zhanji’s and Zhang Quan’s handwriting, while Empress Zhang naturally recognized her secret letter. These two letters corroborating each other would be sufficient to prove Wu Dingyan’s words. And once the court accepted that the Crown Prince was alive, Prince Han would be thoroughly defeated.
Wu Dingyan raised the tube high with his right hand while paddling with his left. The bow pushed through two ripples, moving toward Empress Zhang’s platform. Everyone’s gaze was involuntarily drawn to the tube, following its movement. What it contained would determine the Ming Dynasty’s future. The boat had barely crossed half the distance when Wu Dingyan suddenly felt an urgent sense of danger.
Before he could react, a tremendous boom rang out, and his right palm exploded in a spray of blood.
His right palm had been stabbed by Su Jingxi in Nanjing, and though it had healed well, it was still a fresh wound. Now a bullet tore into his palm, shredding tendons and muscle. His fingers inevitably relaxed, and the tube fell straight toward the flood waters.
Wu Dingyan tried to catch it but couldn’t reach it in time, only able to watch helplessly as it fell into the water and quickly disappeared.
Everyone around simultaneously gasped “Ah,” never expecting such a turn of events. Without hesitation, Wu Dingyan immediately threw aside the paddle and, despite his ruined right hand, plunged into the water.
Though the flood was deep, it had only recently risen, so there wasn’t much debris in the water. He quickly felt a cylindrical object below and was overjoyed, but upon bringing it to the surface, his heart sank. The tube’s cap was gone, and it was filled with muddy water. Unable to extract its contents with one hand, he threw it toward the platform with all his might.
The tube traced an arc through the air, landing directly at Empress Zhang’s feet. She hurriedly bent to pick it up, looking inside with trembling hands, her heart turning to ice. The two crucial letters had been written on raw silk paper, which was highly absorbent—in just this brief moment, they had become two masses of half-black pulp stuck to the tube’s walls, impossible to read or even remove.
Empress Zhang wanted to extract them but feared destroying them completely. Her slender fingers hovered at the tube’s mouth for a long time, unable to act. Her thin face quickly lost color—how could heaven be so cruel, first giving a glimmer of hope, then ruthlessly extinguishing it before her eyes? A surge of overwhelming anger rose in her chest: who dared to be so bold?
Not far away, another small boat was rapidly approaching the platform through the flood waters. At its bow stood a corpulent man in brocade robes, holding a still-smoking hand cannon—he had fired the shot. The fat man sensed the Empress’s fury, turned around leisurely, put down his weapon, and knelt at the bow: “Your humble servant Prince Lin of Zhu Zhanyu, arrives late to protect Your Majesty—I deserve ten thousand deaths!”
This name, most people hadn’t yet realized who he was, but Prince Han’s eyebrows lifted in delight, his teeth grinding as he silently praised the move. Beside him, his heir Zhu Zhantan first rejoiced at the tube’s destruction, but upon discovering it was his fifth brother who had acted, his joy hadn’t yet faded before colliding awkwardly with surging jealousy.
“What protection are you providing? Where are the imperial guards? What are you all doing? Quickly arrest this madman who attacked the Crown Prince’s messenger before the Meridian Gate! Execute him by lingchi!” Empress Zhang was so enraged she could barely choose her words.
Zhu Zhanyu remained calm, kowtowing as he proclaimed loudly: “Your servant was pursuing the Crown Prince’s would-be assassins along the Grand Canal, and this man was highly suspicious. I followed him to the capital but arrived a step too late. Seeing him attempt to approach Your Majesty under pretenses of the Crown Prince’s name, I couldn’t warn you in time and had to shoot to prevent him. As long as you and the two princes are safe, I willingly accept punishment.”
His words were righteous and dignified, momentarily swaying the surrounding officials. Wu Dingyan’s background was indeed unclear, and until the tube’s letters were verified, no one could conclusively say he was on the Crown Prince’s side. Zhu Zhanyu’s hasty arrival and immediate action to stop a suspicious person from approaching the imperial family could be reasonably explained.
Empress Zhang raged: “If you were suspicious, why shoot at the tube instead of the man!”
Zhu Zhanyu shook his head with a bitter smile: “Your servant’s marksmanship is poor, bringing shame to our ancestors.”
From Zhu Zhanyu’s shooting position to Wu Dingyan was about a hundred paces—a slight miss with a hand cannon would be normal. As for how it happened to hit the tube in his right hand, that could only be attributed to coincidence.
At this point, Prince Han shouted: “You unfilial son, didn’t I tell you to stay home and study! Why did you go to the Grand Canal?” With his father’s setup, Zhu Zhanyu immediately responded: “Reporting to Father, your son heard of the Nanjing tragedy in Le’an Prefecture and was extremely troubled. Fortunately, Jin Rong sent a letter saying suspicious individuals were active along the Grand Canal. Your son took the initiative to avenge his elder brother!” His acting was excellent—as he raised his head, his eyes even flickered with vengeful fire.
“The Crown Prince was harmed in Nanjing—how could a Military Commissioner from Shandong, a thousand li away, discover clues?” Yang Shiqi stepped forward to question.
“Your Majesty, Father, and noble officials, haven’t you realized yet?” Zhu Zhanyu raised his head, scanning the crowd.
Lü Zhen seized the moment, shouting: “Could it be… the White Lotus Sect’s Divine Mother?!”
The White Lotus Sect had originated in Shandong and had actively rebelled for several years. Though later suppressed by the court, the Divine Mother’s followers had spread throughout the country. These officials, skilled in governance, were particularly sensitive to this and immediately found the White Lotus connection reasonable.
Zhu Zhanyu pointed at Wu Dingyan: “When the treasure ship reached Nanjing, it was because White Lotus cultists had infiltrated and seized the opportunity to detonate gunpowder, causing the heir’s demise. This man is likely a high-ranking White Lotus protector, tasked with infiltrating the Meridian Gate.”
The details he provided barely differed from the messages the various officials had received, even making Empress Zhang waver. Yang Shiqi frowned—seeing Lü Zhen’s barely concealed smug expression, he knew something was amiss. But with the tube destroyed, he struggled to defend Wu Dingyan, only managing to say: “Wu Dingyan, do you have anything to say in your defense?”
Wu Dingyan stood on the small boat, clutching his bleeding right hand, letting the heavy rain pour down: “The Crown Prince will reach the capital tomorrow—can’t you just wait one more day?”
Empress Zhang stared at this somewhat weary figure from the platform. His eyes showed neither panic nor evasion, as calm as if the chaos before the Meridian Gate didn’t concern him at all. Somehow, she knew at a glance this man wasn’t lying—in all her years in the palace and court, she had never seen such pure eyes.
“Wait one more day?” Her question sounded more like seeking confirmation.
“Yes, just one more day—you can lock me up and wait to see who’s lying.”
Empress Zhang turned to the others, and Yang Shiqi was the first to agree. They had waited so long already, what was one more day? Other officials began nodding, but Lü Zhen opposed them: “This man can neither prove his identity nor explain the White Lotus connection. He says wait a day, and you would all wait a day? If there’s a greater plot behind this, we would all be accomplices.”
“How do you know he is?”
“How do you know he isn’t?” Lü Zhen raised his voice, “White Lotus cultists are all fearless of death. Let me ask you, if they planned something major in the capital, needing just one more day to complete their setup, and sent a suicide agent to delay the funeral procession… could you take responsibility if something happened?”
As the two sides were about to argue again, Zhu Zhanyu spoke up: “In your servant’s opinion, this day must be a White Lotus delay tactic.”
Prince Han pretended to scold: “Your crime of disturbing the imperial presence isn’t settled yet—who told you to speak!”
Lü Zhen seized the opportunity: “Why do you say this? Do you have evidence?”
Zhu Zhanyu rowed his boat to the center point between the three platforms, bowed to all four directions, and stared at Wu Dingyan as he proclaimed loudly: “Because the Crown Prince is certainly dead, so his claim that the Crown Prince will return tomorrow must have ulterior motives—we cannot fall for the traitors’ trap!”
Yang Shiqi smiled coldly: “He claims the Crown Prince will return without evidence, but do you have solid proof the Crown Prince is dead?”
“The treasure ship exploded, and everyone in the Eastern Palace died—haven’t all your noble households received the news?”
“Those messages contradict each other—some say the Crown Prince was killed in the explosion, others say he returned to the imperial city, all in chaos. What makes you so certain the Crown Prince is dead? I want direct evidence, not hearsay!”
Yang Shiqi was going all in—at this crucial moment, he had to insist the Crown Prince wasn’t dead, or the situation would become irreversible. But when he looked at Zhu Zhanyu, he saw a trace of satisfaction in the other’s eyes, as if he had been waiting for this challenge. His heart sank, but before he could think how to respond, Zhu Zhanyu took something from his robes.
It was a blue lotus cloud-shaped jade pendant, about the size of a child’s palm, inscribed with “Pure and Singular.” However, in the pouring rain and at such a distance, the details were unclear to most. Zhu Zhanyu held the pendant high as he rowed his boat closer to Empress Zhang’s platform. Passing Wu Dingyan, he cast a smug glance before respectfully presenting the pendant to the Empress.
As soon as Zhang took the pendant, her chin began to tremble. Not from unfamiliarity, but from knowing it too well.
This “Pure and Singular” jade pendant had been given to Crown Prince Zhu Zhanji by Zhu Di during the northern campaign, encouraging him to study diligently. Zhu Zhanji wore it close to his body and never parted with it. Everyone in the palace and court knew its history. Zhang could immediately tell it wasn’t a fake. Though the distant officials couldn’t see the details, their expressions changed dramatically upon seeing the Empress’s reaction.
This pendant now being in Zhu Zhanyu’s possession—the implications were obvious. Could it be… the Crown Prince was truly dead? The same thought flashed through everyone’s mind.
Yang Shiqi shook his sleeve, crying urgently: “How can a mere jade pendant prove the Crown Prince’s fate? Perhaps he simply lost it!” He looked to Empress Zhang, only to see her frail body sway several times before falling straight backward. That magnificent nine-dragon-nine-phoenix crown slid from her head, crashing heavily to the ground, its jewels and ornaments scattering.
With the fall of the phoenix crown, Yang Shiqi’s heart plummeted as well.
Empress Zhang was the pillar of Emperor Hongxi’s line—if she fell now, no one remained who could oppose Prince Han. Yang Shiqi licked his dry lips, still trying to argue: “Where did this pendant come from!” But even he could hear the weakness in his voice. Lü Zhen cast a smug glance at Yang Shiqi before asking Zhu Zhanyu: “Junior Tutor Yang’s question is reasonable—where did you obtain this item?”
“It was found on a White Lotus cultist in Huai’an on May 22nd. Knowing it was the Crown Prince’s possession, I rushed to bring it to the capital.”
Prince Han shouted: “Beast, why did you take so long? Why didn’t you bring it earlier!”
Zhu Zhanyu knelt, wailing loudly: “Your son was investigating the true culprits and was pursued by White Lotus cultists the whole way, nearly dying nine times out of ten. Only thanks to Commander Jin dispatching troops to escort me to the capital did I survive, though I still failed to arrive in time for the late Emperor’s funeral.”
Everyone present was shocked—not by Prince Han’s fifth son’s filial piety, but by the stunning information revealed in his words: Jin Rong’s Shandong troops had reached the capital.
The court had maintained relative calm because the imperial guards remained neutral, with Prince Han and Empress Zhang’s conflict staying within the bounds of ritual law. But Jin Rong’s Shandong garrison troops were hardcore loyalists to Prince Han, and their secret infiltration of the capital carried enormous implications. During the Jingnan Campaign years ago, the Jianwen Emperor had secretly ordered Zhang Jue, the Provincial Administrator of Beiping, and Xie Gui, the Military Commissioner, to arrest Zhu Di at his prince’s mansion. Though Xie and Zhang controlled Beiping’s main forces, Zhu Di had already gathered eight hundred private troops and killed them both when they entered his mansion. This showed how crucial it was to have one’s reliable armed force.
Would Prince Han repeat history, using these forces to kill the officials loyal to the previous regime before the Meridian Gate? No one could say.
The appearance of the Crown Prince’s jade pendant, Empress Zhang’s collapse, and now news of Shandong troops entering the capital completely shattered the balance before the Meridian Gate. As if responding to human events, a violent gust suddenly swept through the Forbidden City, carrying away all the ceremonial umbrellas and even twisting the rain’s direction with the wind, like a writhing water dragon manifesting above the imperial city.
Everyone raised their hands awkwardly to shield themselves, all strongly sensing that the heavens were about to change…
Zhu Zhanyu knelt in the rain, his hands unconsciously bracing forward, his heart swelling with pride. He had single-handedly reversed the situation—one could say he had decided the empire’s fate. In contrast, his elder brother only knew how to follow their father, accomplishing nothing. How dare he be the heir? The Crown Prince?
Zhu Zhanyu slightly raised his head, meeting Zhu Zhantan’s eyes. The latter’s gaze was filled with deep hatred, while the former showed supreme determination and even a touch of pity.
Prince Han was completely unaware of his two sons’ attitudes, being in a state of extreme excitement. Years of patience, and long-planned schemes spanning two capitals, were finally approaching their end. Despite many twists and turns, he was ultimately the one laughing last. Prince Han ground his teeth, loosening his black horn belt to reveal a flash of crimson beneath his plain robe.
This would be the last time wearing it—soon, he could change to imperial yellow.
At this moment, Lü Zhen’s voice cut through the wind and rain: “The weather is changing—the late Emperor’s funeral procession must proceed quickly!”
Though he didn’t specify who should pull the hearse, the answer was obvious. Prince Han looked proudly toward the other platform, where the two young princes were crying “yi yi” beside their unconscious mother. Without Empress Zhang standing up, these children could do nothing. As for those officials, they had even less right to question now.
Who but me should guide the dragon hearse and pull the mourning rope? Under heaven, who else is qualified to compete with me?
Zhu Zhanyu brought his small boat over at the perfect moment to carry Prince Han. Zhu Zhantan tried to follow, but Han calmly said: “Wait here.” As Zhu Zhantan froze, Zhu Zhanyu had already rowed away. The small boat swayed toward the platform holding the dragon hearse. Prince Han stood straight at the bow, surveying all directions, his aura of authority surging with each step closer to the hearse.
To prevent the flood from submerging the coffin, Hai Shou and others had piled bricks and wooden frames beneath the dragon hearse, forming what looked like a small mountain. The boat stopped at the platform’s edge, and Zhu Zhanyu, knowing his father needed to savor this wonderful moment alone, remained in the boat.
Prince Han stepped off the boat, unconsciously looking up. The dark yellow imperial coffin was within arm’s reach at the mountain’s peak, the “Imperial Coffin of the Late Emperor” banner flying high above, its golden-silk nanmu wood’s distinctive fine grain visible—how magnificent! But no matter how magnificent, it was ultimately a cage for the dead. The thin gap between the lid and the coffin body was an uncrossable chasm.
“Brother, I’ll personally escort you to your tomb—that throne, give it to me!” Prince Han muttered, slowly walking toward the peak. Now he just needed to grasp the mourning rope behind the coffin, guide the dragon hearse out through the Front Gate, then visit the Imperial Ancestral Temple to bid farewell to the ancestors, and his claim to the throne would be unshakeable. He reached the hearse and looked down for the mourning rope. It was a five-strand hemp rope soaked in castor oil, with a white thread woven through the middle. The rope’s end was tied to the cart’s rear, coiled loosely beneath like a molting snake, its head extending to the other end.
Normally, an inner court official would present the rope’s end. But given the special circumstances, Prince Han bent down to pick up the rope end himself. Just as his hand was about to touch the mourning rope, he suddenly noticed a black-patterned boot with an upturned toe stepping on it. Someone else was beside the dragon hearse? Prince Han’s heart jumped, and before he could look up, the boot had already launched a vicious kick at his chest.
The kick was incredibly powerful. Prince Han felt his breath stop as his body fell backward. The hastily built mountain was steep—as he fell back, he rolled to the platform’s edge, his mouth smashing hard against a protruding corner. Zhu Zhanyu, still in the boat, was startled and quickly jumped down to help his father. Prince Han got up awkwardly, touching his bloody mouth and finding two broken front teeth in his hand.
A fortune teller once said his paired teeth were a sign of sage-hood, like Confucius. Now these teeth he had been so proud of were forcibly broken—who would dare commit such treasonous acts against the Ming Emperor? Father and son looked up angrily to see a tall, thin figure standing atop the dragon hearse, legs apart, looking down at them. His right hand hung down, blood dripping from his palm onto the coffin.
“Wu Dingyan?!” Zhu Zhanyu shouted.
Everyone’s attention had been on Empress Zhang, and no one expected this thief to secretly reach the dragon hearse, catching Prince Han off guard.
“Who exactly is this person? The Crown Prince’s death guard?” Prince Han wondered.
Zhu Zhanyu shook his head: “He’s really just a minor constable from Yingtian Prefecture, but the Crown Prince’s survival is closely connected to him.” As he spoke, his expression showed confusion.
What was Wu Dingyan trying to do? The outcome was decided—even Empress Zhang was helpless, so what chance did a minor constable have of turning things around?
Was he trying to buy time for the Crown Prince to arrive? Zhu Zhanyu found this even more puzzling. Setting aside the two elite units of Qingzhou troops he had dispatched to intercept between Beijing and Tianjin, even if the Crown Prince had impossibly lucky escapes, he still couldn’t wait. With so many imperial guards around, they could reduce him to minced meat in moments.
What was the point of such death throes?
Zhu Zhanyu couldn’t read the answer in Wu Dingyan’s expression. He didn’t think further, directly picking up his hand cannon from the boat, loading powder and ball with practiced efficiency. Earlier he had aimed for the right hand—this time it would be the heart. Better to kill this fly quickly and stop delaying his father’s ascension. At this distance, he couldn’t miss.
Wu Dingyan also saw Zhu Zhanyu’s actions. He calmly raised his remaining left hand, gently clenched it in the air, then made a simple motion.
He raised his long leg and forcefully kicked the dragon hearse’s carriage.
The hearse was specifically for moving spirits, so its four sides didn’t need reinforcement like ordinary carts, merely held together by mortise and tenon joints with carved panels. When Wu Dingyan kicked it, the carved panels shattered.
The platform’s slope was steep, with the dragon hearse positioned at an angle at the top, only its wheels blocked by stones. Now with the panels gone, the nanmu wood coffin on top immediately lost its restraint and began sliding from the carriage.
This was the dragon coffin for the late Emperor’s funeral procession—not the actual coffin used in the tomb, but still weighing two or three hundred jin. Such a heavy object slid down under its weight, rumbling like a great ship launching from a dry dock. Zhu Zhanyu had been aiming at Wu Dingyan, but seeing this massive object rushing toward him and his father like a falling mountain, his face drained of color. He quickly put away his weapon and pulled Prince Han onto the nearby boat.
In that instant of crossing paths, the dragon coffin containing Emperor Hongxi’s remains brushed past Prince Han and crashed into the water with a roar. At once, massive mental splashes arose in the minds of all the nobles before the Meridian Gate.