Wanwan closed her eyes, having lost all hope. She knew that perhaps she would never return to Nanyuan in this lifetime. Even if Liang Shi gave up his title, he would still remain a thorn in the court’s heart, embedded too deeply—as long as he lived, there would never be peace.
Since they couldn’t tolerate him, why did they drag her into this murky water? Her eldest brother had repeatedly prevented her from getting involved, yet her second brother had sent her into the bridal chamber. Perhaps her only purpose was to conceive his child and then serve as a tool to control him. But had her second brother ever considered that if he let go, if he stopped caring, what would this accomplish besides giving him a reason to raise an army?
The cabinet officials were a bunch of wine sacks and rice bags—pedantic scholars governing the realm, how could the world find peace! When she was very young, she had once heard them mocking behind closed doors at her father’s grand banquet: “Those who steal a hook are executed, while those who steal a kingdom become marquises.” When the Yuwen clan burned and killed at the foot of Qilian Mountain, repeatedly attempting to invade the Central Plains, if Emperor Taizu had been decisive then and slaughtered them without leaving a single piece of armor, how good that would have been. Instead, he enfeoffed them and settled them in Jiangnan. No one had expected Jiangnan to become so prosperous after two hundred years. They should have banished them to the northern desert long ago, let them eat raw meat and drink blood, live like beasts…
This was the only time she had ever made a request of the Emperor, only to return defeated. She would never bring it up a second time. He told her to remain at Xihaizi to recuperate—how could she continue to face this reflection? The imperial physician had taken her pulse and said Her Highness was merely suffering from rage attacking her heart, and would be fine once her emotions calmed. She struggled to stand up. Since there was nothing seriously wrong, she should return. This place was somewhere she could never stay again.
Exiting the palace gates, the sun blazed brightly. Though lacking in warmth, it still dazzled the eyes. She felt very uncomfortable, her entire body weight almost entirely supported by Tonghuan. Tonghuan was, after all, a woman—half-carrying her, she found it difficult even to descend the steps.
Jin Shi watched from beside the sedan chair, hesitated briefly, then set down the reins and came forward to help.
She looked very weak, her face covered with a thin sheen of sweat, seemingly unable to take another step. He reached out to receive her, lifting her up horizontally. She looked at him dully, her lips moving but unable to make a sound.
At this point, she probably still minded the propriety between men and women. She was a noble princess—how could a lowly captain of a thousand be worthy of approaching her person? He paid no attention, steadily carrying her into the carriage, then turned to command the lieutenant to ride ahead and report to the residence, summoning all the medical officers and female physicians on standby to conduct a consultation for Her Highness.
The sedan began moving. Riding his horse, he looked back—inside the carriage door was complete silence. The Princess was often soundless.
Thinking carefully, he truly felt she was pitiful. A woman with child should live like a flower, yet she worried daily and fretted constantly. Without a husband beside her to shield her from wind and rain, she had to face upheavals alone. She had once been Emperor Xiaozong’s beloved, and now she lived like this—he wondered what Emperor Xiaozong in the underworld would think.
Wanwan curled up on the brocade cushions, feeling waves of cold coming over her, starting from her calves, spreading to her thighs, spreading to her waist and abdomen. She vaguely sensed something was wrong, clenching her hands tightly—her palms were full of sweat, even the spaces between her fingers were damp. She wanted to call for someone but didn’t know who to call. Her heart was desolate and panicked. She only hoped to reach home quickly—she felt like she couldn’t hold on much longer.
The sedan finally stopped, but she couldn’t move or get out. When the carriage door opened, cool wind rushed at her face, making her shiver. Tonghuan called to her in alarm. She lay prone on the cushion, even her breathing carried tremors. Jin Shi lifted her out again, holding her horizontally, trying his best to let her stretch her waist. She softly murmured “stomach hurts,” and hearing this, his heart nearly stopped.
Inside the second gate, chaos erupted. In the bedchamber, footsteps hurried urgently. She lay on the bed, feeling her body was suspended in air, as if her soul might leave her shell at any moment. The medical officer took her pulse, then went to the outer room to write prescriptions. Nanny Li asked him about her condition. The medical officer spoke in low voices—she couldn’t hear what he said, but her wet nurse began sobbing, “My poor…”
She was very afraid, wanting to embrace her belly, but couldn’t lift her hands. Beyond the floor-length screen, people came and went. She lay there quietly while the medicine pot bubbled and gurgled, and the room quickly filled with the fragrance of Chinese medicine.
She wondered if the child could be saved. Remembering the fortune teller’s words about “having no relatives to rely on,” tears suddenly flooded her eyes. Forget it, forget it—if fate was shallow, so be it. There was nothing more she could do. The pain was vague and actually not very severe—just a dull ache in her waist and abdomen, like drums beating on a theater stage when it hurt, a vast expanse of sound, then quieting down again. She knew it was ominous but still held a thread of hope, enduring like this, drinking some medicine—perhaps she could get through it. But when darkness fell and the last ray of sunlight disappeared from the window lattice, her pain swept over her with overwhelming force. Accompanied by Xiao You’s cry of “There’s blood!” something separated from within her body. She couldn’t retain it—her body suddenly felt empty.
It was a boy. They didn’t let her see him even once, hastily dealing with the remains. Wanwan still remembered last night’s first fetal movement—he had already been a lively, good child. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been able to take good care of him. He was dead.
Nanny Zhang kept watch beside her, stroking her hair. The numbness and emptiness on her face frightened the nanny. She called urgently, “Your Highness!” and said tremblingly, “You’re still young. Losing one pregnancy doesn’t matter—strengthen your body and you can conceive again.”
She made an affirmative sound. “Yes… but I feel I’ve wronged Liang Shi. I have no face to see him now.”
Large teardrops slid into her temples. Nanny Zhang couldn’t wipe them away fast enough and could only comfort her repeatedly: “His Lordship won’t blame you. This is also circumstances forcing the situation. Listen to me—you can’t cry during the small confinement month, or you’ll go blind. Good child, you were raised on my milk from when you were tiny, I held you and raised you inch by inch. Seeing you like this hurts more than if someone cut my flesh. What do you want this old woman to do? If I could exchange my life for the young master’s, I would die right now.”
But no amount of words were useless. The grief couldn’t be stopped, nor could the tears. She closed her eyes, seeing only Liang Shi’s tearful eyes before her. If he learned the news, what would he do? He would resent her, wouldn’t he? She was so useless, unable even to protect their child. Second brother’s plan to use the legitimate son to control Nanyuan would also come to nothing. Would they still care about a sickly sister?
Meanwhile, Fifth Lord’s message by carrier pigeon arrived: Grand Princess had strongly defended Nanyuan, engaging in verbal battle with the cabinet, causing her to miscarry from the strain—the child was gone, reportedly a male fetus…
He stood in the sunlight, his face iron-blue.
His heart was like a container filled with all sorts of extreme emotions. A sharp blade stirred them mercilessly, churning him bloody and torn, shredding his internal organs.
His life had never been peaceful. Nanyuan had weathered too many storms. Ever since the Prince Regent had passed the title to him, he hadn’t relaxed for a single day. He had thought that no matter what happened, he could grit his teeth and endure. But what about this time? He felt he had reached the edge of collapse. His woman, his son—they had become sacrifices to his indecision. For the first time, he felt he had done wrong. He had considered too much. If he had started the war earlier, perhaps Wanwan wouldn’t have ended up like this. A five-month pregnancy lost—he dared not imagine how much pain she was in. He hated Daye, hated Murong Gaogong, hated that filthy court, and hated himself even more. Carrying his sword, he paced rapidly through the courtyard, slashing at everything he saw, using all his strength to destroy everything in sight.
His blood flow reversed, his hair stood on end—he was probably only one step away from madness. When there was nothing left to destroy, he finally collapsed from exhaustion, kneeling among the debris scattered across the ground, howling like a wolf. He should cry—he had to find some way to vent. His emotions had never been openly displayed; only in front of Wanwan did he seem like a person of flesh and blood. But he loved her and their child so much, yet couldn’t protect them. He had intended to compromise and bide his time, but man’s plans are no match for heaven’s—Murong Gaogong had dealt him another devastating blow. All his hatred, all his strength had nowhere to pour out. What should he do to avenge this blood debt? What should he do to make Murong Gaogong’s life worse than death? He gritted his teeth, trembling all over. If he could step into Beijing with one foot, he wanted to dismember that dog emperor right now.
“When we attack Beijing, your son will definitely kill everyone in the Murong family to avenge Mother and little brother!” Only now did Lan Zhou dare to approach and console him, kneeling before his father and sobbing. “Father, please control your grief. You must take care of your health to bring Mother home. If Mother knew you were like this, how heartbroken she would be.”
His hair was disheveled, his appearance wretched. Lan Zhou had never seen his father in such a state—it truly frightened him. He tried to step forward and help him up, only then realizing his father was like a mountain he could never reach. He too felt sorry for this unborn brother. Though sad, his pain was not even one ten-thousandth of his father’s. He could only console him, even with some encouraging undertones as he beat the side drum: “Father, the time has come. Let’s mobilize troops, gather our forces, and march straight to Beijing.”
Fury for a beauty’s sake—this was the perfect catalyst. Lan Zhou had expected his father to issue military orders without hesitation, but he miraculously calmed down instead, slowly standing up among the withered branches and shaking his head: “Throughout history, how many campaigns have ended in total defeat due to momentary emotion? My not moving troops doesn’t mean I’ll sit and wait for death. Previously my posture was too lofty—I had ready weapons but failed to utilize them. Now it seems I was truly foolish.”
The weapon he referred to was naturally Prince Zhen’an. Wang Ding was a simple-minded warrior—in terms of strategy, without the advisers around him, he would have died eight hundred times over. As long as they gradually infiltrated his think tank and provided a little encouragement, they could make him lose his composure. The most profitable strategy for military commanders was to kill with a borrowed knife. When the time came to watch the spectacle, they wouldn’t fear making it bigger. When things became completely chaotic, turning around to cooperate with him wouldn’t be impossible either.
Lan Zhou watched eagerly as he stepped out, his expression grave but his demeanor normal. He took a breath and instructed word by word: “Wang Ding is a filial son. In a few days, it’s his mother’s eightieth birthday. Taking advantage of this occasion to establish mutual communication would be good. Prepare a visiting card and send someone reliable to deliver it. The gifts must be prepared cleverly to make him understand my intentions, so we can speak easily afterward.”
Lan Zhou acknowledged the order. Indeed, there were no permanent friends and no permanent enemies in this world. Previously they had always waited for those two princes to make the first move—a good strategy, but too passive. Now taking the initiative to win them over, observing the situation before deploying—regardless of the chances of success, being the mantis stalking the cicada while the oriole waits behind would certainly result in smaller losses.
Lan Zhou went off to carry out his orders. He looked up at the sky—it was azure blue. Beijing should be the same!
“Will Grand Princess hate me?” he murmured. “I left her alone in the capital. She must resent me terribly now.”
Rong Bao sniffed and said she wouldn’t. “Her Highness and you have deep affection. She knows you had no choice. If she hates anyone, it will be the dog emperor, not you, Master. This slave has a donkey’s brain and can’t think clearly, but this slave feels that though the young master is gone, looking at it another way, perhaps it’s a blessing in disguise. As long as Her Highness hates Murong Gaogong thoroughly, when we rise up in the future, Her Highness won’t blame you anymore. Think about it, Master—Her Highness and you are of one heart. Future young masters can be born again. Having ten or eight of them with Her Highness wouldn’t be difficult.”
The words were true, but the son he had treasured was gone—the blow to him was truly too great. He closed his aching eyes, only regretting he hadn’t grown wings under his ribs to fly to Wanwan’s side. Touching the mark she had left on his wrist, he felt grateful they still had this small connection between them. He was also afraid—afraid she might lose heart and no longer want him. The child’s loss was actually secondary. He always had a premonition that he might lose her at any time. He hoped it was just a delusion—otherwise, if he lived on, it probably wouldn’t have much meaning.
The Emperor only learned of Wanwan’s tragic loss of her beloved son on the third day.
Chong Mau looked at the dazed Emperor and called several times before he seemed to wake from a dream, asking when this had happened.
Chong Mau said, “It was the night after the two Grand Secretaries confronted Her Highness. She miscarried that very night—the child was lost, and it was a boy.”
The Emperor slapped the armrest of the dragon throne and cursed loudly about the outrage. “Why are we only hearing about this now? What have all the people outside been doing?”
Chong Mau felt very wronged. “Haven’t you been in closed retreat these past two days, refusing to see anyone? Even if I had received the news, I couldn’t have delivered it to you.”
The Emperor’s momentum flagged. He stood up and paced in circles on the floor, muttering to himself: “This is really bad now. Wanwan must hate me to death. If I hadn’t insisted on keeping her in the capital, this wouldn’t have happened…” He thought for a long time. “What should we do? Her health is too weak—just arguing with people for a few sentences and it comes to this…”
Actually, Rome wasn’t built in a day. Chong Mau had nothing good to say and just watched him. “Your Majesty, won’t you go see Her Highness?”
The Emperor made an acknowledging sound. “Right, I must go.” He hurried to the door then hesitated again. “I’m afraid she won’t want to see me. If I press my warm face against her cold rear, how will I save face?”
In the end, they were siblings. Even if he couldn’t save face, the Emperor still went.
Imperial travel required great ceremony. The entire route was cleared, with Brocade Guards stationed every ten paces—at this time, the Emperor was very concerned about his life. Entering Grand Princess’s residence, since Wanwan couldn’t come out to receive him, he went straight to the rear chambers. Her room had a very strong medicinal smell. The Emperor even caught a whiff of blood—as if three days after the miscarriage, this smell still hadn’t dissipated, making him somewhat uncomfortable. But the person on the bed was his own sister—he could dislike anyone but not her. He gritted his teeth and passed through the floor screen. Wanwan had her eyes closed, still sleeping. The nanny was about to announce his presence, but he raised his hand to stop her, pulling over a stool to sit by the bed and wait, looking at his sister’s bloodless face. For a moment, his emotions were mixed, his heart aching as if cut by knives.
There were few siblings among them. Including that dead eldest brother, there were only three in total. Wanwan was eight years younger than him. Back then, he had taken her to catch dragonflies on the cinnabar steps in front of Jinshen Hall and to fish for tadpoles in the Flowing Cup Canal in the Imperial Garden. She was small and couldn’t help much, just carried the basket for him. At four or five years old, she wasn’t even as tall as his waist. Now she had grown up and nearly had a child, but in his eyes, she was still his little sister, someone who should be looked after.
If he hadn’t become emperor, perhaps the siblings wouldn’t have ended up like this—it was all this damned imperial power’s fault. Originally, he had been wary of Prince Nanyuan, but after Wanwan married him, he felt nothing major could happen. But those cabinet ministers kept nagging in his ears, and over time, he wavered too. After all, compared to the empire and state, his sister’s marriage wasn’t that important. If one wearing red wedding clothes didn’t work out, there were others wearing green. He felt that if Prince Nanyuan really wouldn’t do, he could find Wanwan another son-in-law. But he seemed to have underestimated the depth of their feelings, which made him somewhat angry. Could Yuwen Liang Shi really be better than her own brother?
Somewhat jealous, somewhat indignant—his sister had been taken away by someone else for the greater part, making him dislike Prince Nanyuan even more. Though Wanwan’s loss of the child was indeed sad, she would forget about it after some time passed. When his current batch of elixir pills was completed, he decided to give her ten to try. No matter how much he liked to monopolize good things, he couldn’t leave his sister out of his immortality plan.