Little Zhu Zhanhe’s days weren’t easy either.
Last autumn, when Zhu Zhanhe returned from his studies, he demonstrated his three-shot consecutive technique before his father Prince Han and Emperor Yongle, naturally receiving praise and rewards. However, the first person to eat crab is a hero, while the second person to eat crab… is just ordinary.
Zhu Zhanhe hadn’t brought the same surprise that his elder cousin Zhu Zhanji had years ago.
Fortunately, Zhu Zhanhe was straightforward, not like his elder cousin with a wasp’s nest for a heart, so he didn’t feel such deep frustration.
Prince Han and his wife hadn’t seen their eldest son for two years and doted on him greatly. As they say, even a newly built toilet smells fragrant for three days, and college students returning home for winter and summer breaks are their parents’ treasures for three days—after three days, they become trash that can’t be thrown away fast enough.
So Zhu Zhanhe’s initial days were manageable.
Two months ago, during the annual Dragon Boat Festival willow shooting, imperial clan members, hereditary nobles, civil and military officials, and tributary envoys from various nations all watched the ceremony.
Imperial Grandsons Zhu Zhanji and Zhu Zhanhe both performed three consecutive shots, hitting the targets together—a draw. Seeing the Zhu family had successors, Emperor Yongle was very pleased and decided to add another test, saying: “Today, Chinese and foreign peoples gather together. I have words—you should compose a matching line.”
Emperor Yongle pointed to flags fluttering like clouds, asking his grandsons to compose poetry, saying: “Ten thousand nations bring jade and silk to this gathering of wind and clouds.”
Emperor Yongle’s literary cultivation was ordinary. This line wasn’t improvised—it was prepared in advance by his cabinet secretary team of Xie Jin, Yang Shiqi, and others.
Zhu Zhanhe wasn’t skilled at this and was pondering when his elder cousin Zhu Zhanji had already composed a perfect matching line: “One unified realm under sun and moon bright.”
Everyone praised the Imperial Grandson’s excellent poetry. For political social poetry, it needn’t be particularly beautiful or outstanding—being appropriate and pleasing to the emperor made it good poetry.
The Crown Prince was so happy that his face became oily with sweat. Having a promising son was wonderful. For the horses’ physical and mental health, the Crown Prince had voluntarily withdrawn from the archery competition. Emperor Yongle, also afraid the Crown Prince would embarrass himself publicly—unable to shoot arrows while exhausting his horse—had agreed to let the Crown Prince withdraw.
Now the Crown Prince’s lost face had been recovered by the Imperial Grandson. Emperor Yongle’s gaze toward the Crown Prince softened considerably.
Prince Han’s heart churned with jealousy, but he outwardly praised his nephew greatly, calling Zhu Zhanji “accomplished in both civil and military arts.”
After speaking, Prince Han frantically signaled his son Zhu Zhanhe with his eyes: Go on, son! Compose a good poem too and win back the scene.
Zhu Zhanhe already had a line in mind, but since it wasn’t as good as the Imperial Grandson’s, he wouldn’t embarrass himself by speaking it. So he didn’t respond to his father.
Prince Han felt he had lost face. Upon returning to Prince Han’s mansion, when Princess Han heard that the Imperial Grandson had greatly distinguished himself while their own son performed “quite ordinarily,” she was also angry. The couple then engaged in “teaching their child in court”—a mixed doubles beating—scolding Zhu Zhanhe bloody, saying he was unambitious.
From village commoners to noble imperial families, spanning five thousand years, children’s greatest enemy and pain point has always been “how other people’s children perform.”
Other people’s children gathered so many fruits their caves couldn’t hold them all—your gathered fruits were poisonous. Other people’s children became top scholars—you couldn’t even earn a basic degree. Other people’s children earned millions annually with homes in third-tier areas and local license plates, taking their families abroad annually—you worked 996 schedules, rising earlier than roosters and eating worse than dogs, ashamed to face hometown folks during New Year, and after the holiday, rolling back to your cramped rental where the landlord notified you of this year’s rent increase…
Zhu Zhanhe was constantly compared to Zhu Zhanji by his parents, but unlike Zhu Zhanji’s ninja turtle-like patience, Zhu Zhanji never directly confronted parents and elders, always remaining humble and respectful.
Zhu Zhanhe was different. From childhood, he had been pampered like stars surrounding the moon. When his elder cousin was sent to Yunnan as the “spark,” he became the eldest in Prince Yan’s mansion, his fate rising and falling with the mansion. Princess Yan increasingly pitied this second grandson.
Zhu Zhanhe had been rebellious since age five, traveling thousands of miles alone in women’s clothing to evade his father’s pursuit. Now at the age of seven or eight when even dogs found him annoying, being thoroughly scolded by his parents—how could he endure it?
Zhu Zhanhe exploded like a volcano. At this moment, he was no longer Zhu Zhanhe but Niuhuru·Shuikeng.
Niuhuru·Shuikeng questioned his father: “You say I’m no good—Father, if you’re so capable, you do it! Let’s hear you compose a matching line?”
Prince Han felt a breath stuck in his throat, unable to say anything.
“Your Highness!” Princess Han hurriedly patted Prince Han’s back, helping him breathe.
Zhu Zhanhe continued his tirade: “If the composition were better than elder brother’s, that would be fine, but if it were just ordinary, wouldn’t that be self-humiliation?”
Hearing this, Prince Han’s breath, just cleared by the Princess, became blocked again.
Zhu Zhanhe still wasn’t satisfied: “Also, Father and Mother, stop always comparing me to elder brother! Elder brother is two years older than me—he’s eaten more rice than I’ve drunk porridge. He’s willing to work hard and study—it’s normal for his literary talent to be somewhat stronger than mine. You shouldn’t always blame me for being inferior to him. I’m younger than him, so being worse is right! So what if I lose? I lose with clear conscience.”
Zhu Zhanhe didn’t consider losing to an excellent cousin shameful—Zhu Zhanji was recognized as comprehensively talented in civil and military arts. He wasn’t losing to ordinary people—why scold him? He had self-respect and needed face too.
These words hit Prince Han’s sore spot. Come on, let’s hurt each other!
“You, you, you!” Prince Han pointed at his son, so angry his soul nearly shattered. “You worthless thing! Must the second son always be inferior to the eldest? Is eating two more years of food so remarkable? I’m the second son, and in military achievements, martial skills, talent, and reputation, I’m much better than the eldest Crown Prince in every way! Why don’t you learn from me?”
Zhu Zhanhe retorted: “Is defeating a big fat man who pants just from walking really worth bragging about?”
My opponent and your opponent aren’t on the same level. My victory would be glorious; your victory is normal.
Prince Han nearly fainted from anger. Following the emperor in campaigns north and south, facing countless desperate situations, he had never been so angry as to nearly collapse.
Prince Han grabbed his son by the collar, issued a house arrest order, locked him in the study room with five tutors taking turns in force-feeding education. He must win against Zhu Zhanji in poetry composition.
Zhu Zhanhe endured two months. Hearing that Palace Supervisor Hu had come to the capital and lived next door, how could he sit still? Ignoring any house arrest orders, he seized the opportunity to escape Prince Han’s mansion and seek help at the Hu residence.
Open the door, release Zhu Zhanhe.
Upon seeing Hu Shanwei, Zhu Zhanhe immediately ran over, half-crouched to hug her legs: “Palace Supervisor Hu, save me! Father wants to beat me to death.”
Just as he finished speaking, pursuers from Prince Han’s mansion arrived at the Hu residence to collect him. The managing eunuch bowed and said: “The heir apparent is naughty and has disturbed Palace Supervisor Hu.”
Zhu Zhanhe refused to let go: “I won’t go back. All day copying poems, reciting poems, writing poems—I hate all this wet and dry stuff. I’m not taking the imperial examination. Palace Supervisor Hu, if I continue studying, I’ll be driven crazy.”
Compared to the aloof and mature Zhu Zhanji, this version was more appealing to women. Seeing his pitiful state, Hu Shanwei’s maternal instincts flared, and she told Prince Han’s managing eunuch: “Let the heir apparent stay today. Tomorrow I’ll visit Prince Han’s mansion and bring him back then.”
The managing eunuch returned to report. Prince Han and his wife immediately changed from anger to joy: This boy might be useless at everything else, but he was much better than Zhu Zhanji at building relationships. As soon as Palace Supervisor Hu arrived, he immediately clung to this three-dynasty Palace Supervisor. Building good relations with Palace Supervisor Hu would definitely benefit Prince Han’s mansion.
Specialization in different fields—Prince Han and his wife no longer forced Zhu Zhanhe to write poetry.
As soon as the managing eunuch left, Zhu Zhanhe immediately revived: “Palace Supervisor Hu, Sister A’Lei, you’ve come from afar. Let me be the host—I’ll charter a pleasure boat on the Qinhuai River to treat you both to sightseeing and dinner.”
Compared to Zhu Zhanji’s cautious escort only to Kunning Palace’s entrance, Zhu Zhanhe’s unrestrained sincere invitation was undoubtedly more likely to win others’ favor.
Hearing this, while Hu Shanwei was merely accepting, A’Lei excitedly clapped: “Great! I’ve long wanted to take a night cruise on the Qinhuai River.”
On the pleasure boat, A’Lei stared at the riverside scenery. When the boat reached Zhuque Bridge, she smelled bursts of fragrance. Finding this strange, A’Lei craned her neck to look out, but Hu Shanwei pulled her back with a snap, closing the window with a thud.
A’Lei didn’t understand: “Sister, why won’t you let me look? It smells so good outside—what flowers are planted there?”
Past Zhuque Bridge heading south, that stretch was full of brothels and pleasure quarters. With day-night reversed schedules, evening was when the girls woke up to wash, comb their hair, and apply makeup, so the entire waterway was fragrant with perfumes.
Hu Shanwei worried A’Lei might see “inappropriate for minors” content, so she closed the window, cleared her throat lightly: “‘Young nobles of Wuling compete with silk scarves, countless red gauze for one song’—this describes such places.”
This was from “Ballad of the Pipa,” where Bai Juyi described encountering a fallen famous courtesan on the river—”few carriages and horses before her door, married in old age to a merchant.”
A’Lei immediately understood what “intoxicated with gold and jade” meant—the scent she’d smelled was rouge fragrance. The capital was truly different.
Without scenery to watch, being confined in the pleasure boat was somewhat awkward. Hu Shanwei started conversation, asking Zhu Zhanhe why he had suddenly run away from home.
Children raised in the imperial family—even honest Zhu Zhanhe knew to tell half truths while hiding half: “Father and Mother forced me to learn poetry writing. I’m not a literary official—what’s the use of learning this? I’m not the type to mourn spring and lament autumn either. I just heard Palace Supervisor Hu and Sister A’Lei had come to the capital. Back in Kunming, I often went to Palace Supervisor Hu’s house for meals. Now that you’ve come to the capital, I must return the invitation to welcome you properly. So I secretly ran out—at worst, I’ll get beaten tomorrow.”
Naturally, Hu Shanwei didn’t believe this little brat’s words, but for someone so young to speak so nicely, Prince Han had raised this eldest son quite well.
Of course, Imperial Grandson Zhu Zhanji was more perfect, but being too perfect seemed fake. In comparison, Zhu Zhanhe had a “natural, uncarved” feeling.
After the pleasure boat passed the row of “red light districts,” Hu Shanwei opened the window, letting A’Lei see enough.
That night, A’Lei dreamed of the Qinhuai River’s oar sounds and lamp shadows.
The next day, Hu Shanwei began return visits to neighbors, first to Prince Han’s mansion to hand over Zhu Zhanhe. Seeing their son so intimate with Palace Supervisor Hu, Prince Han and Princess Han fell in love with their eldest son again and no longer demanded he write poetry.
Having visited Prince Han’s mansion, she went to the Mu mansion.
Hu Shanwei felt somewhat like “an ugly daughter-in-law finally meeting her in-laws”—this was Mu Chun’s former home, the place he most detested.
Theoretically, Hu Shanwei was the Mu mansion’s eldest legitimate daughter-in-law.
However, mother-in-law Duke Qianguo’s Grand Madam Geng maintained her Buddhist hall vigil, while sister-in-law Duke Qianguo’s Madam Cheng and fourth brother-in-law Mu Xin received Hu Shanwei.
No longer playing the resentful wife, Madam Cheng was much more confident and cheerful than before, warmly inviting Hu Shanwei: “I hear Palace Supervisor Hu has a young sister. I also have three daughters about Miss Hu’s age. Distant relatives aren’t as good as close neighbors—we’re all neighbors and should interact more. In a few days, the young ladies are organizing a lotus-viewing gathering. All the young ladies from noble families in the capital will come play. I’m sending an invitation to Miss Hu today—come join the fun.”
Prince Han’s mansion, having no daughters, couldn’t easily invite A’Lei. The Mu mansion was different. A’Lei needed social connections and to go out—the Mu mansion was a good social avenue.
Hu Shanwei accepted the invitation, thanking Duke Qianguo’s wife on A’Lei’s behalf.
Prince Consort Mu Xin was handsome with smiling eyes and sweet words: “I came to the capital at three, studying in the palace. I knew Palace Supervisor Hu then. Now I’m married, but seeing Palace Supervisor Hu again, it’s as if you look exactly as you did when I was three. Palace Supervisor Hu truly has eternal youth.”
Mu Xin was also among the younger generation Hu Shanwei had watched grow up—the former booger-eating troublesome child had become a prince consort. Hu Shanwei deeply sweated for Mu Xin:
All ten prince consorts of the Hongwu reign died unnatural deaths—none survived.
The only prince consort of the Jianwen reign, Princess Jiangdu’s husband Geng Xuan, was killed when Emperor Yongle exterminated the entire Geng family of Marquis Changxing—also none surviving.
Now in the Yongle reign, would the prince consorts be cursed by the inherited misfortune of “prince consorts must die”?
After visiting her “maternal family” Mu mansion, seeing it was still early and moved by seeing Mu Xin, Hu Shanwei went to Beijing’s outskirts. She bought incense, candles, and paper money along the way to pay respects to Prince Consort Wang Ning.
Her first and most painful love had turned to yellow earth underground. A tombstone marked the boundary between yin and yang—she outside, Wang Ning inside.
Hu Shanwei lit three incense sticks for Wang Ning and spoke as if chatting with an old friend: “You died taking the princess’s blame for your wife and children. Thinking back, you abandoned me for national righteousness. I resented and blamed you. Now I’ve also established home and career with descendants. I can understand your principles. Rest… in peace.”
The next day, Palace Supervisor Hu entered the palace. Shen Qionglian transferred the Palace Supervisor position to her and immediately left the palace to join her father and brothers in seeking ancestor Shen Xiu’s grave in Yunnan-Guizhou for reburial in Jiangnan.
With authority back in her hands, Hu Shanwei handled things with ease. With Empress Xu’s support, the handover work proceeded smoothly.
Just three days later, on the evening of the fourth day of the seventh month, after a heavy rain had cleared the stuffiness leaving fresh weather, Empress Xu found her room stuffy and went to the pavilion to see the green peacocks. Emperor Yongle, concerned about his wife’s health, temporarily stopped work and went to Kunning Palace, planning to accompany the empress in conversation and dinner together. If he could coax the empress to drink one more bowl of porridge, that would be even better.
The pavilion held a luohan couch. Empress Xu weakly leaned against Emperor Yongle’s shoulder, watching the green peacocks spread their tails. She felt her eyelids growing heavier and simply closed her eyes to nap briefly.
Emperor Yongle felt Empress Xu’s breathing becoming shallower until it stopped.
“Empress… Miaoyi?”
Xu Miaoyi was the empress’s maiden name.
His empress had gone, forever.
Emperor Yongle didn’t move or cry out to summon Court Physician Ru and Imperial Physician Tan. He sat on the luohan couch like a sculpture, allowing the gradually cooling Empress Xu to lean against him, futilely trying to warm his wife back to life with his body heat.
Fifth year of Yongle, fourth day of the seventh month—Empress Xu died at age forty-six.