Inside the brilliantly lit Zhaoyang Hall, palace maids and medical attendants rushed about in every direction, each of them with downcast eyes and subdued expressions.

Aside from the muffled moans drifting faintly from within the inner chambers, there was no other sound; the hall was terrifyingly still, the intermittent moans entering the ear and setting the heart trembling.

Outside the hall stood the imperial guards in their formidable armor, standing at the ready. The night was the color of lead and iron, pressing down with a heaviness that made it hard to breathe.

In my memory, this timeless and desolate Zhaoyang Hall was for the second time welcoming the arrival of a new life.

The Empress Minzhen had once given birth here to Elder Brother Zilong’s son… That day, it seemed, was also a time of upheaval in the palace and transformation across the heavens. How many years had passed — and yet before my eyes I could still seem to see Empress Xie in her white, mournful robes, holding the infant in her arms, kneeling before me to entrust me with the child. Now, Prince Jing had been removed from his imperial position and sent to a distant fief; his illness had gradually shown improvement, and he had at least secured a lifetime of peace. As for sister Wanru’s entrustment — had I fulfilled it, or failed her? And Zilong — had he been reborn among the common people, as he had wished? Was he freely and contentedly living out a life as an ordinary person?

Lost in the glow of a palace lantern, I drifted, blankly absorbed in the tangle of past events.

Then all at once, a faint baby’s cry reached me — startling me so that my whole body trembled.

That sound was fragile and delicate, like a little kitten. My heart immediately began pounding; I silently prayed to heaven for mercy — please let it be a girl!

Nanny Liao stepped hurriedly out of the inner chambers and knelt down. “The Empress has given birth to a little imperial prince.”

A great roaring filled my ears; the last thread of hoping for a lucky chance shattered.

An imperial prince… In the end it was a little imperial prince. In the end I was being forced to make this decision.

I sank back into my chair and looked up blankly, feeling as though this Zhaoyang Hall had never seemed as grim and forbidding as it did at this moment.

Among the phoenix eaves and carved beams, amid the palace brocade and hanging curtains, flickering, swaying shadows seemed to be the imperial ancestors of generations past, the empresses of every dynasty — spirits that had not yet dispersed.

At this moment they gazed down at me from on high, looking down at this woman in whose veins flowed half the blood of the imperial clan — watching to see whether she would, with her own hands, strangle the final bloodline of this dynasty nearing its end.

— “Keep a girl, not a boy.” Those five words Xiao Qi had granted me that day had left the infant half a thread of hope for survival.

I had clung to this sliver of hope all along, praying heaven would take pity and let Hu Yao give birth to a daughter.

And the other half of that hope for survival had long been secretly arranged.

For a long time now I had been turning it over and over in my mind — how to leave Zidan and his wife and child a way out; how, in the future, like Prince Jing, they could leave the cage of the deep palace and go to some place of clear mountains and beautiful waters to live out their remaining years in peace.

Even up until just before today, that had still been my plan — if the imperial Empress gave birth to an imperial prince, I would secretly spirit the child out of the palace, concealing him within the Prince’s residence under the identity of a wet nurse’s son, while proclaiming to the outside world that the little imperial prince had died in infancy. After Zidan abdicated and departed for his distant fief, the little imperial prince would be returned to him, to live by his parents’ side as an adopted son.

But the secret edict had failed. The Hu clan had been wiped out. And Zidan’s hateful, desperate slap had dealt a fatal blow to all of my calculations.

My wishful thinking had been wrong — completely, utterly wrong.

Zidan was not Prince Jing — he was not a child who could be manipulated his entire life.

The hatred of a throne seized, the enmity of an entire clan destroyed — these could never be resolved for the rest of their lives.

Zidan and Xiao Qi, Hu Yao and I — we were destined to be enemies for all eternity.

This infant had not yet come to know the joys and sorrows of the world. Yet many years from now, what would he become? Did he know that from the moment of his birth, he already bore the grievances of his parents’ generation — while this bloodline endured, the enmity would never cease!

“Your Highness!” Nanny Liao called to me in a low voice. “The Empress is weak after childbirth and is still in a faint. The little imperial prince was born prematurely — not yet at full term — and is constitutionally deficient; at present he appears frail and cause for concern.”

My heart tightened. “Bring the child to me. Let me see him.”

“Yes.” Nanny Liao withdrew in response.

I pondered for a moment. “Summon the imperial physicians.”

A wet nurse stepped out of the inner chambers, cradling a bright yellow swaddling in her arms. She came before me and knelt down, carefully raising the swaddling with both hands.

The infant swaddled within did not cry; he only made faint, soft sounds.

My hand trembled as I lifted it, just about to take the child from the wet nurse’s arms — when I suddenly caught a clear glimpse of the child’s face. Those contours, that nose and mouth — they were the very image of Zidan’s; yet the brow and eyes were strikingly like Hu Yao’s.

He seemed to sense my gaze. His fine lashes fluttered, and he actually opened his eyes.

In that instant I had the illusion of seeing a pair of grief-stricken, resentful eyes — like a venomous gleam piercing into the depths of my own.

Those were clearly Hu Yao’s eyes, yet they also seemed to belong to Hu Guangyuan — that bright-spirited, handsome youth; that youth who had taken his own life in prison.

The wet nurse saw my hand extended, yet I stood frozen in place, and was about to place the swaddling into my hands.

“Do not come closer!” I shuddered, stumbled backward, and my wide sleeve swept the palace lantern off the table.

The lantern toppled and went out; the space before me plunged into sudden darkness.

“This servant deserves death!” The wet nurse, frightened into prostrating herself in a desperate kowtow, held the infant and trembled, utterly at a loss.

The child, startled it seemed, let out a faint whimper.

I backed up several more steps before I steadied my heart, pressing my hand to my chest. I found I did not dare look at that tiny swaddling.

The palace lanterns swayed all around, yet they could not illuminate my face — it was only hiding in the shadows that I felt safe.

“Your Highness, the imperial physicians have arrived.” Nanny Liao looked past me, her expression one of startled uncertainty.

Hearing booted footsteps, I turned to look — it was not only the three imperial physicians who had come; striding ahead of them was Song Huai’an.

I drew a sharp, cold breath and looked up at Song Huai’an, meeting his calm gaze directly.

That calm, bordering on the cruel — a gaze that not even death could move.

“The imperial physicians are here. Shall we immediately examine the little imperial prince?” Song Huai’an lowered his head. “I await Your Highness’s instruction.”

My gaze moved slowly across the faces of the three imperial physicians.

Imperial Physician Sun, Imperial Physician Xu, Imperial Physician Liu — so it was them.

Even I had not known that these three physicians of great prestige and reputation had also pledged their allegiance to Xiao Qi.

Xiao Qi had truly arranged everything long in advance.

If one wished to make a newborn infant die, who could accomplish it more easily than the imperial physicians?

This child’s life or death rested entirely in their hands, between a single gesture.

Song Huai’an said not a word, waiting for my directive.

If I did not give consent, what would he do? If I forcibly took the child away, as in my original plan, concealing him safely — and then what? Even if this child grew up safely, what fate would await him?

Cold sweat trickled down; my mind was a mass of confusion. I could think no further, feeling only a helpless, hopeless exhaustion. Every path I had calculated had been wrong, wrong, wrong — yet how could any path be right? Drifting in a daze for ten years through all this right and wrong — who was there to give me a clear accounting?

A palace maidservant hurried out of the inner chambers, knelt down, and said, “Your Highness, the Empress has awakened and is asking about the little prince…”

“Insolent!” Song Huai’an cut her off sharply. “The deposed Empress Hu has been reduced to commoner status. Anyone who speaks out of turn and shows disrespect will receive thirty strokes of the court rod!”

The maidservant froze in terror, too frightened even to beg for mercy; the guards nearby immediately stepped forward and dragged her out.

The palace maids around them were already kneeling on the floor in fright, every one of them shaking with fear.

Song Huai’an lowered his head. “I urge Your Highness to make a swift decision.”

I wearily closed my eyes. To survive amid hatred and enmity, or to die in a state of unknowing — which of these was the merciful choice? If someday this child would bring new slaughter and upheaval — whether it was Xiao Qi, or my Che’er — someone would inevitably have to stand against him. Then I would rather that person be me. I would rather bear this burden of killing on my own shoulders.

In my body ran half the blood of the imperial clan — the same blood as this child.

Let this bloodline be severed by my hand. Let all return to nothing.

“Please have the imperial physicians examine His Highness’s pulse.” I turned and walked, step by step, toward the outside of the Zhaoyang Hall.

Stepping outside the hall, the night was the color of ink, the outlines of the distant and nearby palace buildings severe and forbidding.

I slowly turned back and looked into the depths of the Zhaoyang Hall.

The past came crashing down like a collapsing snow mountain, surging and rushing over me, burying me.

Once, I had taken my first toddling steps here, strummed the qin as a little child, and delighted in the warmth of my aunt’s side. Once, I had first met Zidan here, innocent and carefree, spending the purest years of my life. Once, I had received the imperial betrothal here, my fate turning from that moment, as I set foot on this road from which there was no turning back. Once, I had placed my aunt under house arrest here, had betrayed my own kin, and for the first time stained my hands with blood. Once, I had watched Empress Xie take her own life here and entrust her child to my care… Today, I had deposed Zidan’s empress here, and put his son to death.

A patrolling guard startled a flock of crows; they clattered and flew over the palace wall.

The crows’ calls were mournful — each one like a sob.

“Nanny Xu…” I called out blankly.

“Your Highness!” But it was Song Huai’an’s voice.

I was in something of a daze. I turned to look at him for a long moment before remembering that Nanny Xu was not here beside me.

He seemed to be saying something, yet I could not make out a single word.

I reached out to the veranda column and groped my way forward a few steps, then leaned my back against the cool carved column and slowly slid down to sit on the ground.

Song Huai’an reached out to help me, intending to assist me to my feet.

I shook my head, drew my knees up to my chest, and buried my face deep against them.

It was very cold, very exhausting. I had no more strength to speak; I only wanted to sleep like this.

In a daze, someone’s arms lifted me up — there was a faint warmth, yet it was not the embrace I knew… Xiao Qi, where have you gone? Why has it been this long, and still you have not come back?

Before me were raging flames; behind me was a ten-thousand-zhang abyss. Danger lay in advancing or retreating. In a daze, it felt like being back in Ningshuo, suspended once again in solitude from a sheer cliff — and then a familiar figure appeared, reaching out a hand toward me from afar.

I ran toward it without a second thought, then suddenly felt my body lurch empty beneath me, dropping in a sharp plunge.

“Xiao Qi!” The cry escaped my lips in alarm. I opened my eyes — only embroidered curtains hung low, morning light just filtering through. There was no trace of him.

Remembering the dream I had just had, I felt alternately hot and cold throughout my body, my inner garments soaked through with sweat.

I pushed aside the bed curtain and gripped the bed post as I stepped down. A’Yue lifted the curtain and came in, hurrying to drape my outer robe over my shoulders.

“How did I sleep so long?” I walked blankly to the window and pushed it open; a fresh, cool breeze swept in against my face.

A’Yue rolled up the hanging curtain. “It was not long at all. You did not return to the residence until midnight; you have rested for less than two hours.”

“Even that was too long — at this moment there is not a single moment to spare…” I suddenly stopped, my gaze crossing the winding covered walkway to see the figure standing motionless in the courtyard ahead. “That is —”

“It is Chancellor Song.” A’Yue replied quietly. “After escorting Your Highness back to the residence last night, Chancellor Song has remained standing watch here without leaving.”

I stared for a long moment, unable to speak.

That figure stood bathed in morning light, like a golden-armored guardian standing sentinel.

I washed and tidied myself briefly, pinned up my hair, and pushed the door open to step outside, walking around behind him.

“Huai’an.”

His shoulders gave a slight start; he turned to look at me, then immediately bent forward to bow.

I raised my hand in a gesture to stop him; my fingertips grazed his sleeve and then withdrew — rank and propriety maintaining the proper distance between us without effort.

He asked after my wellbeing with his usual composure, measured and proper in his conduct, making no mention of last night’s harrowing events, nor of the urgent situation pressing in on all sides.

In the morning light, everything seemed clean and tranquil, as though last night had been only a nightmare that had already dispersed in the dawn.

I looked at him and smiled faintly. “Thank you, Chancellor of the Right.”

He smiled in return. “I would not dare accept.”

“It seems I am always thanking you.” Watching his reserved and solemn manner, I could not help but smile.

“And I am always filled with trepidation.” He smiled, revealing a row of white teeth.

This was the first time he had spoken to me without calling himself “your subordinate” or “this humble official.”

As we walked together down the covered corridor toward the study, he followed always with his hands at his sides, one step behind me.

He had always been right here — within my sight, never leaving, yet never drawing closer.

Without realizing it, ten years had passed. The youthful, spirited young general of those days had now ascended to the pinnacle of court rank, with children surrounding him at home.

And the new bride who had thrown her bridal veil in fury at the chamber door — what had she become now? I had probably aged a great deal as well — I recalled in a haze that it had been very long since I had looked properly in a mirror; I could not at that moment picture my own face.

Not only the years had changed; there were many other things that had changed too, been lost, and could never be retrieved.

After all the wandering and upheaval, whatever still remained by one’s side was all the more precious and worthy of cherishing.

The little imperial prince passed away in the first quarter of the third night watch.

Mourning bells rang; all six palace precincts observed a period of mourning.

At the third quarter of the fifth watch, the Hu clan and seventy-three other persons implicated in the treason were all taken into custody and jailed, not one — young or old — was missed.

In a time of chaos, the strong survive and the weak perish. Even a family as brilliant as the great clans of Wang and Xie could face destruction at any moment.

This, then, was the difference that came from being a single step away from the pinnacle of power.

How many coveted that throne of the Son of Heaven; and how many had no choice in the matter — for if they did not reach the highest position, they would only be left at the mercy of others.

The sealed letter I had written by my own hand had already been dispatched on horseback to Xiao Qi. Now that the Hu clan had been wiped out and the imperial succession extinguished, Zidan’s abdication had become inevitable.

And abdication was also Zidan’s last hope for survival.

The conferment of the Nine Imperial Gifts had already been an omen of abdication; it only awaited Xiao Qi’s triumphant return to the capital to carry out the ceremony of the transfer of the mandate.

I ordered Song Huai’an to begin preparations for the abdication proceedings. At the same time, I had the few surviving senior members of the imperial clan submit petitions of their own accord, requesting to retire to their fiefs and live out their remaining years.

Everything was proceeding step by step in accordance with our wishes; it could truly be said that all preparations were complete — only Xiao Qi’s return was awaited.

Yet he had clearly received my sealed letter and still showed no sign of withdrawing his troops.

After Prince Yuzhang’s forces took the Southern Turk royal city, rather than pulling back, they rested for only five days before Xiao Qi personally led the army onward — pressing forward relentlessly, crossing the vast, desolate snow-covered mountain range that lay between the territories of the Southern and Northern Turks, a place virtually untrodden by any human foot. For the first time, the iron hooves of a Central Plains army set foot on the frozen northern soil.

That was the birthplace of the Turk people — in that most northerly, bitterly cold land, which even the Turks themselves were unwilling to inhabit for long, which was why they had for generations raided southward, willing to wage countless wars in order to secure a foothold in the warm, fertile south.

No foreign people other than the Northern Turks had ever set foot on that land.

To occupy that territory meant that the Turk people had lost their last homeland — meant surrender and extinction.

This fierce people who had dominated the northern regions for hundreds of years, standing against the Central Plains generation after generation — even after being repelled time and again, retreating into the desert again and again — had always managed through tenacious vitality to rise again in the north, becoming a permanent threat to the Central Plains.

This people were like wild grass on the steppe — seemingly indestructible.

Yet this time, the history books appeared to be on the verge of being rewritten entirely by Xiao Qi’s hand.

Winter was approaching; the far northern land would soon face an ice-and-snow lockdown lasting as long as five months.

The Turks’ strength lay in swiftness; their advantage was in battle. Their initial assault was bold and fierce, but difficult to sustain over time.

Xie Xiaohe led fifty thousand infantry and cavalry to occupy the Great Yanshan Mountains, cutting off the Turks’ supply lines.

If a prolonged siege penned the enemy forces within a dead city with no food or supplies to sustain them, their fighting spirit would inevitably be spent, their morale broken and defeated. Even without spending a single soldier, the Turks could be starved to death.

From ancient times to the present, how many famous generals and conquering monarchs had led their armies northward, hoping to crush the barbarians and unify north and south.

With Xiao Qi’s illustrious military achievements, he had already reached a place no one before him had ever reached.

Yet here he stood, a single step from the summit of a ten-thousand-fathom peak — the incomparable, once-in-a-lifetime accomplishment he had thirsted for his entire life was finally within sight. At this moment, there was no force in existence that could make him let go.