The imperial carriage retraced the path we had come by, driving back through the Gate of Taihua I had just departed, and I was overtaken by a strange sense of having passed through a lifetime.

Everywhere the rebel army had passed, they had slaughtered without mercy. Blood was spattered across the ceremonial steps. Bronze vessels lay overturned. The imperial regalia and ceremonial objects had been scattered and abandoned. Every palace chamber had been subjected to search and killing. Among the corpses covering the ground, the greater half were young and beautiful palace maids and consorts. Surviving palace attendants fled and hid in all directions. When they saw the Empress Dowager’s and my carriage returning to the palace, they immediately fell prostrate, wailing and crying out, begging to be saved. The rebel troops inside the palace had been nearly all annihilated. The remaining scattered soldiers surrendered and cast down their arms.

When we reached the Hall of Qianyuan, I ascended the jade steps. The dragon-and-phoenix-carved stairs were streaked with winding blood that stained the hem of my robes.

A corpse lay sprawled ahead, the silk palace garments soaked through with fresh blood, dark hair trailing across the ground.

I recognized her face. She was Noble Lady Feng, newly appointed to her rank not long ago. An extremely fine cut of a blade had passed across her throat. The skin and flesh were intact, yet blood had poured from that thin slash in great flowing sheets, trailing down from shoulder to neck, congealing on the jade steps below her, a vivid, shocking crimson. The overpowering smell of blood flooded my nostrils. That chalk-white face, twisted with terror, expanded in my eyes—

“Please step back, Princess Consort.” Xie Xiaohe came swiftly forward, wanting to block my view.

I raised my hand to stop him and looked down at the wound on the corpse — fine as a red thread, barely visible, yet it had killed with a single strike.

“It was Song Huai’an,” Xie Xiaohe said in a low voice.

A wound like that — I had seen it once in Huizhou, and had never been able to forget it.

Xie Xiaohe turned and instructed those around him to have everything cleaned up and to prepare for His Highness the Prince to ascend to the hall.

I walked toward the hall with a blank expression, feeling for the first time that the jade steps of the Hall of Qianyuan were this long, as though one could walk a lifetime and never reach the top.

The face of Noble Lady Feng still floated before my eyes. I forced myself not to think of it, yet I could not shake the dim unease that had taken hold of my heart.

“Princess Consort, stop — do not go inside!” Xie Xiaohe’s shout rang out from behind me.

In an instant, a flash of intuition struck me, and I froze on the steps in sudden horror — the blood on Noble Lady Feng had not yet congealed. She must have been killed very recently.

If Song Huai’an had already escaped the palace long ago, how could he have killed someone here?

He had not left. He had never intended to flee at all. The escape was only a pretense to mislead us. He was waiting — waiting for Xiao Qi or for me to return to the palace, so that we would all perish together.

In an instant, I felt as though I had plunged into an ice cellar. I slowly raised my eyes.

Above the Hall of Qianyuan, the morning sun was just rising, its brilliance piercing my eyes.

At the top of the jade steps, in the center of the great hall, a ghost-like figure appeared.

He held a blade three feet long, had cast off his helmet, his hair disheveled and loose. The armor on his body was stained with blood, which, caught in the morning light, seemed to cast a pale reddish haze over him, as though his entire body were bathed in a mist of blood.

Across seven jade steps, his gaze collided with mine — like that of a dying beast.

Cold. Ice-cold. The coldness of despair.

Hot. Burning-hot. The frenzy of a man possessed.

Seven steps. The distance between life and death.

He suddenly drew his blade and slashed it toward me.

The long blade caught the sunlight in a brilliant flash, blazing across heaven and earth.

I closed my eyes. My heart was calm. In that final moment, Xiao Qi’s figure flashed through my mind.

It was as though I saw him leap forward on horseback with sword in hand, saw his deep, penetrating gaze cut through the fire and smoke and reach straight into the deepest place within my heart, from which point our souls had been linked ever since.

A gust of wind broke the air behind my ear. The clear sound of shattering bone rang out.

Everything — froze in an instant.

I opened my eyes. Three steps away, there was Song Huai’an’s blade.

He lurched violently backward, stumbling two steps, using the blade as a prop against the ground.

Three wolf-fang hawk-feathered arrows had pierced through his body.

One arrow through the left chest. One through the right knee. One driven into the right shoulder that held the blade.

Three arrows loosed at once, with the force of a thousand catties — force enough to pierce through heavy armor and topple a warhorse. No one but Xiao Qi could have done this.

Yet Song Huai’an did not fall. He remained upright, blade propping him up.

Blood poured from the large and small wounds across his body. His complexion was an almost transparent pallor.

He raised his blood-smeared face and fixed his gaze on me, as though only I remained in all of heaven and earth.

The sunlight fell on his face. He narrowed his eyes against it and, all at once, smiled. The long blade slipped from his hand and fell.

Slowly, he finally sank to his knees.

The blade’s edge — it was turned inward, gripped against himself, not pointed toward me.

This blade strike of his was not meant to kill another. It was only a plea for death.

He looked at me and smiled, revealing a row of gleaming white teeth, the hair at his temples blown astray by the wind.

I leaned forward and looked at him — for the first time looking at him this intently, my gaze lingering over his brows and eyes.

“I will remember you,” I said, looking into his eyes, “and never forget.”

He stared at me in a daze, then closed his eyes. When he opened them again, all the ferocity was entirely gone — there was only a vast, clear calm.

I straightened and drew the short sword from my sleeve. Huai’an — I will let you die as a general should, and spare you the shame of becoming a wretched prisoner.

He tilted his face up and looked at me without blinking, his smile composed and steady.

I put all my strength into a single sweep of the blade. The cold light lit the final brilliance in his eyes, and with it, the sigh at his lips was cut off as well.

His blood spattered across my plain-colored long robes, blossoming open like crimson flowers in full bloom. I withdrew the sword and turned away with a blank expression.

Xiao Qi, in full armor with his sword at his side, came running up the jade steps and stopped in front of me. His tall, upright frame blocked the blinding sunlight at his back, enveloping me in the shadow of his silhouette. Against the light, I could not make out his face or expression — only the breath that swept over me in a vast tide, at once familiar and unfamiliar… the smell of campaign dust, the smell of death, the smell of iron and blood.

Behind him, at the foot of the jade steps, all the court officials stood in solemn ranks. Soldiers and blades surrounded us on every side in stern formation.

I stepped back one pace, drew the abdication edict from my sleeve, and knelt before him. “Long live Your Majesty.”

My voice carried far down the jade steps. After a moment of silence, the assembled ministers below began to prostrate themselves one after another, and cries of “Long live” resounded throughout the forecourt of the hall.

His hands steadied and lifted both my arms, helping me to stand — these hands that had finally seized hold of all under heaven, seized imperial power, and also seized the joys and sorrows of my entire life. He called my name in a low voice, steady and warm. “Look — this is the realm that belongs to you and me!”

He steadied me, and we stood side by side together, facing the assembled ministers prostrating themselves below, facing all the people under heaven.

The cry of “Long live Your Majesty” rang out once more through the palace halls.

On the horizon, a great red sun rose high, illuminating all of heaven and earth in brilliant clarity.

More than half of the magnificent palace halls that had stood for over three hundred years were consumed by fire. The former dragon terraces and phoenix towers — including the sleeping quarters of the Emperor and Empress — were reduced to rubble and ash.

The Emperor and Empress had both died in the catastrophe, blood spattered across the ceremonial steps, their bones interred in a sea of fire.

A dynasty drew its curtain in this violent and devastating manner. The treasonous subject Song Huai’an was executed before the hall. The remaining rebel troops were annihilated by Hu Guanglie in the southern suburbs. Xiao Qi issued orders on the spot: all in the army implicated in the rebellion were to be imprisoned; the principal offenders were sentenced, but their family members and relatives were spared collective punishment, with guilt not extending to three generations. Those who had surrendered were pardoned without exception. Wei Han was promoted to Right Guard General. Xu Yikang, the Capital Defense Commander, was elevated to Marquis Guangde.

Before the Hall of Taihe, the white-haired elderly Prince of Guangling received the late Emperor’s testament edict from my hands and read it aloud, word by trembling word.

That young man who had once moved gracefully in a light robe would now become a solemn and austere temple name, becoming in their mouths “the Late Emperor” — no longer the living, breathing Zidan who could smile at me, grow angry with me, and shed tears for me.

When the edict had been proclaimed, the Prince of Lingnan knelt, tottering, and prostrated himself before Xiao Qi in full submission.

The royal coronet and high cap pressed down upon his head of silver hair as it struck the jade tiles heavily.

The former imperial clan had at last bowed their exalted heads and pledged allegiance to the new emperor.

The royal family, old ministers, common people — they had not yet had time to mourn the Emperor and Empress who had perished, and already they were welcoming their new sovereign.

I had stood by his side countless times before — as Princess Consort of Yuzhang, as his wife, as his partner in love — standing alongside him. Yet in this moment, I became his subject, bowing my head in obeisance before the ninety-fifth degree of supremacy.

His stern and cold profile was dusted with the pale gold of the morning light just beginning to rise, as though cast from gold and iron, betraying neither joy nor grief.

The Xiao Qi of this moment made me think of those enormous divine statues of cold white jade carved in the ancestral temples — gazing down upon all living beings from lofty heaven, composed and unhurried, grasping power supreme and absolute, master of all life and death in the world.

A hundred years from now, a thousand years from now — how will history record this moment, how will it write of this pair who founded a dynasty? For me, it was already like drifting clouds. For Xiao Qi, the imperial throne and the realm, the ninety-fifth degree of supremacy, was the fulfillment of the great wish of his lifetime, the beginning of the grand ambitions of his remaining years. For me, it was the end of half a lifetime of desperate struggle. At last I need no longer be afraid. At last I need no longer be on guard. There was no longer anyone in this world who could harm us, no longer anyone who could dictate our fate.

After a long separation, all of heaven and earth had been overturned, and every human situation had changed beyond recognition.

With the upheaval newly settled, Xiao Qi immediately convened the assembled ministers in the Hall of Taihe.

I slipped quietly away and withdrew to the inner chambers.

“A’Wu.” He called out my name — before a full hall of civil and military officials, he called only my name.

I stopped and turned. We gazed at each other in silence.

The hand he had raised paused in midair, then slowly dropped. He only looked at me deeply, as though ten thousand words lay within him, yet none could be spoken.

I smiled faintly, paid him the bow of a subject before a sovereign, rose, and withdrew to the inner chambers.

My layered robes trailed across the cold palace tiles with a quiet rustle, the jade pendants at my waist chiming softly.

The corridors and hanging drapes before me were utterly familiar, yet utterly strange.

A beloved hero returning from a distant campaign — this should have been a moment of hero and beauty meeting, hand in hand, gazing at each other — just as the beautiful tales of the world describe it.

Only — the tender, romantic tale of Prince Yuzhang and his Princess Consort had been left behind in the Prince of Yuzhang’s estate.

From this moment forward, within these solemn and august halls, there were only the founding Emperor and Empress. No longer a hero and his beauty.

I was truly, utterly exhausted.

Looking at the faces of the attending palace servants, my mind was hazy and unfocused, unable to make out who was who beneath each of those faces.

It had been so long since I had closed my eyes in peace. At this moment, all I wanted was to sleep… and yet I had not yet seen Che’er, Xiaoxiao, and my brother return safely.

It was I who had sent the two children away with my own hands. Now I would go myself to bring them back.

I turned, numb, intending to set out at once for Cian Temple — but the palace road before me gradually blurred, my body went soft, and I suddenly could not lift my feet to take another step.

Through the haze, someone’s hand brushed across my cheek. The familiar warmth of that palm made tears come to my eyes in an instant.

Were those tears? It seemed I had not truly wept in a very long time.

In the dream, tears fell like rain, wetting my face, wetting his palm. I would rather not wake — even a moment’s warmth preserved in a dream was better — yet in my ears, the palace waterclock chimed, one stroke after another.

I jolted fully awake, startled to find myself lying in embroidered curtains and quilts, candlelight wavering, and the night already deep.

“Someone come!” I struggled to sit up. Every bone in my body ached with a deep, pervasive soreness. I pushed aside the bed curtains — not a single maidservant was in sight.

I struggled to get down from the bed. The ground felt unsteady beneath my feet. I stumbled — and fell into a pair of strong arms.

The coiling-dragon pillar candle blazed bright. A spark crackled in the lamp’s wick.

The arms encircling my waist suddenly tightened, pulling me firmly against his chest — so tightly I could not breathe.

He said not a word. His throat moved. The chin pressed against my brow had grown rough with stubble that pricked against my skin with a faint sting.

I slowly raised my eyes to look at him. His face had grown even more gaunt, his brows and eyes as resolute as ever.

Was it the illusion of this dim candlelight? In the space of a single day, the sovereign who had stood in the great hall with such commanding presence — he now showed exhaustion in every line of his face. Stubble was unkempt, the crease between his brows deeper than before, and there was an air of having lived through much.

“A’Wu — I have come back.” He looked at me in silence for a long time, then spoke in a hoarse voice, these words alone.

I wanted to smile at him. Tears fell like cut pearls.

His fingers trembled faintly and brushed across my lips.

“In this life, I will never leave you again.” The look in his eyes as he gazed at me was burning, lingering, as though carved into place — with a trace of something like sorrow, and a sentiment I could not read, held deep and suppressed within.

For a moment, I was dazed, lost in his eyes.

Looking up at him quietly, I was startled to realize I had never noticed before that the years had carved faint marks upon his face.

Ten years had passed like a shuttle. We had given the best years of our lives to the turmoil of those years, worn away by the blades of wind and frost. The only fortune was that we had found each other. And it was not yet too late — not entirely.

Before his burning lips claimed my every last thought, I dimly remembered something of the utmost importance.

“Cian Temple! The baby is still at Cian Temple!” I looked up urgently and clutched at his sleeve.

He covered my mouth, folding me securely within his arms, and murmured softly, “Keep your voice down.”

I could not break free, could not make a sound — yet he only looked down at me, his eyes full of tenderness.

From beyond the folding screen came a familiar soft little cry — unmistakably the sound of an infant.

I went still. The smile deepened in his eyes. “You woke them.”