On the first day of the first lunar month, at the Spring Festival banquet, Purple Zenith Hall was ablaze with magnificent lights, exquisite delicacies, and dancers with flowing sleeves like clouds.
Zhao Yang wore a black brocade robe embroidered with golden dragons, adorned with sun, moon, and five-colored auspicious clouds. On his head was a nine-ridged crown of green jade with gold trim. With his handsome bearing, bound hair, and sword-like eyebrows extending to his temples, he sat smiling at the first seat to the left of the imperial throne, entertaining the assembled civil and military officials.
Today was the Spring Banquet of Great Xia.
Despite the bitter cold outside, with swirling snow, unceasing warfare in the northwest, ethnic minorities in the northeast demanding independence, poor harvests, flooding rivers, and court officials locked in bitter rivalries, it did nothing to diminish the outward luxury and splendor. Glazed porcelain and fine embroidery, rare delicacies, beautiful women with jade-like faces and slender willow waists, wine vessels overflowing with honey-sweet liquor, and over a thousand white ox-hide lanterns illuminated the great hall. Leaders from the major military regions of Baizhi, Western Liao, Chaoge, Yaosheng, North Sea, and East Jin, as well as feudal lords, frontier commanders, court officials, and heads of prominent families—all gathered together to celebrate yet another “prosperous and peaceful” spring in the mighty Great Xia on this traditionally grand and luxurious festival.
Today, no one mentioned the discouraging military campaigns or court rivalries. As the wine flowed, even sworn enemies sat arm in arm, drinking and flirting with the beautiful women in their laps, while the great hall presented a scene of peace and prosperity. The empire’s elites occasionally raised their cups to toast toward the throne—not the main seat, but rather the Fourteenth Prince who had seized power at such a young age.
Three years ago, perhaps no one would have imagined such a day would come. Even the old fox Wei Guang of the Wei family, renowned for his keen insight, had not foreseen that in a mere three years, a young man who once struggled in the mud could ascend to such heights.
But now, with the imperial family in decline—Zhao Qi and Zhao Jue dead, Zhao Che banished, Zhao Song maimed with a severed arm—only the Fourteenth Prince remained to uphold the dynasty. Thus, even the prestigious Wei family had no choice but to bow before this prince and wholeheartedly support his rise to power.
Zhao Yang sat in the high hall as a commander from Chaoge came forward to offer a toast. He calmly raised his cup and nodded. After the wine passed his throat, the Chaoge commander profusely expressed his admiration and loyalty to Zhao Yang, finally withdrawing with great joy after receiving a slight nod from the prince.
Light and shadow mingled as a group of singing girls entered the hall, raising their cloud-like sleeves, their bare waists as supple as water snakes, immediately drawing everyone’s attention.
In the shadows, Zhao Yang slightly curled his lips, revealing a cold smile that few would notice.
He still remembered that general. Just four years ago, in this very hall, due to his low status, he had been seated in a lower position. That general, while going to toast Zhao Qi, accidentally stepped on his robe, spilling wine all over him. The general had merely frowned, snorted disdainfully at the “bad luck,” and walked away.
In just four years, this general had become so courteous.
The evolution of human nature was truly remarkable.
Zhao Yang turned his head slightly, his gaze drifting toward the throne hidden in layers of shadow. He looked for a long time, the lamplight casting an ambiguous expression on his face. Now sitting here, his eyes beheld the entire court in splendor, his ears heard nothing but praises of peace and prosperity. He suddenly felt that what once seemed so distant was now within reach.
At the final moment when the song and dance ended, he decisively turned his head back, resuming his previous expression and demeanor. Outside, moonlight penetrated the hall’s doors, accompanied by a gentle breeze that lifted a corner of the light gauze curtain. A cautious guard sniffed slightly and whispered to a nearby guard, “Why is there a smell of smoke?”
The other guard also sniffed but shook his head in confusion: “You must be mistaken.”
“Am I?”
The guard dared not speak further. This was the imperial inner court, the main hall during the Spring Banquet—who would dare light a fire nearby?
Moonlight traversed the great hall, following the wind deep into the palace gates. The long-sealed Ancestral Temple of Inherited Light had lit up with smoke and ash, choking dust, and the thick incense ash from previous years lay like a pale silk cloth, torn into scattered fragments by the sudden cold wind.
In the dim depths of the great hall, the accumulated gems and pearls on the imperial throne shone like flowing light in the night, sharply dispelling the deathly silence. Yet those floating ashes swirled around like unwilling vengeful spirits, chaotically hovering.
The Emperor Zhengde, who should have been sitting in Purple Zenith Hall, now sat alone in the empty and cold Ancestral Temple of Inherited Light. Facing him was a grand memorial hall, densely packed with rows of spirit tablets reaching up to the ceiling, like pairs of ghostly eyes quietly gazing at him. The time came from the void, carrying the wind of the netherworld, passing through the spirit tablets with a mournful sound like a low murmur.
A crisp “crack” suddenly broke the hall’s deathly silence—a crystal cup fell from the emperor’s hand, shattering into several pieces. The bright red grape wine inside spilled onto the floor with a strange fragrance, winding along the patterns of the incense ash.
The emperor, sleeping against his chair, awoke with a start. He opened his eyes drowsily, a touch of an aged smile escaping his lips as he said lightly, “Coming to play tricks on me again.”
His voice was warm and even hinted at laughter, but in such an environment, it seemed eerie and cold. The young eunuch standing guard at the door trembled slightly, peering in carefully, only to receive a hard kick from the old eunuch.
“Stay outside.”
The old eunuch spoke unhurriedly, and the young eunuch immediately knelt, not daring to breathe, soon crawling backward out of the hall.
The old eunuch picked up a wine cup nearby, slowly walked forward, and placed it on the table beside the throne. He refilled it for the emperor and said in the characteristic androgynous voice of a eunuch, “Your Majesty, is the Empress playing tricks on you again?”
“Yes,” the emperor turned with a smile and said, “You know how she loves to play around. She’s too spirited—where’s the dignity of the Mother of the Nation?”
The old eunuch didn’t smile but replied in his usual tone: “If the Empress heard Your Majesty speak like this, she would be displeased with you again.”
The emperor chuckled, shaking his head, then shifted to a more comfortable position, leaning back in his spacious dragon throne, saying softly, “I’ll go see if she’s upset.”
Then he closed his eyes.
In these years of palace changes, Empress Muhe had long passed away, leaving the empress position vacant. Before Empress Muhe, the emperor had also appointed several empresses. It was unclear which “she” he was referring to now.
The old eunuch kept his head down, not bothering to pick up the broken crystal on the floor. He only retrieved a tiny blade of grass from the spilled wine, carefully placing it in a small golden box, then retreating to stand in the shadows. His dark blue robe merged with the funereal night as if sinking into the boundless black sea, disappearing.
The auspicious time for the Spring Banquet was approaching. Palace servants passed through the gates, lighting the lamps one by one. The translucent light broke through the lonely deep palace, making this magnificent building even more dazzling, like a shining pearl. Lively laughter came from the front hall, like heavy waves. The sound of officials paying respects to the emperor pierced the night’s tranquility. Bells rang out as thousands of civil and military officials bowed like a tide, extending from Purple Zenith Hall along the cloudy path, spreading throughout the entire imperial court. The shouts of “Long live the emperor” shook the night of Zhenhuan. Ravens flew overhead, and a young guard who didn’t know better looked up and shouted, “Ravens!” only to be kicked by the guard captain nearby.
“What do you know? Those are magpies!”
That day, heavy snow fell again in Zhenhuan City. The mountain passes were like iron. The emperor frowned slightly in his sleep, softly calling out, “An Fu, who’s making noise outside? Tell them to keep it down.”
The old eunuch answered from the shadows, “Your Majesty, those are the officials paying their respects to you in Purple Zenith Hall.”
“Paying respects to Father Emperor?”
The emperor seemed drunk, mumbling, “Tell Shicheng to wait for me after the banquet ends.”
The old eunuch nodded, “Yes.”
That was many years ago—exactly how many, even the emperor had forgotten.
Back then, the emperor wasn’t yet emperor, just an unfavored prince. His mother was a beauty sent from Qingqiu, but after giving birth, she seemed to be forgotten by her husband. He and his mother lived quietly in the palace, like gentle cats, surviving on their own with no one to care for them. His father even forgot to give him a name.
It wasn’t until he was seven and ready for school that the imperial family finally remembered his existence. He recalled that day when the eunuch in charge reported to his father. His father was taking an afternoon nap in the chambers of Concubine Hua, who was the most favored at the time. He and his mother had to kneel on the cold golden stone floor for over two hours before his father awoke. His father lay in the jade-like, snow-white arms of Concubine Hua, slightly frowning as he looked through the door curtain at the unfamiliar mother and son. He seemed to be trying hard to recall what they looked like, and finally chuckled, “Just call him Xu.”
After leaving, the young eunuch repeatedly congratulated his mother: “Xu sounds like ‘dawn,’ meaning the morning sun. The Emperor must be very fond of the young master.”
His mother wept with joy, taking out her meager silver to reward the greedy palace servants. But he quietly wondered: Xu also sounds like “slow”—was his father saying he was a late-coming son?
He grew up very quietly. When he was nine, his mother finally passed away on a rainy night. She coughed while covering her mouth, afraid that her voice would be too loud and disturb the matrons outside. In the palace, concubines who lacked favor and family backing were treated like dirt on the roadside, trampled by anyone. In this palace full of princes, his status was hardly better. In the past few days, their mother and son had already been scolded several times for this.
His mother died anyway. When she was discovered early the next morning, her body was already stiff. He stood in his thin clothes under the flower corridor, watching as his mother was covered with a white cloth and carried away. The morning wind was a bit cold, blowing back a corner of the white cloth over his mother’s forehead. The face beneath was deathly pale, like a sheet of fine rice paper.
He turned back, tears flowing down his small face and into his neck. He quickly wiped them away. Although his mother gave birth to him, because of her low status, she had no rank and wasn’t considered his official mother. On the imperial family register, his mother was the Empress of Zhaoyang Palace. When a woman without rank died, he was not allowed to grieve.
He was subsequently taken to Zhaoyang Palace. The Empress’s three sons had all grown up and established their residences outside the palace. With his mother dead, he now had the opportunity to be raised by the Empress. The eunuchs and palace maids who once looked down on him now rushed to congratulate him, saying they had always seen that the young master was a dragon among men, destined for greatness and wealth. Now his fortunes had turned—truly a cause for celebration.
Amid the congratulations, he knelt in the Phoenix Hall of Zhaoyang Palace, earnestly kowtowing. He thought, “Mother is dead—this is truly something to be happy about.” Then he smiled, smiling until tears nearly flowed, with a bitter taste in his mouth.
The Empress frowned as she looked at him for a while, then sternly said to take him away, and that he needn’t come to pay respects every day without reason—this child’s smile was uncomfortable to see.
That afternoon, he met Shicheng. He was the son of the Second Imperial Uncle, the Prince of Yan Bei. At that time, the Prince of Yan Bei still had the surname Zhao, not Yan—he was just enfeoffed in the Yan Bei region. Shicheng saw him and happily jumped up, shouting: “I even drank milk from Beauty Shu He!”
From that day on, Shicheng pestered him constantly, following him for meals and sleep. Whoever dared to give him a cold shoulder, Shicheng would wrestle with them. Though young, he was very strong. Even the wrestling champion of Prince Bukuli was thrown flat by him. After that, no one dared to provoke the Ninth Prince anymore.
But he still found Shicheng annoying. He didn’t like the smile on his face, feeling it was too fake, unlike palace people who smiled faintly, making you feel the coldness within their smiles. But when Shicheng smiled, it was too pure—he couldn’t see any darkness. He told himself that this person was too cunning and needed to be kept at a distance.
Once, tired of being bothered, he tricked Shicheng, saying they would meet at the ice cellar that night—no show, no friendship. Shicheng happily patted his chest, saying men of Yan Bei never lie, and wanted to swear in blood, but he stopped him. It wasn’t that he cared for him, but as a prince, self-harm would be punished.
The next day, Shicheng disappeared. The Yan Bei Heir had gone missing in the imperial palace, throwing the entire palace into a frenzy. People searched everywhere, nearly digging up every inch of soil. Even the Empress and the Emperor were alarmed. Guards ran throughout the vast palace all day, their footsteps like thundering drums, approaching him step by step like a death knell.
He was terrified. He knew where Shicheng was but dared not speak. Locked in the ice cellar for a day and a night, Shicheng had likely frozen to death. Yet he was also afraid—afraid that Shicheng might still be alive. If others knew he had tricked Shicheng into going there, he would face dire consequences.
That night, a palace maid fetching ice finally discovered the young master of Yan, frozen into a ball. Imperial physicians came and went, repeatedly saying the Yan heir would not survive—they should notify the Prince of Yan.
He hid behind a pillar in the great hall, quietly thinking: “Die quickly, don’t survive.”
But Shicheng didn’t die. After more than a month, he finally recovered. When the Prince of Yan found out, he laughed heartily and said the climate in Yan Bei was so cold that Shicheng could soak in snow water for an hour since he was very young—he could withstand such cold.
During that time, he was terrified, waking from nightmares daily, afraid he would be wrapped in a white cloth and carried out of the palace like his mother.
But when Shicheng recovered, he secretly came to him, eyes wide, asking: “What happened to you that day? Why didn’t you come?”
He was stunned. He had prepared so many airtight excuses and reasons over those many days, but at that moment, his mind went blank and he couldn’t think of a single word. He stammered for a long time before finally saying quietly, “I forgot.”
Shicheng laughed heartily, saying, “I knew you didn’t do it on purpose.” Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he quickly lowered his voice and whispered, “Don’t let anyone know, or you’ll be in big trouble.”
At that time, Shicheng was only seven, like a little calf from the northwest, with bright eyes, standing on tiptoe to reach his ear.
Many years later, he asked Shicheng, “Weren’t you angry? Didn’t you suspect me?”
The now-adolescent heir of Yan looked at him strangely, frowning, “Why would I suspect Brother Xu? We grew up drinking the same mother’s milk!”
Indeed, Shicheng was born in the capital. The milk of the Princess of Yan was insufficient, and coincidentally, his mother Beauty Shu He’s second child was stillborn, so Shicheng was given to Beauty Shu He to nurse for a few days—though only for a few days.
Time passed so swiftly. They were like two poplars growing side by side, growing with the wind. In the blink of an eye, they had both become sturdy young men. Life began to brighten. They practiced martial arts together, rode horses together, shot arrows together, studied military tactics together, and went to war together. They were inseparable, and his personality gradually became more cheerful. Occasionally, he could even joke around with companions like Meng Tan. It wasn’t until that year, when they went south with the Fifth Imperial Uncle and met the person who would change their lives by the blue waters of Cliff Mountain, that fate, like a rushing river, suddenly took a great turn.
He still remembered that day—he, Shicheng, and Meng Tan had secretly left the courier station to visit local attractions. The sky was clear azure blue, the weather excellent, the sun warmly hanging above. A young girl stood at the bow of a black-awning boat, dressed in lake-green clothes, with a beautiful face and eyes like the most brilliant pearls. She stood barefoot at the bow, revealing a small section of her fair, smooth calves, smiling and waving at the three of them, calling out in a crisp voice, “Hey! You three big fellows, want to get on board?”
So many years had passed, and often he thought he had forgotten—forgotten the time, the place, the faces and smiles of those days. But that voice was something he could never forget for the rest of his life. He watched the young girl approach gracefully, his palms nervously sweating, as if he had returned to his childhood, wanting to speak but unable to open his mouth.
At that moment, he heard Shicheng laugh beside him: “Hey, little girl, your boat is so small—can it fit all three of us?”
With a plop, a small stone was thrown into the river of time, splashing a tiny, pristine white wave. Perhaps many things determined the course of the future from the very beginning.
War rose and fell, and he was finally forced to the edge of life and death. He walked that path step by difficult step. Those who blocked him died; those who protected him also died; even those who were unarmed and did nothing died with the flying of war blades, all perishing in the turmoil of changing power.
Shicheng led the Yan Bei Army, following behind him all the way. Even now, when he closed his eyes, he could still hear the young man’s voice constantly ringing in his ears:
“Brother Xu, I’m here!”
“Brother Xu, we’re not afraid of them—at worst, we’ll perish together.”
“Brother Xu, you must stay alive no matter what. Only if you live can you avenge our fallen brothers.”
“Brother Xu, the way of the great lies in benefiting the people. As long as you remember this, my death will not be in vain.”
“Brother Xu, whoever dares to be disloyal to you, I’ll cut them down!”
“Brother Xu, Brother Xu, Brother Xu…”
The tide of people knelt before him, and the title of “Long live the Emperor” finally rang in his ears. The bright yellow on his body was like a lake of golden water, flashing with brilliant light. That day, he accepted the throne of Great Xia at the Ancestral Temple of Inherited Light. Beside him, on the empress’s seat, wrapped in phoenix robes, was merely a jade pendant that hadn’t been sent away—a relic of his mother, quite shabby, just like his meager courage back then.
In the dim depths of the great hall, swirling winds arose. The emperor felt cold and slowly opened his eyes.
The old eunuch approached from behind, draping a cloak over him, but he childishly threw it to the ground, frowning, “Why hasn’t Yan Xun attacked yet?”
The old eunuch, long accustomed to this, replied, “Your Majesty, the Prince of Yan is still outside Yanming Pass.”
“He’s incompetent. If it were Shicheng, he would have broken through the pass by now. Today’s youngsters, are truly incompetent.”
The emperor rose, shaking his head with a regretful expression.
“Ah Sheng doesn’t believe I didn’t kill that boy. I need to quickly summon him to show Ah Sheng.”
The emperor’s back was slightly hunched as he muttered softly. The cup on the small table was empty. In that red grape wine was a type of grass called yellow millet, worth a thousand gold pieces and difficult to obtain. Legend had it that just a bit could make one’s mind wander, inducing a dream of yellow millet. It was so precious that even contemporary elites could hardly afford to spend such a fortune on a single dream. Yet in this palace, this grass was a daily sight.
“An Fu, don’t you think being an emperor is so tiring? Why do they still fight over it?”
The emperor suddenly turned and asked. The old eunuch remained silent with his head bowed. The emperor hadn’t expected an answer from him and walked away, his temples frosted with white, gleaming in the moonlight’s reflection.
Your Majesty, that’s because they haven’t experienced it. They don’t know. But even after your yellow millet dream, don’t you still need to protect this vast empire?
Life is like a chessboard, with each person a piece upon it. Amid the crisscrossing lines, who can jump out?
Outside, the wind blew, sweeping up the clear snow. That figure gradually receded into the distance.