Emperor Zhenning found strength from somewhere unknown and managed to lift the teacup himself, lowering his head to take a sip.

The warm tea seeped into his throat sores, but he felt no pain – instead, it seemed almost cooling.

He tried clearing his throat and said evenly, “Companion, I’m not asking you to beg forgiveness. I’m asking you: what do you think you are?”

What did he think he was?

This seemed like a question that needed no answer.

After all, these two had lived in their master-slave relationship for decades.

But interestingly, the Emperor asking this now wasn’t born from a superior’s instinct to trample the lowly, but rather seeking peace of mind.

Seeking comfort in the care of a slave.

The Emperor might not have understood his own question’s true meaning, and He Yixian could think of it even less.

His cane wounds were still unhealed, prostrated for so long, his whole body trembled, cold sweat soaking the hair beneath his headcloth.

During the Emperor’s illness, both the servants and the Emperor himself wore thin, soft casual clothes. Now, with the charcoal fumes and burning incense, the room’s humid air carried a faint animal musk that made He Yixian feel nauseous.

“This old slave… has always considered himself Your Majesty’s servant…”

He replied, prostrated.

“Heh…”

Emperor Zhenning laughed, throwing his head back, then suddenly changed the subject.

“My companion… you’ll miss me too, won’t you?”

That “miss me” carried a sigh. He Yixian’s bones seemed to dissolve, his whole body nearly collapsing at the Emperor’s feet. Forgetting that showing grief before the throne was forbidden, his shoulders shook with sobs. His aged, rotting joints crackled with his body’s movements, saliva dripping to the ground in sticky strands. He tried to wipe it away but couldn’t move.

“Why cry? I’m not dead yet.”

“Master… master… grant this slave a rope, let this slave follow the master.”

Emperor Zhenning looked down at him, “My mausoleum stones aren’t sealed yet. Taking you down with me, I wouldn’t rest easy… How about it, you must serve me as I ascend to heaven, watch them debate my posthumous title, discuss…”

He Yixian wept, “This slave understands… understands everything.”

“Good that you understand…”

The Emperor spoke while using his foot to lift He Yixian’s chin, “Get up, grind ink for me. I want to write… the edict naming my heir.”

A sheet of raw paper was spread on the purple sandalwood imperial desk.

Vermillion ink, soft lake brush, Duan inkstone, a thick, lingering incense…

The person holding the brush was a dying emperor.

Did he write anything, and if so, what did he write?

Among the sounds of snow, none could know.

Outside the hall, daylight faded as the snow ran wild in the howling wind.

In the Hall of Mental Cultivation, witnessed only by master and slave, the greatest mystery in Ming history was slowly buried under accumulating snow, not a ray of light penetrating through.

Li Yu stood on the moon terrace, suddenly hearing a weak laugh from within the hall.

Then came the sound of something rolling on the ground – listening closely, it seemed like a person rolling.

He Yixian began singing a childish rhyme with indistinct words, stopping abruptly halfway through. The inner hall fell silent, only the flickering of lamps remaining. Suddenly, a heart-wrenching cry came from before the door. The snow wind pierced through the entire corridor, everyone’s clothes suddenly blown in one direction, all the wooden frames of doors and windows trembling.

Li Yu raised his head beside Li Bi, seeing He Yixian tumbling out, collapsing onto the moon terrace. The Directorate of Ceremonial staff hurriedly surrounded him to help him up, discovering his clothes covered in dust, and his forehead, arms, and knees covered in bruises.

Li Bi called out “Elder,” but He Yixian suddenly vomited blood, frightening several young servants weak in the knees.

Leaning in Li Bi’s arms, he forced out several blood-stained words: “Master… is failing…”

The attending imperial physicians froze momentarily, then reacted, lifting their official robes as they rushed into the Hall of Mental Cultivation.

In Chengqian Palace, Yi Lang still wrapped in a thick blanket, lay sleeping on his desk.

Yang Wan left Heyu to attend inside while she went alone to the side hall, wrapping her coat around her.

On this snowy day when no one could leave, the six palaces’ inhabitants could only stay confined inside. Moreover, with the Emperor gravely ill, all palaces kept their doors closed, not daring any activities.

Song Yunqing happened to be off duty that day and brought some wool yarn, joining Beauty Chen in teaching Yang Wan needlework.

Yang Wan remained restless.

This day was the third day of the twelfth month of Zhenning’s fourteenth year. Historical records gave several dates for Emperor Zhenning’s death: some said the fourth day of the twelfth month, others the twenty-seventh of the eleventh month, and some the tenth of the twelfth month.

These multiple accounts existed because, after Emperor Zhenning’s death, the Directorate of Ceremonial and the Cabinet had major disagreements over the Emperor’s funeral regulations, leading to different historical texts recording varying dates. Yang Wan had waited through the end of the eleventh month, growing increasingly anxious as the fifth of the twelfth month approached.

“What’s wrong with you? You’ve gotten up to walk around three times in just this short while.”

Song Yunqing pushed aside the yarn before her and poured a cup of hot tea for Yang Wan. “Sit down first.”

Beauty Chen also set aside her work and said to Song Yunqing, “Don’t blame Aunt Wan, the Crown Prince hasn’t been well these past few days, sweating at night.”

Hearing this, Song Yunqing sighed too, lowering her eyes, “It’s truly too cold this year. Chen Hua says the coal supply was already insufficient before, and the coal officials had to go more than ten li outside the city. If this continues, palace inhabitants falling ill from cold will far exceed previous years.”

Yang Wan, holding her tea, asked, “Does your Ceremonial Office have enough coal to burn?”

Song Yunqing shook her head, “We’re barely managing. I’m worse off than Li Yu – the little bit his godfather picks from between his teeth is more than what I get. Don’t laugh at me, but I’ve been relying on his help these past few days. I’ve been thinking lately, that it’s fortunate I listened to Consort Jiang back then and sent him to accept such a godfather. Otherwise, Chen Hua and I alone couldn’t have protected him so well.”

Beauty Chen said, “These aren’t the Emperor’s twenty-four departments anymore, they’re the Directorate of Ceremonial’s twenty-four departments.”

After speaking, she realized her indiscretion and lowered her head, changing the subject to cover it up.

“Director Song, having your brother accept a servant as a father… doesn’t it pain your heart?”

Song Yunqing smiled, “Your Grace is privileged and doesn’t understand our servants’ circumstances. Though we often disapprove of the Directorate of Ceremonial’s ways, these are men without sons. Once they have a child to care for them in their final years, they love them more than real fathers would. Li Yu has always been straightforward, prone to trouble, and has suffered many verbal humiliations. Before the Eastern Depot Chief’s protection, whenever he got into trouble, it was his godfather who saved him.”

Beauty Chen said, “I see the Eastern Depot Chief is different from the Directorate of Ceremonial people.”

Yang Wan remained silent, and Song Yunqing fell quiet too.

The wind rattled the doors and windows, and the three unconsciously moved closer to the charcoal brazier.

Just as Yang Wan reached out her hand, she heard the sound of palace gates opening.

Beauty Chen wondered aloud, “Weren’t the gates closed? How are they opening without announcement…”

Yang Wan stood up, “This slave will go look.”

Yang Wan left the side hall, crossed the courtyard, and saw Li Bi from the Directorate of Ceremonial at the gate.

Seeing Yang Wan emerge, he stopped talking to the gate servants and walked straight to her, “Quickly invite the Prince to come out, to the Hall of Mental Cultivation.”

Yang Wan stopped in her tracks, “Has His Majesty taken a turn for the worse?”

Li Bi said, “He can no longer speak. It will likely be today. The matter must be settled – the Empress has already taken the Second Prince over.”

Just then, Song Yunqing and Beauty Chen followed out. Beauty Chen, forgetting propriety, grabbed Li Bi’s sleeve, “When did His Majesty worsen? Didn’t they say just days ago his spirits had improved somewhat?”

“Your Grace, this is the imperial physicians’ judgment. How would this slave dare speak falsely? Please change quickly and come too.”

Hearing these words, Beauty Chen suddenly swayed backward, collapsing weakly to the ground.

Song Yunqing quickly crouched to support her, looking up at Yang Wan, “Don’t worry about this, hurry to call the Prince to change clothes. I’ll have someone attend to Beauty Chen.”

Yang Wan turned and hurried to the study.

Yi Lang had already been awakened by the voices outside and was walking toward the door barefoot.

Yang Wan quickly crouched down to wrap him properly, telling Heyu, “Bring His Highness’s clothes, shoes, and hat.”

Yi Lang looked at Yang Wan, “Where is Aunt taking me?”

Yang Wan took a breath, trying to keep her voice steady, and looked at Yi Lang seriously, “To the Hall of Mental Cultivation.”

Yi Lang first froze, and then his eyes reddened.

“Your Highness, listen to this slave…”

“I know.”

Yi Lang interrupted Yang Wan, raising his hand to wipe his eyes, “I won’t cry now, it’s not yet time for me to cry.”

“Yes…”

Yang Wan held Yi Lang’s cold hand, “Your Highness understands.”

“Aunt…”

Yi Lang’s voice trembled slightly, “After Father Emperor passes, what will happen to me?”

Though he was trying his utmost to control his emotions, he couldn’t help but grind his teeth, his face pale.

Yang Wan quickly embraced him.

“Nothing will happen. Your Highness will live well.”

“Aunt… I wished Father Emperor could reign longer, let me grow up more.”

As he spoke, he still cried, his tears soaking Yang Wan’s shoulder.

“Aunt knows, Your Highness shouldn’t cry.”

Yi Lang hugged Yang Wan’s neck, sobbing, “If I were a bit older, I could protect Aunt and Mother Consort, and Uncle and the Eastern Depot Chief too.”

Hearing these words, Yang Wan’s nose also began to sting.

The child in her arms, though unable to clearly articulate his current situation and the circumstances between the Cabinet and Directorate of Ceremonial, truly understood everything.

If his political sensitivity came from Zhang Cong, Huang Ran, and others from those years,

Then his care for human relationships was taught by Yang Wan.

When these two aspects merged in him, his maturity became heartbreaking.

“Aunt, don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying.”

“Don’t cry.”

He raised his sleeve to wipe Yang Wan’s tears.

“Aunt, I’m not crying anymore, see? I’m not afraid…”

Looking at Yi Lang desperately holding back his tears, Yang Wan suddenly realized that no matter how times change, human fears and vulnerabilities are always connected – the punishments that terrified Deng Ying, the palace struggles that frightened Yi Lang, and the historical truths that scared her… each falling blow could shatter one’s soul. Yet human endurance effortlessly wrapped up all the fragments, continuing forward with apparent fearlessness.