The fourteenth year of the Jinghe reign era. Crown Prince Li Huan had turned fifteen.

He had fully inherited the outstanding looks of the reigning emperor and empress — handsome in bearing, noble in manner, gifted with keen intelligence, capable of reading ten lines at a glance. More remarkably, he was also diligent and studious, learning from distinguished masters. Beyond literature, history, calligraphy, and painting, even agricultural texts and water conservancy were required coursework.

He had heard that in the second year after his birth, when his imperial father had just ascended the throne, he was already invested as Crown Prince — a singular honor bestowed upon no other. That had all happened too early; he had no memory of it whatsoever. But he remembered with perfect clarity that from the age of eight, his imperial father had taken him along to morning court and in and out of the Imperial Study. Two years prior, at thirteen, he had begun participating in governance. His imperial father had him practice reviewing memorials and handling ministers independently. Young as he was, he carried himself with all the right manners and never made an error. Whenever court officials spoke of the Crown Prince, there was nothing but praise.

His imperial mother also adored him deeply. Every year on his birthday, she would personally prepare a bowl of longevity noodles for him — and one must understand that not even his imperial father enjoyed such treatment on his own birthday.

A heavenly child so favored — he ought to have been very happy.

But no one knew, except himself.

In his heart, far from being happy, he was actually quite melancholic.

His melancholy had begun two months ago.

On that day, he had written a policy essay on the topic set for that year’s imperial examinations regarding current affairs, and after the morning court session he had brought it to his imperial father to review, to see whether it was viable.

He went to the Imperial Study.

As was his usual habit, the Crown Prince entering the Imperial Study required no special announcement. He went straight in, and happened to find his imperial mother there as well.

In itself, this was nothing unusual. From his earliest memories as a child, he had often seen his imperial mother here, keeping his imperial father company while reviewing memorials.

But that day, the circumstances were a little out of the ordinary.

Through the doorway, he glimpsed the hazy silhouettes of his imperial father and mother — his imperial father had lifted his imperial mother onto his lap, the two of them in an intimate embrace.

Over the years, his imperial father and mother had successively given him two younger brothers and a youngest sister, and now he had reached middle age. Yet stripped of imperial crown and robes, he carried the air of an immortal sage — transcendent and otherworldly in bearing.

As for his imperial mother, in Li Huan’s eyes, she had barely seemed to age at all over all these years, forever as young and beautiful as ever.

He knew his imperial parents were deeply devoted to each other. Now, having inadvertently stumbled upon this tender moment, and being older now with some understanding of such things, he felt a touch of embarrassment. Not wanting to disturb them, he was just about to quietly retreat when — unexpectedly — he overheard news that shocked him to the core.

His imperial father was telling his imperial mother that he was thoroughly pleased with him and considered him excellent material for an emperor. Now that the court’s various institutions and personnel had stabilized, Li Huan would only need to follow established systems. Next year, once he turned sixteen and was married, his imperial father intended to abdicate, thereby fulfilling his long-cherished wish to retire into Taoist cultivation and take his imperial mother along with him to live freely and unfettered.

His imperial father did not seem to be joking; he had even thought up his Taoist name. He said he would be called “Lord Shangyang the Clear and Carefree.”

Not only that — he had even prepared a title for his imperial mother: “Jade-True Primordial Mistress of Azure Mist,” and had asked her whether she was satisfied with it.

Li Huan stood rooted to the spot as though struck by lightning, unable to move a single step. He stood dazed for a moment, then, seeing his imperial father beginning to be affectionate with his imperial mother, realized he truly could not watch any further, and fled in a panic.

From the time he could think for himself, he had known he was the heir apparent and could feel his imperial father’s deliberate efforts to cultivate him. He had assumed that reflected his imperial father’s high expectations of him, and he could not disappoint those expectations. And so from the age of ten onward, no matter how hard it was, regardless of the season, he had persisted in rising before dawn every day to study and practice martial arts, without interruption. Even when his imperial mother sometimes pitied him and urged him to rest, he would smile and tell her he wasn’t tired.

In truth, deep inside, he had always envied his two younger brothers a little. They could play carefreely to their hearts’ content. He could not. He was the Crown Prince, the heir apparent, the elder brother — he had to set an example for his brothers.

Still, after all these years, he had grown accustomed to it.

But he had never imagined that his imperial father could actually harbor such a plan — to wash his hands of him the moment he turned sixteen, and take away his most beloved imperial mother to accompany him on his path of Taoist cultivation as a retired emperor.

Li Huan felt his world had changed utterly in an instant.

He was filled with terror and grief. That night, lying alone on his bed in the Eastern Palace, unseen by anyone, he had quietly reddened his eyes with tears.

His imperial father was conscientious in governance, skilled at identifying and employing talent. He had rectified discipline and reduced punishments and taxes. Under his rule, the imperial treasury was filled with grain to overflowing, with wealth piled up like mountains.

His imperial father was also wise and resolute, adept at strategy and planning. In the early years after ascending the throne, the Eastern Di — the empire’s long-standing threat from the north — had collapsed and submitted, kowtowing in surrender. But the southwest and northeast had subsequently stirred up trouble in turn. He had dispatched troops in succession, defeating the Tuyuhun, and had incorporated the Ailao and Jiaozhi in the southwest and the Eastern Luo in the northeast into the empire’s territory.

Over the fourteen years of his reign, east-west trade flourished, emissaries came from all four corners of the earth, the people lived and worked in peace and contentment, and he had inaugurated an era of great prosperity unprecedented in the empire’s history.

Come to think of it, his imperial father had truly prepared for him a complete team for ruling as emperor.

The current court, after more than a decade of selecting talent through the imperial examinations, had gathered the finest minds from across the realm. Speaking of civil officials — aside from the remonstrating ministers — those in key positions were all capable individuals. His several Grand Tutors, whether in learning or in perspective, were each the foremost figures of their day in their respective fields. Speaking of military generals — the legendary war god and great general Jiang Yi had long since laid down his arms and retired to farming. But the Marquis of Zhaoyong, Cui Xuan, whom Jiang Yi had personally mentored and who had distinguished himself in the campaigns against the Tuyuhun in the southwest, was in the prime of youth. Besides him, Han Rongchang and several other generals who had emerged over the years could each stand independently.

Li Huan also knew that his imperial father was romantic by nature and fond of freedom.

He could understand his imperial father’s wish to take his imperial mother away to live unrestrained early on.

But…

He couldn’t bear to part with them.

He simply could not bear it.

He didn’t want to shoulder the heavy burden of the realm so soon. He couldn’t carry it.

He only wanted to remain at his parents’ side, to see them every day, to serve and attend upon them.

Besides — one was not considered fully grown until the age of twenty.

How old was he?

He was still truly young!

Could his imperial father and mother really bear to abandon him like this?

Ever since learning of his imperial father’s plan, he had appeared unchanged on the surface, but in his heart he had been nursing this knot of anxiety, secretly hoping that what he had overheard that day was merely a passing fancy of his imperial father, said casually and nothing more.

But as his sixteenth birthday next year drew ever closer, the matter seemed to be becoming real.

His Majesty the Emperor — still in robust middle age — intended to abdicate and let the Crown Prince succeed him. This had recently become known even among the court officials.

Just a few days prior, the Director of the Imperial Clan Court had brought portraits of several young women from prominent noble families in the capital for his selection, in preparation for the great wedding the following year.

He had absolutely no interest in any of them, not a single one appealing to him.

In his eyes, his imperial mother was the most beautiful and most perfect woman in the world.

The realm was full of beauties, but there was none he wished to marry.

And he had even less desire to marry so early for the purpose of giving him the formal standing to rule in his own right.

In the afternoon, the courtyard before the Eastern Palace was alive with gorgeous blossoms. But through the window of the South Study, the fifteen-year-old youth had no mind for his lessons, his heart heavy with worry.

Lost in thought, he heard a set of footsteps approaching from outside.

“Princess, please walk carefully! Watch the steps —”

Accompanied by the voice of the palace governess, a small girl in a pink brocade skirt embroidered with butterflies came bounding and skipping through the study’s doorway.

“Crown Prince Brother, you really are here! I want to go on the swing!”

The little girl was like a small bird, running to his side and tugging at his sleeve, speaking in a sweet, slightly babyish voice.

She was his younger sister, the little Princess Changle, five years old this year — not only the apple of her imperial father’s eye, but also his own most cherished person.

At the sight of his little sister’s rosy, jade-white face tilted up at him with a smile, Li Huan immediately nodded and scooped her up, walking out with her. Behind them, the governess and palace attendants hurried to follow.

“Where is Imperial Mother?” he asked his sister.

“Just now some white-bearded old ministers came to see her. She told me to come out and play.”

“And your Second Imperial Brother and Third Imperial Brother?”

“As soon as they saw me they ran away, and I asked them to take me on the swing, but neither of them would! Crown Prince Brother, you have to do something about them!”

The little princess grew indignant just thinking about it, rubbed her eyes, and pouted with her grievances.

Li Huan smiled.

His second brother was ten, his third brother eight — right at that age that even dogs and chickens found insufferable, thinking their little sister was too spoiled and generally refusing to play with her.

He patted his sister’s head, comforted her with a few words, carried her to the swing in the Imperial Garden, set her on it, and personally pushed it for her, watching over her as she swung happily back and forth. After a while, seeing that the sun was quite hot and that his sister’s hair had grown a little damp with sweat, he brought her to the nearby Lotus Fragrance Pavilion and had her sit in the cool shade of the trees, sitting beside her to watch the goldfish in the lotus pond together.

Listening to his sister’s silvery laughter, his mood finally lifted along with hers.

But when he thought of how next year, if his imperial father truly insisted on abdicating and entering Taoist cultivation, he would likely leave the palace — and once he left, would surely take his sister with him — then he himself would not only be unable to see his imperial mother, but would also lose regular access to his sister.

His mood plummeted again in an instant.

“Crown Prince Brother, do you have something on your mind?” the little princess suddenly asked.

Li Huan looked at his sister, saw her staring up at him with wide, bright, round eyes, her expression showing some concern, and immediately shook his head.

The little princess let out a sigh of relief, then suddenly seemed to remember something, and said: “Crown Prince Brother, a few days ago I heard Imperial Father and Imperial Mother talking about you getting married next year. I asked Imperial Mother what getting married means. Imperial Mother said it means finding a girl for you, and the two of you would be together every day, just like Imperial Father and Imperial Mother.”

“Crown Prince Brother, once you’re married, will you also stop playing with me?”

Li Huan shook his head again.

The little princess finally set her heart at rest, smiling until her eyes curved into crescent moons.

“Crown Prince Brother, you’re so wonderful. After Imperial Father and Imperial Mother, I love you best!”

“And Second Imperial Brother and Third Imperial Brother too. If they’re willing to play with me, I’d like them too.”

Li Huan felt a warmth in his heart. But his sister’s words also sent his mood sinking again.

He hesitated, then finally asked: “Besides that, have you heard Imperial Father and Imperial Mother say anything about taking them away to practice Taoism?”

The little princess nodded: “Yes! That day Imperial Father also said that once you pass your birthday next year, he’ll tell you and let Crown Prince Brother be the emperor.”

Li Huan fell silent again, gazing blankly at a lotus blossom in the pond ahead.

The little princess clasped her small hands behind her back and tilted her head to study him: “Crown Prince Brother, what are you thinking about?”

Li Huan came back to himself, smiled bitterly, was just about to shake his head when suddenly he heard his sister call out joyfully, “Imperial Mother!”

He turned his head to see his imperial mother walking toward them from a distance.

The little princess slipped down from his arms and ran over to her. He followed, going forward to greet his mother with a bow.

Pu Zhu crouched down, smiled and hugged her little daughter, exchanged a few words with her, then glanced at her silent son and thought for a moment, before signaling Luo Bao, who had accompanied them, to take the little princess back to her bedchamber first.

Luo Bao came over with a genial smile, coaxed the little princess, and carried her away.

She dismissed the others and walked to her son’s side.

That little Luan’er — in the blink of an eye, he had grown this tall.

In another year or two, she’d probably have to look up at him.

Though all four children were the love of her heart, privately she was a touch more partial to this eldest son.

She asked: “Luan’er, do you have something on your mind? I’ve noticed you haven’t been saying much lately. What’s wrong?”

She finished asking, saw her son still silent, and softly continued: “If you have something on your mind, tell Mother directly.”

It had been a long time since he’d heard his imperial mother refer to herself as “Mother” in that tone. Hearing it again now, Li Huan felt a warmth rush through him, and could no longer hold back the grievance in his heart. His eyes reddened and he threw himself into his mother’s embrace, pressing his face against her for a moment. Under her many gentle reassurances, he finally lowered his voice and said: “Mother, I don’t want to be Crown Prince anymore, and I don’t want to be Emperor. I want to stay with you both. If Imperial Father goes to practice Taoism, I’ll go too!”

Pu Zhu was stunned.

From infancy, Luan’er had always been well-behaved. After she gave birth to two more sons in the years that followed, he had become even more of a little adult, always presenting himself as the elder brother, protecting his younger brothers.

Precisely because her eldest son had done so well in everything from childhood to now, and was always so steady — unlike those two mischievous little monkeys of brothers who would wheedle and act spoiled before her to compete for attention — she had always felt entirely at ease about him.

In the past year or two, as Luan’er had grown up and state affairs had stabilized, Li Xuandu had gradually revived his thoughts of abdicating. She had thought that if their son was willing, she wouldn’t object.

Yet she had never imagined that her son, who had seemed to grow up, felt this way inside.

Come to think of it, he was only fifteen — still a young man, after all.

Thinking back to when Li Xuandu was his age and before things had gone wrong — she hadn’t witnessed it herself, but had heard enough to know: Prince Qin back then had been flying his hawks and riding his horses, living a dashing, carefree life.

And now they were asking their son to shoulder a responsibility like this.

She felt an immediate pang in her heart, and even more self-reproach — in ordinary days she had focused more of her attention on the two mischievous younger sons and her daughter, and had neglected her Luan’er.

She held the young man close and comforted him in every way.

Li Huan grew embarrassed then and extricated himself from her embrace, straightened his shoulders and said: “Mother, if Imperial Father is too weary, I’ll help him do more! I want to ask Imperial Father and Imperial Mother — please don’t abandon me!”

Pu Zhu gazed at her son, and her heart quickly made its decision.

She returned to the bedchambers and asked Luo Bao, learning that Li Xuandu was in the meditation chamber. She walked in to find him dressed in a moon-white gauze-lined Taoist robe, wide sleeves floating softly, cradling their youngest daughter with one arm and holding a paintbrush in the other hand, standing before a table spread with a long scroll, painting while conversing with his daughter. She paused her steps.

This painting was a long scroll Li Xuandu had been working on in his spare time recently, nearly complete. The painting depicted swirling mist and clouds, an immortal mountain floating in the sky, a beautiful immortal woman emerging from the mountain riding clouds, her robes and ribbons billowing, her gaze soft with feeling. Below, in the human world, a man stood beside the water, his Taoist robes flowing, standing like a jade tree in the breeze. The two figures seemed to be exchanging questions and answers.

“Imperial Father, what painting is this?” the little princess asked.

“A picture of carefree immortal life,” her father replied.

The little princess studied it carefully, gave a little sound of recognition, and grew excited as she identified the figures.

“I know! The immortal lady is Imperial Mother!”

“That’s right, Changle is so clever.”

“Then who is the person below?”

“Why, naturally it’s Imperial Father.” The tone was faintly smug.

“Then where am I? And Crown Prince Brother? And Second Imperial Brother and Third Imperial Brother? How come we’re not in the painting?”

Her daughter’s three-part question shot straight to the soul, causing His Majesty the Emperor a twinge of private shame.

While painting, he really hadn’t thought of them at all.

He put on a show of being troubled, and sighed: “What can we do — if I paint you all in, the immortal lady in the sky will be drawn to you and won’t want Imperial Father anymore. Changle, can you bear that?”

The little princess adored her graceful, beautiful-mannered imperial father.

Even if she had to suffer a little injustice herself, she couldn’t bear to see Imperial Father unhappy.

She quickly shook her head: “Then don’t paint us in!”

His Majesty the Emperor kissed his daughter: “What a good girl.”

Pu Zhu truly could not watch any longer, and coughed once, interrupting this tender scene.

After their daughter was carried out by Luo Bao, Li Xuandu added a few more brushstrokes to the immortal woman’s robes, then smiled and beckoned her over as well, inviting her to admire his proud creation together.

Pu Zhu rolled her eyes at him and said: “You want to abdicate next year — when did you let that news leak out? The ministers all refuse to agree, and they’ve come to me to remonstrate, saying the Crown Prince is too young and it would damage the dignity of the imperial institution.”

Li Xuandu paid this absolutely no mind, continued adding strokes to his painting, and said: “Luan’er is steady and reliable, and right now the country is peaceful and the people content — I think he’ll have no problem. As for what they say — some of it worth listening to, and some of it not. If I listened to every word, I might as well not live at all!”

Pu Zhu said: “You can ignore the ministers, but what about your own son? He was nearly in tears!”

Li Xuandu’s hand paused, and he looked up at her.

Pu Zhu walked over and recounted her earlier conversation with their son. She said: “Luan’er has been sensible from a young age and never gave me cause to worry much. Seeing how well he’s been managing things of late, I thought he must be willing himself.”

Li Xuandu let out a sigh, set down his brush, and fell into a gloomy mood.

On one side was her husband, on the other her beloved son. Pu Zhu was caught in the middle.

When one had to choose, the only option was to soothe the husband.

She wrapped her arms around his waist — still as lean and firm as in his youth — and said: “Luan’er really is still young; can you truly bear to leave him? Why don’t you bear the hardship a few more years? By the time he comes of age at twenty, he’ll truly have grown up, and his thinking may well have changed by then. At that point, I’ll accompany you into Taoist cultivation. How does that sound?”

Li Xuandu looked down and met her gaze for a moment, then nodded.

“Alright.”

Pu Zhu smiled and released him, then turned her head and called: “Luan’er, aren’t you coming in?”

A young figure’s silhouette moved quickly through the doorway. He knelt before his father, kowtowed, and offered his thanks.

Li Xuandu told his son to rise, thought for a moment, and in the end still made a fist and thumped him hard on the shoulder, laughing as he scolded: “You little rascal — you had something on your mind and didn’t even say it to Imperial Father! Do that again, and Imperial Father really will take your Imperial Mother away to practice Taoism!”

Li Huan’s handsome face flushed with heat, and the shoulder where his imperial father had struck him ached a little. But his heart was overflowing with joy.

His imperial father and imperial mother truly loved him — that much had never changed, whether in his childhood or now, as he had grown into a young man.

That evening, after watching over his two younger sons until they fell asleep and seeing his sister settled as well, Pu Zhu and Li Xuandu came to the Star-Plucking Tower and lodged there for the night.

His Majesty the Emperor, some years after his accession, had found himself free one day, looked around, and suddenly took a dislike to how old-fashioned the palace halls were. On a whim, he had summoned the finest craftsmen from across the realm, personally participated in the design, and set about building a carefree haven for himself and his beloved empress. Though he had made it clear that all expenses would come from the private imperial treasury and had nothing to do with the state treasury, even so, when the final budget was eventually calculated and inadvertently leaked out, it still drew a torrent of remonstrance from the censors, who declared the emperor excessively extravagant.

But His Majesty the Emperor had done exactly as he pleased. Let them remonstrate; he would build as he wished. And so, taking nearly two years and being remonstrated against for nearly two years, the tower was at last completed, bringing this battle of words between emperor and ministers to an end.

The great hall of this tower used towering timbers transported from deep mountains. Not only were its jade terraces and gem-like chambers, painted ridgebeams and soaring eaves furnished with lavish splendor, but it was also the tallest tower in the entire palace — and indeed in the entire capital — and had been named “Star-Plucking.”

The two of them bathed together, then retired to the rooftop open garden of the tower for the cool evening air. Rare flowers and exotic plants surrounded them on all sides, their fragrance drifting in waves. After the palace attendants had seen to the emperor and empress, Luo Bao led the servants out of the garden and stood quietly waiting in the corridor below.

Pu Zhu leaned against Li Xuandu’s chest, eating the chilled crystal grapes he peeled for her, and thought of the day’s events, feeling suddenly that her long-ago relentless pressuring of him had to some degree or other contributed to today’s constraints on his nature. She felt a pang of guilt, and brought it up.

In earlier years Li Xuandu had indeed worked hard, but in recent years he had had increasing leisure. Now that he even wanted to abdicate, it was nothing more than a desire for complete and utter freedom.

He thought of his previous life and said: “Shuzhu, in one’s life, if one has never encountered a person willing to change themselves for your sake — would that not be a lifelong regret?”

Pu Zhu’s heart was moved. She said nothing more, but took his hand, drew his slender fingers to her lips, and one by one licked them with her tongue, licking away the sweet grape juice that clung there. Then she took the initiative and climbed onto him.

The broad robe covering the man’s body was half undone, and under the starlight, his stifled, ragged breathing slowly began.

Very soon, even the moon above seemed to blush with shyness, quietly slipping behind the clouds — leaving only the full sky of mischievous stars, still blinking and twinkling, stealthily peeping at the fragrant scenes atop the Star-Plucking Tower.

After a long while, the sounds of labored breathing gradually faded into stillness.

Li Xuandu lay side by side with her at last, gazing at the stars and moon overhead, and suddenly thought of memories from his previous life — his heart still carried a residual sense of injustice. He felt that after this life had ended, he must be with her in every life and world to come. If she were a mountain, he would become water; if she were a star, he would become the moon — only thus could he make up for the regrets of former days.

Unable to restrain himself, he took her hand, wanting to swear an oath with her.

Pu Zhu laughed softly, turned over, propped her chin in her hands, and looked at him: “I’m not as greedy as you. This life has already left me completely content. It’s just when I think of your past ordeals, my heart aches for you.”

Though life was like fruit on a bough, requiring the tempering of autumn frost before it could grow full and sweet — if it were possible, she truly wished she could go back to those earliest years and properly protect that young Prince Qin, so that he would never have had to suffer those painful experiences that came later, and could always remain the high-spirited, confident young man he once was. Of course, she also wished she could protect her own loved ones.

She shared her whimsical imaginings with him.

Li Xuandu felt very pleased and chuckled softly: “You’d really be that good to me? I don’t believe it!”

Pu Zhu nodded, then shook her head: “Forget it, forget it! If you hadn’t gone through all that afterward, how would you ever have noticed me? Even if I had stood right before you, you’d have bullied me! I’m not going to bother with you!”

Li Xuandu could no longer contain himself and burst out laughing: “No, it wouldn’t be like that! If things had truly been different, if I could have known you early, I would have protected you and let no one dare covet you. I would have waited for you to grow up, married you, and made you my princess consort.”

Pu Zhu felt sweetness blooming in her heart, but her mouth said: “I don’t believe a word of it!”

Li Xuandu immediately seized her hand and was about to swear another solemn oath to the heavens — making Pu Zhu laugh so hard she collapsed into his embrace.

It seemed Li Xuandu was the sort of person who treated swearing oaths as easily as drinking water. She had somehow only discovered this today.

The two of them chatted idly, laughing and joking, until finally drowsy with fatigue. He carried her down from the rooftop terrace, back into the bedchamber, and they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

That young Prince Qin who had once ridden the broad avenues of the capital in his youth — when he encountered the tiny young girl of the Pu family, would he have bullied her, or protected her, holding her in the palm of his hand and waiting for her to grow up?

Pu Zhu did not know that in another world where the two of them existed, the very topic she and Li Xuandu had discussed that night was, in fact, already unfolding…