The hall erupted into uproar.

After the autumn hunt that year, rumors had quietly circulated through the palace for a time — whispers that the Crown Prince had suffered injuries in his fall from the horse that day, and that there were fears he might be unable to father children. This claim had spread quite widely for a period. But later, once Li Chengyu ascended the throne, the story changed: it became said that the faction supporting the King of Liu had deliberately fabricated the rumor out of malicious intent, to slander the Crown Prince. That explanation, too, had its logic. And though the Emperor still had no heirs, he was young, with many years ahead of him. With the court beset by troubles both within and without, the matter had gradually been forgotten, and no one had bothered to keep watch over the affairs of the Emperor’s inner palace.

No one had imagined that at this moment, Noble Consort Sun would suddenly appear and raise the old matter anew.

She had been brought here today by Guo Lang. Which meant Guo Lang had known about affairs in the Emperor’s inner palace all along.

Indeed, Guo Lang turned to look at Marquis Yao, whose face had suddenly drained of color, and said: “Lord Yao, whether Noble Consort Sun has slandered the Empress or not — that will become clear shortly. The Princess Consort of Prince Duan entered the palace a moment ago to call upon the Empress.”

Marquis Yao stared at Guo Lang, sitting above in perfect composure, and understood at last — he had been betrayed by this old man with whom he had served at court for many years, a man he had believed to be on the same side.

He finally understood, too, why Guo Lang had pleaded illness and refused to appear ever since Li Chengyu had insisted on leading the campaign in person.

It seemed that from that very moment, this crafty and wily “Imperial Tutor” had shifted his allegiances, quietly making preparations to abandon his imperial student and sever ties with Marquis Yao himself.

Great drops of sweat rolled ceaselessly from Marquis Yao’s brow, streaming past his eyelids. He could barely keep his eyes open.

It was over. Everything was over.

In Kunning Palace, the Princess Consort of Prince Duan had led the Feathered Forest Guards in bursting through to the inner chambers, blocking Yao Hanzhen as she heard the news and tried to flee toward the rear hall.

Yao Hanzhen held a sword in hand, thrusting it wildly at the Princess Consort, her eyes wide and round, screaming threats.

Two palace maids quietly circled around behind her and, catching her off guard, lunged from the rear and tackled her flat to the ground in an instant.

Her sword was seized, yet she continued to struggle with all her might, biting savagely into the hand of one of the maids, and even after being flung off, kept howling and shrieking like a madwoman: “I am the Empress! Release me! You lowly creatures —”

The Princess Consort of Prince Duan was furious and shouted sharply: “Pin her down, stuff her mouth — do not let her continue raving!”

Several more maids swarmed forward at once, and between them all, they swiftly pressed the woman firmly to the ground and shoved something into her mouth to silence her.

An elderly nursemaid came forward, reached out, and pressed her hand against Yao Hanzhen’s swollen abdomen. She knew at once that something was wrong. Lifting Yao Hanzhen’s outer robe and peeling back two layers of undergarments, she found, bound across her belly, a round cushion.

The palace nursemaid who had attended her soon confessed, trembling from head to toe: from the very beginning, the pregnancy had been false. She had gradually increased the size of the cushion strapped beneath her garments to match the progression of months, so as to deceive the eye. At the same time, she had secretly taken in more than a dozen common women whose pregnancies were at roughly the same stage, intending that when the time of labor arrived, she would take a male infant and present it as the dragon heir.

The Princess Consort of Prince Duan gazed at Yao Hanzhen, still writhing on the ground with frantic effort, and could not help but sigh inwardly at how the allure of imperial power could blind a person and drive them to such a degree of mad desperation. She shook her head, muttered “dreaming in broad daylight,” and ordered someone to escort the nursemaid to the side hall of Changqing Palace to give testimony.

When the nursemaid arrived and found the place packed with people from floor to ceiling, she did not dare raise her head, but prostrated herself on the ground and, trembling, repeated everything she had just said.

The assembled ministers erupted in fury. Those among them who had been on close terms with Marquis Yao in ordinary times were all pushed forward — several dozen people in total. Their faces were the color of ash. Some protested loudly that they had known nothing of the matter; others fell to their knees before Prince Duan, begging for mercy. Amid the clamor of voices, a military officer came sprinting into the hall and reported to Prince Duan that they had just captured a unit of Imperial Guards loyal to Marquis Yao — more than three thousand men in all — along with their weapons and armor, all taken together. According to confessions, they had originally been set to launch a surprise attack on Prince Duan’s mansion that very night at the third watch, and thereafter seize control of the capital.

The hall was thrown into even greater outrage. Everyone surrounded Marquis Yao and berated him with furious contempt.

Marquis Yao had already slumped limply to the floor, his face utterly bloodless, sitting in silence while the crowd cursed him through gritted teeth, not uttering a single word. When he heard Prince Duan give the order for men to come forward and strip him of his official cap and sash, he gave a shudder and slowly raised his head. His eyes, burning with hatred, fixed on the man opposite him. Then suddenly he scrambled up from the floor, staggering toward Guo Lang, and snarled through clenched teeth: “Guo, you old traitor — I fell into your hands, the scheme has failed, I have nothing to say about that! But you — both the Late Emperor and the Great Emperor treated you with the deepest respect, and yet you betrayed two masters to throw in your lot with the Prince of Qin. Bad enough that you didn’t die — but how do you still have the face to sit there in the seat of honor?”

Guo Lang was a man of the ancient Qi region. From his youth, he had admired the Yan Zi of the Spring and Autumn period, and subscribed to his maxim: “Those who read the times are heroes; those who adapt to circumstance are paragons.”

To serve as an official and a subject, one could only make the correct choices — choices that served the state and also benefited oneself — by perceiving the great way of humanity and the great affairs of the realm with absolute clarity, and then adapting accordingly.

The situation at court had deteriorated to this point; supporting Prince Qin’s accession was what would benefit the nation, the people, and himself alike. His conscience was clear.

As for having outmaneuvered Marquis Yao — he felt not a trace of guilt over that, either. Yet he still carried a measure of self-reproach in his heart for having failed to stop Li Chengyu from insisting on leading the campaign himself, which had led to all the ensuing upheaval. Now, hearing Marquis Yao’s accusation, a flicker of chagrin passed through him, and for a moment he fell silent.

A student-official of his immediately barked: “Marquis Yao, you traitor! Was it not you who instigated the Great Emperor’s decision to lead the campaign himself? The Imperial Tutor remonstrated with him repeatedly — that is common knowledge! Moreover, given the present state of the court, who else but the Prince of Qin can gather the truly capable, devise lasting strategies, save the realm under heaven, and shelter ten thousand people? Who else can hold up this dynasty and this universe?”

His words were barely out before the crowd erupted in loud agreement.

Marquis Yao let out a wild, howling laugh: “Who is fit to do it — that is not for me, a man facing death, to say! I know only one thing: whatever meritorious deeds the Prince of Qin may have performed today, in years past he participated in the conspiracy of the Liang Crown Prince to force the palace! For that, he was imprisoned in Wuyou Palace for three years! The whole world knows it! He is nothing but a convicted criminal — a man who bears the stain of guilt. What right does he have now to ascend the throne as Emperor? If he can be Emperor, then am I to say that all the assembled worthies here today consider treason a minor matter — something one can simply move past? In that case, what does my own crime today amount to?”

“I do not know whether all under heaven will accept this or not, but I, Yao, am the first who will not accept it! Even in death, I will not accept it!”

His wild laughter rang out through every corner of the hall, clear and sharp to every ear. For a moment, the crowd fell silent. They exchanged glances — then immediately erupted in counter-arguments, saying that when the late Mingzong had ultimately pardoned him, he had clearly understood that Prince Qin had been wrongfully accused.

Marquis Yao gave a cold snort, said “whitewashing the truth,” and closed his eyes. He sat on the floor while the crowd surrounded and refuted him, a cold smile playing on his face.

Prince Duan felt a surge of frustration, mixed with some helplessness.

From what he knew of his nephew Li Xuandu’s character, and from the bond between that father and son of the imperial family in those earlier years, he did not believe that his nephew had truly participated in the Liang Crown Prince’s rebellion. But at the time, Mingzong had in his fury confirmed the charge as fact. Later, before his death, he had pardoned Li Xuandu — and there were even rumors that Mingzong had intended to pass the throne to Prince Qin. But after all, those were only rumors.

So many years had passed now; things had changed beyond recognition, and the court had long since let this old matter fade from memory. Yet this old dog of the Yao family, seeing his scheme had failed and death was at hand, still sought to drag others down and take one last bite.

His mouth full of sophistry and wild claims — though it would not affect the larger picture in the slightest — still stung with a certain sharpness.

Prince Duan’s brow was deeply furrowed, and he was just about to order all those of the Yao faction taken away, when he noticed a palace guard entering from outside the hall with word that Song Changsheng requested an audience.

Song Changsheng had been a palace attendant under the late Xiaochang Emperor, second in rank only to Shen Gao, whom he had always been overshadowed by. On the night that Emperor Xiaochang passed away, Shen Gao had died as well; Song Changsheng had not been in the imperial tent at the time and had escaped by sheer luck, but after Li Chengyu’s accession he had been dismissed to the cold palace to manage trivial affairs of no consequence, and nothing had been heard of him since.

The palace had seen more than enough of such attendants — those who rose with their master and fell with their master. The unlucky ones died early; the lucky ones simply lived out their days in the depths of the palace and died of old age in the end. He was just an ordinary attendant, and everyone had long since forgotten him — Prince Duan included. But to hear his name at this moment seemed peculiar indeed, and Prince Duan ordered him brought in.

Under the gaze of the assembled crowd, Song Changsheng entered the hall and paid his respects to Prince Duan and Guo Lang on the dais: “Song Changsheng pays his respects to Prince Duan and to the Imperial Tutor. I have come today because there is something I must report.”

Prince Duan had some recollection of this Song Changsheng, who had in earlier days often been sent out on errands and had gone to Prince Duan’s mansion on several occasions. In just two or three years, he saw that the man’s temples had gone gray and his appearance had aged considerably — life in the cold palace had evidently not been easy. But his tone of voice was measured and unhurried, and his manner was neither submissive nor arrogant. Prince Duan grew all the more puzzled and had no idea what matter he had come about. He said: “Speak.”

Song Changsheng did not speak immediately. Instead, he first turned to face the direction of the former Penglai Palace, knelt, and bowed deeply in solemn reverence. Only then did he rise and say: “Before her passing, the venerable Grand Empress Dowager summoned me in secret. She said that after she was gone, if ever a day should come when the court fell into turmoil and there was no one to hold the realm together, I was to go before Prince Duan and convey her oral instruction: that she had left an imperial decree, sealed behind the central plaque between the startling-bird bells on the left and right sides of her sleeping chamber in Penglai Palace. She commanded Prince Duan to retrieve the decree, make it known to the assembled ministers, and proclaim it to all under heaven.”

The hall was first utterly silent, then broke out in a burst of excited murmurs, carefully suppressed.

Prince Duan came to himself, excitement flooding through him without limit. He knew that this Song Changsheng must have been of Penglai Palace. A matter of such gravity — he would never dare speak lightly.

Prince Duan steadied himself and exchanged a glance with Guo Lang at his side, then rose abruptly to his feet and, leading the assembled company, set out for Penglai Palace. As he passed by Marquis Yao, still sitting on the floor, he thought for a moment, then with a cold expression ordered the guards in the hall to haul Yao and all his faction along with them — he wanted Yao to hear as well just what that imperial decree had to say.