The First Year of Yongji

The snow of the first year of Yongji did not fall until the twelfth month.

Su Jin was brought from the Ministry of Justice into the palace, nearly blinded by the brilliant white snow. She had not seen daylight for a hundred days. Inside the prison, darkness reigned eternally, filled with the stench of rotting corpses. Every day, people were taken away—those she had once known well, those close to her, executed one after another.

With the empire changing hands in a single morning, history would be written anew.

The prisoner’s robe hung loose on her body. The bitter wind rushed in through her sleeves, cold enough to pierce bone and marrow, until she grew numb to it.

Su Jin raised her eyes toward the depths of the palace complex, where Zhu Nanxian was imprisoned. The Minghua Palace, once prosperous beyond measure, now stood in ruins, like an emperor in his prime suddenly aged to decrepit twilight.

The fire at Minghua Palace—it seemed the rumors from three days ago were true.

A palace attendant pushed open the doors of the Ziji Hall, his voice stretching out in a singsong: “The criminal official Su Jin has arrived—”

The figure in the hall suddenly turned around, clad in black robes and coronet, his features sharp with a cold, murderous aura.

This was the real Liu Chaoming. Su Jin found it laughable, sighing that when she first met him, she had thought the world held such a gentleman, refined as jade, never before seen in all of history.

How should she address him now? Chief Minister? Prince Regent? No—he had propped up an imbecile as emperor. Now, he was the true ruler of this realm.

The dragon’s saliva incense in the hall mixed with the snow’s chill, condensing into mist that obscured Liu Chaoming’s view of the kneeling figure below.

“Come closer,” he ordered after a moment of silence.

Su Jin did not move. Two guards stepped forward and dragged her several paces. On the floor, two shocking trails of blood marked her path.

Drawing nearer, Su Jin raised her head and asked in a hoarse voice, “The fire at Minghua Palace—was it you who set it?”

He made no sound. Su Jin continued, “You wanted to burn him to death.”

Only then did Liu Chaoming notice the grief-stricken smile at the corners of her lips. When had it happened—when had that Minister Su, whose talent and reputation shook the empire, who had always remained unmoved by honor or disgrace, cold and indifferent, come to feel such desperate sorrow for one person?

Liu Chaoming’s heart trembled slightly, though he could not taste the flavor of it. After a long pause, he finally spoke: “You rebelled against your superiors, colluded with rebels from the former dynasty, and as a woman, disguised yourself as a man to enter office, deceiving the sovereign. Your crimes are monstrous. You are hereby exiled to Ningzhou this very day, never to return.”

Su Jin smiled again. “You won’t grant me death?”

This life, played out absurdly to its bitter end—she might as well follow the departed.

The prison cart waited outside the Meridian Gate. She was fitted with shackles. With each step, the clanging of chains rang out, shaking heaven and earth.

Liu Chaoming watched Su Jin’s thin silhouette and suddenly recalled how she had looked when they first met—late spring in the twenty-third year of Jingyuan, wind and rain filling the sky. Through the curtain of rain, she had bowed to him. Though dressed in plain, shabby clothes, her bright eyes shone like spring sunshine.

Even then, Liu Chaoming had felt she resembled him—the same clarity and self-possession, the same penetrating insight.

He only regretted not strangling her at the start of her official career. Because of some curiosity, some stirring of emotion, he had allowed her to grow into a towering tree, allowed her to part ways with him.

Now that she had severed all will to live, she could never forgive him.

“Su Jin,” Liu Chaoming said. “The fire at Minghua Palace—the former emperor set it himself.”

Su Jin’s retreating figure froze.

Liu Chaoming spoke quietly: “He remains that foolish. Two years ago, he fought desperately to seize this throne, thinking he could save you. Now he has set fire to himself, yielding up this empire with both hands, thinking he can trade it for your life.”

Su Jin did not turn around. After a long while, she asked hoarsely, “Why are you telling me this?”

“Did you not ask why I would not grant you death?” Liu Chaoming said. “As Zhu Nanxian wished.”

The prison cart rolled over the snowy road and soon disappeared from sight.

Snow began falling across heaven and earth again. Snowflakes covered Liu Chaoming’s shoulders, melting into his cloak, yet he stood in the snow for a long time, as if unable to feel the cold.

An elderly palace attendant held an umbrella over Liu Chaoming and sighed. “My lord, why must you do this?” He had witnessed countless deaths and human dramas in the palace and knew that those caught in this maelstrom could not afford even half a measure of softness—for one step back meant eternal damnation.

“Minister Su had already relinquished all will to live. By telling her this, my lord, you may well drive her to survive at any cost. Minister Su’s influence runs deep and tangled throughout the court and beyond. As they say, a centipede does not topple even in death. And with the current emperor merely feigning madness, if one day she manages to return to the capital—between you and her, my lord, I fear it will be either your death or her survival.”

They had known each other for five years. Even the emperor on the throne had changed like figures on a rotating lantern, three times over. What did life and death matter?

“If she can return,” Liu Chaoming smiled slightly, “I accept my fate.”