Zhao Ji, who had been emperor for two years, wore bright yellow casual clothes as he stood in the center of the room with his hands behind his back, concentrating intently on appreciating the “Children Playing in Water” painting hanging before him.

Zhao Lingrang fanned himself with his folding fan. This ventilated room was becoming increasingly stuffy in midsummer, and he didn’t know how his cousin could endure it. Zhao Lingrang knew the paintings hanging on the four walls of this room were personally delivered by the Mute House owner after Zhao Ji ascended the throne. Not taking a single coin—it was completely beyond his expectations. He had thought that the previous mystical display of hanging four blank papers there must have had ulterior motives, but the other party unexpectedly made no demands whatsoever.

However, this was a minor matter, and Zhao Lingrang quickly put it out of his mind. He looked at Zhao Ji before him with admiration. His cousin had ascended the throne at nineteen, repeatedly issuing edicts seeking honest counsel, banishing treacherous officials, clearing wrongful imprisonments, and heeding loyal advice—all of which received unanimous praise from court and country.

But Zhao Lingrang also felt vaguely uneasy. The struggle between the New Party and Old Party had raged fiercely during Emperor Zhezong’s reign. He believed many people couldn’t figure out whether the New Party’s reforms were good or the Old Party’s conservatism was wonderful. But recent policy decrees showed signs of change, and though constrained by his imperial clan status, Zhao Lingrang rarely involved himself in politics, he had heard that these changes by Zhao Ji were all related to Cai Jing, who had recently risen in court.

Cai Jing had gained Zhao Ji’s appreciation for his excellent calligraphy. Zhao Lingrang had met Cai Jing several times and had no good impression of him, but didn’t know how to discuss this with Zhao Ji. They were no longer simply cousins—he couldn’t even call him “cousin” casually as before. Whether in private or public, he could only humbly bow on both knees.

Seeing Zhao Ji return to awareness from his meditation, Zhao Lingrang quickly knelt according to daily protocol to pay his respects. “I greet Your Majesty.” (Note: During the Song Dynasty, the emperor was addressed as “Your Majesty” (guanjia). The saying goes “Three emperors ruled the world as officials, five emperors ruled as family,” and because the emperor should be impartial and selfless, he was called “Your Majesty.”)

“Rise.” Zhao Ji’s face had shed the childishness of youth, now bearing only haughty superiority. “Danian, I called you here today because I want you to consider whether Yanfu Palace is perhaps too small?”

Zhao Lingrang pondered the implications of these words, then discovered with alarm that his cousin intended to expand this palace. Yanfu Palace had always served as a Song emperor’s temporary residence, famous for its elegant refinement, but no emperor had ever complained it was too small… Zhao Lingrang felt the air in the room becoming increasingly stuffy and suffocating, making it hard to breathe.

He knew he had to say something. Zhao Lingrang felt his throat itch, then heard himself say with an awkward smile: “…Your subject also feels so.”

Zhao Ji was greatly pleased, nodding with a smile: “Yes, it’s really too hot here. Let’s go outside to discuss specifics!” With that, he led the way out of the side hall.

Zhao Lingrang took out silk from his pocket to wipe the sweat from his head.

It’s easy to go from frugality to luxury, but hard to return from luxury to frugality. This time it was just expanding Yanfu Palace—but what about next time… Zhao Lingrang didn’t dare think. Years ago, Zhao Ji had told him the origin of these four paintings as if joking, saying the price these paintings demanded was maintaining one’s original heart. Zhao Lingrang smiled bitterly—now not only his cousin, but even he himself couldn’t maintain his original heart, willingly speaking against his conscience.

Sighing silently, Zhao Lingrang turned to leave the side hall. At the moment he turned, the painted image of “Children Playing in Water” on the wall was slowly growing faint…

Zhao Ji changed into casual clothes and walked on East Street with several guards.

Time flowed by like rushing water—he had been emperor for exactly ten years.

He felt he was a very good emperor. Though those tedious governmental affairs were difficult to handle, Prime Minister Cai handled everything for him, giving him time and energy to devote to his greatest interest—calligraphy and painting. He had taken charge of the Hanlin Academy, established the Xuanhe Painting Academy, and personally served as the academy’s director. Recently he had been compiling books like “Xuanhe Calligraphy Record,” “Xuanhe Painting Record,” and “Xuanhe Ancient Artifacts Illustrated.”

But recently something inexplicable had happened that urgently needed explanation. According to intelligence reports, the antique shop called Mute House had been closed for several days. It was said they had held a funeral a few days ago.

That boss had died? Zhao Ji frowned. He hadn’t visited the Mute House once in all these years—how could the timing be so coincidental? Several guards, trying to read the emperor’s mind, ignored that the Mute House remained closed and forcibly broke the iron lock on the door before entering.

After Zhao Ji entered, he found the interior arrangement almost identical to ten years ago, with the same antiques still displayed inside. Zhao Ji couldn’t understand—could this antique shop’s business be so poor that they hadn’t sold a single piece in ten years? Zhao Ji almost felt he had stepped into time from ten years past, especially when he saw the Mute House owner slowly emerge from the inner rooms.

Those features looked exactly as young as ten years ago, without the slightest change. He still wore that black Han-style clothing, his complexion pale as white paper.

Zhao Ji immediately guessed who had died, sighing: “Please accept my condolences.”

Only the two people he had originally met were in the shop. Now that the boss was here, it meant the funeral had been for Le’er. Ten years ago Le’er was two—even after ten years, he would only be twelve. Having witnessed several of his own sons die young over the years, Zhao Ji momentarily felt sympathy for sharing similar misfortune with the boss.

“It’s nothing. His time had come—he needed to go.” The boss’s face was pale, as if completely indifferent that a child he had cherished for years had so easily departed. He turned and asked coolly: “Your Majesty honors us with your presence today—what important matter brings you here?”

Zhao Ji heard the impatience in his tone but didn’t take offense. After all, anyone who lost their closest person wouldn’t be in good spirits. Zhao Ji raised his hand toward a nearby guard, who immediately presented a narrow brocade box. After Zhao Ji waved his hand again, the guards filed out in orderly fashion, leaving Zhao Ji and the boss alone.

Zhao Ji carefully opened the brocade box in his hands, took out a painting scroll, and unrolled it on the long table.

The painting paper was completely blank.

Seeing this blank painting paper, the boss raised his eyebrows knowingly and asked calmly: “Which of the ‘Four Seasons Paintings’ is this?”

Zhao Ji nervously licked his lips: “It’s ‘Children Playing in Water.’ ‘Spring Excursion’ still hangs there properly. Actually, this ‘Children Playing in Water’ had already become blank—I thought some palace servant had accidentally damaged the scroll and hung blank paper there. But yesterday I suddenly discovered that even ‘Falling Leaves’ was beginning to fade, so I started feeling something was wrong…”

The boss smiled slightly and said unhurriedly: “Everything in this world is fair. Since you chose to gain infinite power and wealth yet cannot properly maintain your original heart, naturally the ‘Four Seasons Paintings’ must take corresponding payment.”

“What payment?” Zhao Ji asked urgently.

“This is ‘Children Playing in Water.'” The boss just smiled without answering directly, calmly repeating the painting’s name.

Zhao Ji felt as if someone had grabbed his throat—he couldn’t say a word. He was twenty-nine years old, but except for his eldest son born before ascending the throne, not a single prince had managed to grow up successfully. Without exception, they all died young… He had vaguely felt something was wrong. One or two children dying might be accidental, but every child dying before age five was absurd… He had always thought someone was secretly cursing them, but never imagined the paintings were causing the trouble…

“Boss… how… how can this be resolved?” Even as sovereign of a nation, Zhao Ji knew he was merely mortal, unable to resist such supernatural matters.

The boss said nothing, raising his hand to slowly roll up the scroll again. Only then did Zhao Ji notice that the boss’s Han-style robe had a neat cut on the right wide sleeve, as if slashed by a sharp sword. Zhao Ji knew this garment must be something the boss treasured—otherwise he couldn’t have worn it for ten years, reluctant to replace it even when torn. Having a request to make, Zhao Ji tried to appeal to his interests: “Boss, this robe is damaged. Take it to the Imperial Embroidery Academy for repair. I guarantee the embroiderers there have skills that rival heaven’s craftsmanship.”

The boss paused in rolling the scroll—clearly Zhao Ji’s suggestion had moved his heart. The Imperial Embroidery Academy was Zhao Ji’s personal embroidery workshop—perhaps there was hope. He didn’t want to die like this. Le’er was Fu Su’s reincarnation, but he had been powerless to prevent his death at twelve. Yet he wasn’t resigned to this. Having endured thousands of years, though his robe had been damaged by the King of Yue sword, he still wanted to continue living. This was his only obsession, and Zhao Ji had accurately grasped his weakness.

“Your Majesty, this robe is not ordinary fabric—common embroiderers cannot handle it.” The boss’s gaze flickered as he looked at Zhao Ji. “Moreover, I require that while the robe is being sewn, I must be in the same room.”

Zhao Ji nodded repeatedly—such a small matter wasn’t worth mentioning. He could see this robe should be an antique from the Qin-Han period, which explained the boss’s deep attachment to it.

After contemplating with deep eyes for a while, the boss closed the Mute House antique shop and returned with Zhao Ji to his palace outside the imperial city—Yanfu Palace.

Yanfu Palace had officially begun renovation and expansion in the spring of the third year of Zhenghe era, called the Five Districts of Yanfu. The new Yanfu Palace’s east-west length matched the inner imperial palace, with only slightly smaller north-south dimensions—essentially Zhao Ji had built himself a new imperial palace. Stretching from Jinglong Gate in the east to Tianbo Gate in the west, with brilliant halls and beautiful scenery featuring dozens of pavilions and towers. Stones were piled into mountains, pools carved to represent seas, springs gathered into lakes, dotted with exotic birds, rare beasts, beautiful flowers and famous trees—truly like an earthly paradise. Since the Five Districts of Yanfu were completed, Zhao Ji spent most of his time here, reluctant to leave.

With such luxurious and magnificent palaces, Zhao Ji intended to show off, but leading the boss along the route, he saw no expression of amazement on his face—instead, he remained indifferent to the beautiful scenery before him.

Zhao Ji drew a breath, deciding to bring the boss to see Mount Wanshou when it was completed, not believing he wouldn’t be moved. The boss looked at the exotic flowers and greenery, the rows of halls, pavilions and towers, sighing helplessly in his heart.

Such a foolish ruler—no wonder “Falling Leaves” was beginning to wither!

The boss took residence in a side hall of Yanfu Palace. The current Yanfu Palace was enormously vast—one more person wouldn’t matter. Zhao Ji was only enthusiastic in entertaining him for the first few days, but when he saw the boss showed no intention of advising him on preserving his offspring, he gradually stopped coming.

As for the “Four Seasons Paintings,” Zhao Ji kept only the intact “Spring Excursion” and “Treading in Snow,” sending the blank “Children Playing in Water” and fading “Falling Leaves” to where the boss stayed. The boss stored away “Children Playing in Water” while “Falling Leaves” hung in his temporary side hall.

Zhao Lingrang often came to chat with him—perhaps because idle imperial clan members had nothing to do, or more likely due to disappointment with current court affairs. Zhao Lingrang would drink upon arrival, then begin complaining endlessly after getting drunk.

“Hey! Boss! Do you have any way to help my cousin have princes?” Zhao Lingrang swayed his wine cup, drunk. Only when intoxicated could he refer to the current emperor as his cousin. When sober, he could only respectfully call him Your Majesty.

The boss smiled faintly: “He was eager to help repair my robe—I never promised to help him.” Zhao Lingrang was stunned for a moment, then nodded in praise: “Truly a cunning merchant! Indeed a cunning merchant! Admirable! Admirable!”

A cunning merchant? The boss looked down at the half-completed deep crimson dragon claw embroidered on his right hand. He insisted on wearing the robe each day after the embroiderers’ work. Zhao Ji had certainly learned from others’ reports that the red thread used in sewing was actually soaked in his blood.

The fabric of his robe was no ordinary material—every thread pattern had specific arrangements that couldn’t be randomly repaired, naturally requiring more than ordinary silk thread.

To most perfectly repair this robe, Zhao Ji had even personally drawn the embroidery pattern for this dragon.

Heh… The boss chuckled softly. Zhao Ji had probably guessed this robe’s purpose, hadn’t he? The boss sneered inwardly—actually, he wanted to claim this robe for himself, didn’t he? Otherwise, how could a commoner wear robes embroidered with dragons? Dragon patterns were exclusively imperial designs. What Zhao Ji plotted was that someday he could wear this robe himself.

Zhao Lingrang didn’t notice the boss’s strangeness, continuing to pour wine while complaining: “Cunning merchants are actually fine—what’s most detestable are treacherous ministers! That Cai Jing actually wants to rebuild the city walls personally designed by Taizu!”

The boss was also stunned hearing this. Tokyo Bianliang was actually located in the center of the realm, completely flat—a place vulnerable to military disasters. Without mountain or river barriers, without strategic passes for defense, only convenient water transport and developed communications, but difficult to defend. With no natural defenses, Bianjing could only strengthen its city fortifications, building thick, solid walls to replace mountain barriers, relying on heavily armored troops to substitute for strategic passes.

Song Taizu’s personally designed city construction plan curved and wound like a riddle. No one could understand Song Taizu’s intentions then, but they built the walls accordingly, protecting the Great Song’s peace and stability for hundreds of years.

“That Cai Jing fellow actually thinks the outer city is chaotic and unsightly! He wants to order reconstruction of the outer walls, changing those winding, curving walls into square, regular ‘mouth’ shapes! Isn’t this absurd?” Zhao Lingrang used alcohol to vent his anger, pounding the table in fury. He wanted to say more, but alcohol had numbed his brain, and he soon fell into deep sleep.

The boss looked at the “Falling Leaves” on the wall, now so faint the image was barely visible, his expression unreadable as he said quietly: “Indeed absurd. Surrounding people in a ‘mouth’… isn’t that the character for ‘prisoner’?”

The Red Dragon Robe took two full years to complete. The red thread soaked in the boss’s blood, combined with dozens of skilled embroiderers from the Imperial Embroidery Academy, made the red dragon seem to come alive, clawing and writhing on the robe with shocking realism, as if it would someday rule the world. Perfect—only these two words could describe it.

However, Zhao Ji didn’t obtain this robe as wished, because before he could shamelessly seize it, the boss had already left. Like a phantom, he vanished silently from the heavily guarded imperial city.

He only took the blank scroll of “Children Playing in Water.” The faint “Falling Leaves” still hung lonely on the wall. Each time Zhao Ji looked at it, he felt his heart palpitate, as if panic was tightly gripping his heart. Not daring to look longer, he ordered it taken down.

The “Four Seasons Paintings” had already claimed his offspring. He didn’t want to think about what the paintings might take from him next time.