First Year of Zhongyuan, March 29th.
Spring had finally arrived in Chang'an. Willows outside the palace walls had sprouted new buds, a tender green swaying gently in the wind. Yet, deep within Weiyang Palace, the scent of medicine grew heavier by the day.
Liu Che had not come to the workshop for three days. Qingxing said he spent his days attending court and his nights at the Emperor's bedside caring for the sick, hardly closing his eyes. I went to the study to find him; memorials were piled on the desk like small mountains. The topmost scroll was still spread open, a vermilion brush resting beside it, the ink not yet dry. He was not there. But the lamp was still lit.
In the last few days of March, the atmosphere in the palace changed. Attendants walked on tiptoe, speaking in hushed whispers. The Imperial Physician no longer left the Emperor's quarters, eating and sleeping in the side hall. Empress Dowager Dou came twice; each time she left, her face looked grim. The Eldest Princess also came, even more frequently than the Empress Dowager. Each time she arrived with a large entourage, speaking in the corridors with voices kept so low that words were indistinguishable, yet one could feel it—something in the air was tightening.
March 30th. Night.
I sat in the workshop for a long time. The lacquerzhi on the desk was repaired; the cinnabar had filled the peeled areas, leaving almost no trace if one did not look closely. But I had no heart to look at it. The moon outside was full, casting a pale, ghastly light on the palace walls.
The door was pushed open.
Liu Che stood at the doorway. He wore casual clothes, his hair crown removed, his hair simply tied back. His face looked very pale in the moonlight, the dark circles under his eyes as deep as bruises. He stood there like a tree that had been battered by the wind for too long.
"Your Highness?"
"Come," he said. His voice was hoarse.
"Where?"
He did not answer. He walked over, took my hand, and led me out. His hand was cold, his fingertips trembling slightly. We crossed the corridors, passed the main hall, and walked down that path we had traversed countless times. At the end of the road lay the Emperor's sleeping quarters.
Many people stood at the door. Attendants, palace maids, the Imperial Physician—all stood outside, heads bowed, motionless. The air was heavy, so heavy it was hard to breathe. No one spoke. No one cried.
Liu Che released my hand and pushed open the door.
The candlelight inside flickered. The smell of medicine was pungent enough to sting the nose. The Emperor lay on the couch, covered with thick quilts, his face so thin only bones remained. His eyes were closed; his chest barely rose and fell. The Imperial Physician knelt by the couch, head bowed.
"Father," Liu Che's voice was very light.
The Emperor did not respond. Liu Che walked to the couch and knelt. His back was straight, but I saw his hands—resting on his knees, clenched tight. I stood at the door and did not enter. This was their time. It did not belong to me.
The Emperor's eyes slowly opened. Those eyes—identical to Liu Che's—were still bright. But the brightness was weak, like the last lamp in the wind. He saw Liu Che, and the corner of his mouth moved slightly.
"You're here?" His voice was light, light as a feather.
"I am here," Liu Che said. His voice was steady. But his hands were trembling.
The Emperor looked at his face for a long time. Then, slowly, very slowly, he raised his hand and placed it on Liu Che's head. That hand was as thin as a withered branch, knuckles protruding, nails tinged with blue-white. He left it there, unmoving. Just as many years ago, when he first placed this child on the throne of the Crown Prince.
"Che'er," he said.
"I am here."
"From now on—" He paused, gasping for breath, "from now on, this world is entrusted to you."
Tears fell from Liu Che's eyes. Silently, they streamed down his cheeks.
"Father—"
"Do not cry," the Emperor said, the corner of his mouth moving slightly. "The Son of Heaven cannot cry."
His fingers gently patted Liu Che's head. The strength was light, light as the wind.
"In this life, I have done many wrong things," his voice grew lower and lower. "But establishing you as Crown Prince was right."
Liu Che lowered his head, his shoulders shaking. But he made no sound.
"The Dou family... the Prince of Liang... the Eldest Princess..." The Emperor's voice was broken and intermittent, like a thread about to snap. "Be careful. Do not rush. Wait—"
He did not finish. His hand slid down from Liu Che's head and fell onto the couch. His eyes remained open, but the light was gone. Like a lamp that had burned to its end, it went out gently, quietly.
The Imperial Physician kowtowed once. Then a second time. Then a third.
Those outside heard. Everyone knelt. Crying sounds came from the far end of the corridor, suppressed and muffled, like the sound of a drum being smothered.
Liu Che still knelt there. His hand rested on the couch, beside the Emperor's hand. He did not cry. He did not move. His back was straight, like a tree battered by the wind for a long time, finally waiting for the wind to stop.
I stood at the door, watching his back. The candlelight danced on him, casting his shadow on the wall. That shadow was huge, so huge it covered half the wall. That shadow did not look like a fifteen-year-old youth. That shadow looked like an Emperor.
April 1st. The New Emperor Ascends the Throne.
Before dawn, all of Chang'an woke up. I stood on the high platform of the Eastern Palace, looking at the silhouette of Weiyang Palace in the distance. A line of light appeared on the horizon, dark red, like heated iron. Drumbeats came from the direction of the palace gates, one after another, dull and resonant. Every beat felt like a strike on the heart.
Liu Che walked out from within the hall, wearing the imperial ceremonial robes.
Black garments with crimson-black borders, a crown with twelve strands of jade beads. It was the same attire as on the Winter Solstice, but a different person. On the Winter Solstice, he was the Crown Prince. Today, he was the Son of Heaven. He walked very slowly. Every step landed on the beat of the drums, steady as a mountain. His face was partially visible behind the hanging jade beads, his expression unreadable. But I saw his eyes—very bright. Not the brightness of youth, but another kind of brightness. Cold, hard, like the light on a blade's edge.
The hundred officials knelt in homage, shouting "Ten thousand years!" Their voices echoed across the square, wave upon wave, like a tide. He stood at the highest point, looking down at those beneath him. Those kneeling people, those with bowed heads, those who once viewed him as a child. He did not smile. He had no expression. His face was like a polished bronze mirror, reflecting nothing. But beneath that mirror, there was fire. I could see it.
After the ceremony, he returned to the study. The memorials on the desk had been replaced with a new batch, each marked "For the New Emperor's Eyes Only." He sat down, picked up the first one, unrolled it, and read. His expression was calm, as if looking at something very ordinary.
I stood at the door. He did not look up.
"Come in," he said.
I walked in and stood beside him. He continued reading the memorials, not looking at me.
"Your Highness—" I paused, "Your Majesty."
The brush in his hand paused for a moment.
"Still call me Liu Che," he said, without looking up.
"Liu Che."
He raised his head and looked at me. The corner of his mouth moved slightly. It was not a smile, but something softer.
"You're here," he said.
"I am here."
He lowered his head and continued approving memorials. I stood beside him, watching his brush glide across the bamboo slips. His handwriting was hard, every stroke carved like a knife. Every stroke was steady, so steady it showed no hesitation.
But I saw his hand—the fingers gripping the brush, knuckles turning white.
"Lu Xingye," he suddenly spoke.
"Mm."
"You said the history books write that I am a good emperor." He did not look up. "Do you think I can achieve that?"
I looked at his profile. The candlelight danced on his face, outlining it sharply. His jaw was tense, his lips pressed together, no hesitation in his eyes. But I saw his hand holding the brush, waiting for an answer.
"You can," I said.
He raised his head and looked at me.
"Why?"
"Because you are afraid," I said. "Afraid of doing poorly. Afraid of failing Your Majesty. Afraid of the people of the world suffering. Only those who fear will do things seriously. Those who do not fear will accomplish nothing."
He looked at me for a long time. Then he smiled. Faintly, truly.
"What you say," he said, "works every time."
"What works?"
"Makes me feel that I can do it."
Outside the window, the sky finally brightened. Spring in Chang'an, at this moment, had truly arrived.
April 5th. The New Emperor's First Morning Court.
I stood under the corridor, watching from afar. He sat in the highest position, facing a hall full of courtiers. Some faces showed awe, some试探 (testing), some hid knives. He sat there, higher than everyone else, and lonelier than everyone else. His voice came from within the hall, not loud, but very steady.
"I have just ascended the great throne; many matters are unclear to me. My beloved ministers, speak your minds directly."
The hall fell silent for a moment. Then someone spoke. It was the Grand Censor.
"Your Majesty, the late Emperor's great mourning period has not passed, yet the Prince of Liang has not entered the capital to mourn. This is contrary to ritual."
Liu Che said nothing. He looked at the speaker, his gaze very calm.
"The Prince of Liang is ill," he said. "He cannot come."
"But—"
"I said, he is ill."
The hall fell silent again. No one spoke further. His voice was not loud, but everyone heard what lay beneath—not a discussion, but a decision. I stood under the corridor, watching his profile. The jade beads swayed gently before him, light and shadow flickering on his face. In that moment, he was not a youth. He was the Son of Heaven. The Son of Heaven of all people. And also the opponent of all people.
After court, he returned to the study. When I entered, he was reading a secret report. He looked up at me.
"Did you hear?" he asked.
"I heard."
"Do you think I did the right thing?"
"Yes," I said. "It was wrong for the Prince of Liang not to come to mourn. By not pursuing it now, you are recording his fault. Waiting for the right time to settle the account all at once."
He looked at me, the corner of his mouth curling up.
"How do you know?"
"Because you are sharpening your blade," I said. "It is not yet time to use it."
He said nothing, lowering his head to continue reading the secret report.
"Lu Xingye."
"Mm."
"From now on, come here every day after court."
"Okay."
"Stand by my side."
"Okay."
He raised his head and looked at me.
"Do not leave."
"I will not."
He nodded, lowered his head, and continued approving memorials. I stood beside him, watching his brush glide across the bamboo slips. Outside the window, spring in Chang'an was very quiet. Willow catkins drifted in the wind, white as snow. He sat there, wearing the imperial robes, approving the memorials of the world. His hand was steady, his eyes bright.
He was not yet sixteen. He was the Son of Heaven.
[End of Chapter 23]