Afternoon, the inner chamber of the West Warm Pavilion.

The room was partially enclosed by a projecting wing. A sitting couch was set up on the north side, and behind it hung a plaque inscribed with the words “The Ruler’s Difficulty*” in Emperor Huai’s own handwriting—bold, vigorous strokes with sharp, sweeping lines. Even after Emperor Taizong successfully secured the throne through unconventional means, the plaque was never removed. It is unclear what motivated Emperor Taizong and the subsequent emperors to keep it, but in any case, the plaque has remained there to this day. 

His Majesty Maomao wasn’t quite old enough to appreciate art yet. Standing on his couch, he stood on tiptoe, stretched out his arm, and straightened his whole body just to barely reach the lower right corner of the wooden plaque, where he stuck a picture of a duck he’d cut out himself. 

There was no particular reason for this; he simply wanted everyone who entered his study to look up at his masterpiece the moment they walked in. At least Guan Guan was quite taken with it. 

After he finished lunch and followed Wen Maomao over, he spent a full incense stick’s worth of time lavishing praise on the duck, never repeating a single compliment. Now, on the imperial desk where memorials should be piled, aside from his treasured writing implements, all that remained were the assorted toys his friends had given him.

Wen Maomao was sitting cross-legged with two friends on a tiger-skin cushion beneath the daybed, each hand holding a hand puppet given to him by his maternal aunt, Shen Zhiwei. On his left was a goat wearing a spread-foot turban cap and sporting a white woolen beard—representing Old Master Bai from the Ministry of Revenue—and on his right was a tiger with twin buns and a stone-blue robe, representing Wen Maomao himself. This set of hand puppets was exquisitely crafted, consisting of thirty-six pieces in total; even the subtle patterns on the robes were lifelike. As the hand puppets’ mouths opened and closed, you could even see the dark red lining. 

While providing the voiceover, Wen Maomao vividly recounted his misadventures to his good friends. The tiger on the right said, “I can’t keep working like this!” 

The old goat on the left stroked his beard and said, “That’s true—we really can’t. We should put those classes on the schedule.” 

This seamless combo—where the minister not only refused to accept the idea of not working but then countered with a “let’s work and study at the same time, doubling our efforts”—left Wen Maomao’s friend reeling for quite some time.

So much so that he can still recite it word for word: “Minister Bai said, ‘I beseech Your Majesty to choose an auspicious date to convene the imperial lecture, and to command the Confucian ministers to serve as imperial lecturers and attend daily to lecture and read, so as to achieve the work of a sage. This is a blessing for the state.”

Most of those twenty-five characters were incomprehensible to Wen Maomao, but that didn’t stop him from memorizing them word for word, chewing them over repeatedly as if they were carved into his heart. 

Is this even allowed? Is this even permissible? 

Wen Mengzheng even forgot to play with his Haidongqing hand puppet, which represented him, and could only blurt out the question Wen Maomao had failed to ask in the Council Chamber: “Isn’t this against the law?” 

For a moment, His Majesty Maomao felt he had found a kindred spirit.

Unfortunately, however, Wen Maomao replied through his tears, “No, it isn’t. I’ve looked into it—most emperors have done it this way.” It wasn’t just child emperors; teenage emperors did the same. It was considered one of the basics. 

Regardless of how well he learns it, he’ll have to learn it anyway.

As evidence, “Cloth Tiger 666” directly retrieved the biographies of various emperors who ascended the throne at a young age from its vast database and presented them to Wen Maomao. Some emperors, who ascended the throne at the age of six with no knowledge whatsoever, had to get up at 5:00 a.m. to study; others had extremely strict daily study schedules set by their teachers as early as age ten; and still others could recite all seven volumes of the *Analects* by the age of eight, with knowledge ranging from astronomy to geography…

Wen Mengzheng, who wasn’t much of a student, felt his eyes widen in shock. For the first time, he was so relieved that it wasn’t him who had ascended the throne. 

Wen Guan chose to side with his friend rather than his kin, unconditionally standing by his only true friend. He didn’t rush to urge him to study, nor did he rush to scold him; he simply held up the snake-and-vulture hand puppet in his hand—which looked dangerously menacing at a glance—and asked Wen Maomao, “So, is this what you want? What did you say back then?” 

The underlying meaning was crystal clear: if you don’t like it, I’ll find a way to sabotage this whole thing. 

Wen Maomao lowered the tiger puppet in his hand, recalling how he’d asked, in a last-ditch struggle, “Do bad guys have to study too?” 

The tiger doll, who was also dressed in mourning clothes, was completely taken aback by the question, as this scenario hadn’t been covered in its “tyrant” template—after all, it had been programmed to be an adult tyrant before arriving. It only knew that to be a qualified tyrant, it had to forcibly seize beauties for the palace, arbitrarily exterminate entire families, and provoke the heroes of the realm to rise up against it—all while remaining drunk and oblivious even on the day the city fell… 

It just didn’t say whether a tyrant was supposed to read books or not.

Not being very familiar with the task, the system could only frantically search the work manual and, combining that with the database, arrive at a final conclusion: 【“Probably, maybe, likely—even villains need to study; after all, they’re going to be major villains in the future, not just some random drifters.”】 Just how important is studying? According to a saying in China, “Love can bring the world to its knees, but you can’t give up your student status for love.”

Everyone knows that my friend’s most important task right now is studying. 

Wen Maomao: …Alright. QAQ

His attitude was one of confusion but obedience.

So, Wen Maomao asked, “Today?”

Then it was White Shangshu, seated on the throne, who was stunned. His mind was in turmoil—it was simply inconceivable. What? He agreed after just one request? The old man was completely caught off guard.

He’d been through the ordeal of enrolling his six-year-old grandson; his own son, Bai Shengye—who was only a year older than His Majesty—had already started school. The crying back then, the rolling on the ground, the dust flying everywhere… Ahem, best not to dwell on it. Even without comparing him to his particularly resilient grandson, he’d heard plenty of colleagues complain about their children’s lack of enthusiasm for studying. 

Playfulness is human nature. Voluntarily studying—something that goes against that nature—is difficult for many adults to overcome, let alone children. 

Bai Guanshan was prepared to try persuading him time and time again, which is why he hastily brought up the subject today. He never expected to succeed that very day.

After all, he wasn’t some monster—who would send a child to school when the child’s “father” had died just a couple of days ago? 

But he had no choice but to bring it up.

First, because this was the consistent approach of the Pure Stream faction—to constantly offer counsel to His Majesty; second, governing the nation was an extremely complex and intricate task; while His Majesty bore responsibility for all the people, he need not be well-versed in the Four Categories of Chinese Classics, but he could not be ignorant of the ways of imperial rule; and third…

Old Master Bai had realized that in the struggle for the position of regent minister, the Pure Stream faction was naturally at a disadvantage.

It’s not that other powerful factions could completely marginalize them, but the mere statement, “Grand Secretary Lu is a man of great virtue and prestige, a model for all ministers,” put them on the defensive.

In theory, whether Grand Secretary Lu served as the head of the court or the leader of the “Pure Stream” faction, nominating him as a regent minister would be the most natural course of action.

But there’s a problem: Grand Secretary Lu is ill. He’s been on sick leave for over a month now. Though he holds the title of Grand Secretary, the other cabinet ministers have effectively been calling the shots. He can’t even attend Emperor Yingzong’s wake right now, let alone serve as a regent minister in the future. For the Pure Stream faction, having him as a regent minister is practically the same as having none at all.

What if we select someone else from the “Pure Stream” faction instead? Setting aside whether there’s anyone capable of winning the respect of everyone—even Old Master Bai, after all, has his share of those who don’t respect him—what if, just suppose, Grand Secretary Lu recovers later on? What then?

Throughout history, there have been many regent ministers, but no one has ever been known to step down in favor of their superior while still in office. The Pure Stream faction has been placed in this precarious position.

It would be good enough if the other factions didn’t kick them while they were down; naturally, one couldn’t expect them to come up with a solution that satisfied everyone. If the Pure Stream faction wanted to break this deadlock, they had to find their own way out. Old Master Bai’s line of thinking was this: What is the essence of a regent minister? It is the ability to exert influence over the emperor. Such a role could be filled by the Empress Dowager and her maternal clan, by eunuchs and court attendants… or even by a teacher.

Although the Grand Tutor and Grand Mentor certainly couldn’t be compared to a regent minister, wasn’t having one better than having none? Old Master Bai thought to himself, “I’ll just bring it up and plant the idea.”

Little did he expect that it would succeed on the first try—His Majesty nodded in agreement without hesitation.

“This emperor’s kindness is almost too good to be true,” thought Old Master Bai. He thought of his own grandson at home—who was always wailing and screaming, firmly convinced that not a single child in the world loved studying—and then looked at the current emperor, who was so open to advice and willing to accept criticism. No wonder he was able to become emperor! 

Aside from Minister Bai, the other ministers were also deeply moved.

Wen Mengzheng asked, looking slightly puzzled, “Since you’ve already agreed, why are you telling us all this?” 

Wen Guan, who was naturally a clever man, seemed to sense something and subtly took a step forward. 

Wen Maomao smiled slightly, looking a bit embarrassed. Gua Gua raised his right hand toward himself, pretending it was a tiger hand puppet, and said, “Since studying can bring enlightenment and allow us to take responsibility for the people of the world, let’s do this great thing together.”

Wen Mengzheng let out a shriek and was about to jump up and run away to show his strong refusal. One of the main reasons he’d agreed to come to the capital in the first place was that he didn’t want to keep studying at the Prince of Wu’s mansion—how come he couldn’t escape this nightmare no matter where he went? 

Then, Wen Mengzheng was tripped by Wen Guan. Just as Wen Guan had said before, he would always stand by his best friend unconditionally. Since Maomao wanted everyone to study together, then let’s do it—not a single person left out. Without batting an eye, he remarked, “This way, we’ll get to spend even more time together every day. Look at Mengzheng—he almost tripped.” 

Wen Mengzheng: “……” Is he looking for a fight?

The big bad guy Wen Maomao nodded—sharing in the misery, yet another act of wickedness! 

It was as if the annotator of *The Wallflower Chronicles* had once again begun his passionate writing: 【The Emperor returned to the inner palace, where he played and frolicked with the Princes of Britain and Xin, discussing state affairs in between, and again turned to the subject of *Shang* to encourage learning. That he is able to take the words of his elder ministers to heart, understand their wisdom once internalized, and then share them with others—this is clear evidence of the beginnings of his sage-like learning. In ancient times, the Zhou dynasty admonished King Cheng, saying, ‘The king who succeeds you must not indulge in sightseeing, idleness, leisurely outings, or hunting.’ Observing the Emperor’s conduct today, one might say he comes close to this ideal.】 

With the elevation of the two Empress Dowagers, the promotions of the other officials were also largely settled.

The imperial consorts who were to be granted the title of Grand Consort were granted that title, and those who were to be granted the title of Senior Consort were granted that title. Since there were so many of them, and since Wen Maomao was still a child and had no harem of his own yet, the entire Western Six Palaces were temporarily allocated to the Grand Consorts to serve as their retirement quarters. 

Wen Guan of the Northern Second Palace was enfeoffed as the Prince of Ying, and Wen Mengzheng as the Prince of Xin. Wen Maomao wanted to directly grant them the title of “King,” because when he used to watch operas with his grandmother in their hometown, that’s how the scripts were sung.

However, the ministers disagreed; the Great Qi Dynasty had its own set of rules for promoting members of the imperial clan, which could not be easily broken.

Huo Qichuan, who was very skilled at appeasing his nephew, pointed out: “If we confer the title of ‘King’ now, what will we do later when we need to grant additional honors, and there are no higher titles left to bestow? It would be better to start with the title of ‘Duke.’ Once they come of age, we can elevate them to ‘County Prince,’ and when you assume personal rule, we can further elevate them to ‘Prince.’ This way, we have a clear basis for the promotions, and everyone will be satisfied.”

Wen Maomao thought it over and accepted the proposal, but he insisted that his companions be specially promoted to the rank of surveillance commissioner and general of the guard, Second Class, allowing them to enjoy the privileges of a Prince of a Commandery in advance. Once they came of age and were officially appointed as Princes of a Commandery, they would then enjoy the privileges of a Prince of the Blood. The two also redistributed their quarters in the North Fifth Courtyard, knocking down the dividing wall to give each of them two and a half sets of living quarters. 

In addition, Wen Maomao’s parents, paternal grandparents, and maternal grandparents were all posthumously honored, and the parents and siblings of the two Empress Dowagers each received promotions. However, in keeping with Great Qi’s customary practice of being generous only toward the deceased, only Wen Maomao’s three generations of direct relatives were granted the titles of Prince and Princess Consort. 

Many members of the imperial clan also received imperial favors, with promotions and rewards granted as appropriate.

At this moment, when everyone was in high spirits and celebrating, a memorial submitted by the royal relatives struck like a boulder thrown into a lake, splashing everyone in the face.

Some members of the imperial clan submitted a petition stating that, in addition to selecting the heir apparent this past spring, the late Emperor had also designated several imperial consorts. They wished to ask the Emperor when he would bestow titles upon them.

Upon hearing this, Wen Maomao was about to agree without a second thought.

It was not until Imperial Consort Huo spoke up, lashing out at the relative who made the suggestion and berating him for his malicious intentions and for being unworthy of the title of “father of the people.” Even Empress Dowager Pei, who had always maintained a conciliatory attitude toward the relative, remained silent on this occasion.

This is because the next step after conferring the title of “Princess” on the imperial consorts would be to send them off in a marriage alliance. 

The royal ministers felt the Empress Dowager was being overly sentimental. Naturally, they assumed the young Emperor—who had seemed so easygoing since his accession—would still side with them. They argued forcefully that General Huo Jintuo had already defeated the barbarian tribes, and that now was the perfect time to “follow up a slap with a sweet treat” and take the opportunity to completely subdue them.

Wen Maomao, however, looked utterly perplexed: “Didn’t we win?” “Why do we still have to send a princess to marry their leader? Where on earth did that come from?”

“We must demonstrate the magnanimity of a great nation, Your Majesty. By sending a princess to marry their leader and appeasing the barbarian tribes, we can avert conflict between our two lands.” The court officials, still failing to grasp the situation, pressed their case relentlessly. 

Her resolute friend, however, wasn’t so easily fobbed off. Seizing the moment, she asked, “Have we ever married off princesses to foreign rulers before? Did that prevent hostilities?” The ministers stammered in response.

Whether during Emperor Yingzong’s reign or in previous dynasties, such marriages had indeed taken place; as for hostilities, if they had truly been averted, where would the Huo family’s two generations of war gods have come from?

“You aren’t the Zongji’s parents, yet you seem quite concerned about their parents.” Lacking experience in political maneuvering, Wen Maomao spoke a word he thought was well-intentioned, but unexpectedly, the court officials seized upon it.

Immediately, someone spoke up, suggesting that the imperial relatives were, in fact, Zongji’s father—and they agreed.

The young man stood there dumbfounded, unable to believe that anyone would sell out their own children like this. He looked at his mother, Imperial Consort Huo, then at Empress Dowager Pei, his eyes filled with anger—what on earth were they thinking, doing this?

Empress Dowager Pei hesitated for a moment, torn between giving the child a whitewash of a reason to keep the peace or speaking the truth. As if possessed, she steeled her resolve and declared, “Since a daughter has been enfeoffed as a Princess, her father and brothers will not only gain a good reputation but also receive substantial practical rewards.” 

“And what about us?” 

“Hm?”

“What’s in it for you? Aside from the title of ‘Princess’ and a good reputation.” 

Empress Dowager Pei was at a loss for words.

Wen Maomao then turned to his uncle, Huo Jintuo, and asked him, “Are we gonna lose?”

“Absolutely not!” Huo Jintuo declared with unwavering certainty. As long as he lived, he would never allow the barbarian tribes to oppress the Great Qi Empire for even a single day. It had been impossible even in his previous life, when Emperor Yingzong had suppressed his military power; it was even less likely in this one.

“Then why are we arranging a political marriage?”

Since the court officials no longer wished to wage war, the costs of warfare and those of pursuing peace through marriage alliances were worlds apart. By sacrificing the ruler alone, they could spare themselves so much trouble. Presumably, the ruler was also willing to make that sacrifice. 

“We earnestly beseech Your Majesty to grant our request, bestowing upon him silk and a sword so that he may preserve his integrity and be immortalized in the annals of history.”

Then, the Great Villain Wen Maomao—who had been posing rhetorical questions all along—stepped down from the throne, stood upon the dais, and uttered the most earth-shattering statement since his accession to the throne: “I do not know whether the Lord is willing to make the sacrifice, but seeing how impassioned you are, Elder, you must surely be willing. Why not have you marry him instead?” 

You, not your daughter. 

“!!!” The minister from the peace faction, who had proposed the plan, was flustered by the repeated “you” and “I” for so long that his face turned crimson, the flush spreading all the way to his neck, as if he had never suffered such a great humiliation in his entire life. 

Of course, this was also because he had grown accustomed to the Emperor’s compliant reactions since ascending the throne; he could not believe that this seemingly docile and well-behaved child had such a side to him. He displayed a resolve so fierce that, should His Majesty not revoke his decree, he would immediately throw himself against a pillar to his death, fearless of the consequences. 

Huo Qichuan had already drafted various subtle arguments in his mind to support his sister even before she began speaking—arguments such as invoking the founding emperor’s ancestral edict against political marriages, citing the numerous drawbacks of such alliances, denouncing their harm to family ethics and benevolent governance, and pointing out that they were rejected by wise rulers throughout history, as well as reinterpreting the concepts of loyalty and filial piety, and so on.

He had devised countless counterarguments, but before he could voice them, Wen Maomao cut him off with the remark, “It is most detestable to speak with such fervor on behalf of others.” 

Wen Guan was the only son of the Prince of Qin’s consort, who was driven to her death by the king’s favorite concubine, who had systematically ousted her as the legitimate wife. While the King of Qin was protecting his son—born to his childhood sweetheart—the words he repeated most often to Wen Guan were: “It’s already miserable enough for you to be a son of a concubine. Can’t you be a little more magnanimous and give way to him?” 

Wen Guan, who had a rebellious streak from birth, asked his father, “But I’m still just someone else’s son to this day—that’s pretty miserable too. Father, can’t you make a little room for me?”

As a result, his beast of a father mercilessly whipped him, locked him in the royal family temple, and forced him to kneel in punishment for three days without a single drop of water. He ran a fever for who knows how many days; the fact that he didn’t die was pure luck—it could only be attributed to the protection of his ancestors. 

Then Wen Guan came to his senses: it was no use hoping Wen Cheng’an would act even slightly human—he’d have to be put to death after all. 

Now, His Majesty Maomao, for the first time, set aside his usual affable demeanor and asked the official before him: “If Your Excellency finds this act commendable for its courage, a model of loyalty and filial piety, then why would anyone feel that I am insulting them? What difference is there between men and women? Do they not all devote themselves wholeheartedly to the throne?” 

Whether the minister would dare to throw himself against a pillar is hard to say, but it was clear that His Majesty Maomao was certainly willing to marry him off. 

A promise is a promise—he will never go back on his word.

After failing to reason with them, Wen Maomao had an epiphany: only enlightened rulers engage in moral discourse; we tyrants simply do as we please. I said I won’t allow the princess to be married off, so she won’t be. Stop yapping—I don’t have time to listen. 

Dismissed!

As soon as he left the Council Chamber, Wen Maomao happily ran off to play with Wen Guan and Wen Mengzheng, who had been waiting for him all along. Taking advantage of the time before their formal studies began, he seized every possible moment to play, as if to get his revenge. 

Wen Maomao swayed his head from side to side, thinking to himself, “If you don’t listen to what adults say, your ears get a break—that’s just how bad I am!” 

666 was also completely immersed in the host’s artistry, cheering wildly: 【Exactly, exactly! Why should we always have to listen to these old geezers yapping on and on? I’ve always felt something was off, and now I finally realize—it’s the emperor! Not only should he be able to do whatever he wants, but he should also be able to choose not to do things whenever he pleases. Why all these “shoulds” and “musts”? As the tides rise on the Qiantang River, today I finally know that I am myself! Host, you truly are a natural-born tyrant!】

The length of time the bodies of the Great Qi and Great Xing emperors lay in state within the palace varied. For example, the Taizu was buried after just seven days—very decisive—while the Emperor Wu, who had the longest period, lay in state for twenty-five days. There were no ancestral regulations on this matter; it all depended on the preparations of each reign. 

Finally, with the approval of the Prince of Wei, Chief of the Grand Temple of the Imperial Ancestors, it was decided that Emperor Yingzong’s body would lie in state for nine days. The old Prince of Wei considered nine to be a significant number, and since the capital of Yongji had entered summer in the blink of an eye, the weather was gradually becoming too hot—even an abundance of ice-filled vats would struggle to mask the foul odor. Since Emperor Yingzong’s death was accidental, as soon as the memorial rites at Changle Palace concluded, the coffin would be moved as quickly as possible to the Yongsi Hall at the foot of the mountain behind the Imperial Palace—known to the common people as Wansui Mountain. 

Thank heavens, he’s finally agreed. 

The eighth day of the fifth month is auspicious for moving the coffin, for burial, and for banishing the Plague God. 

The last wisp of incense in the incense burner in front of Changle Palace had burned out, and the thirty thousand temple and Taoist temple bells across the country had long since fallen silent. 

The time for opening Emperor Yingzong’s imperial coffin was set for the third quarter of the Yin hour. According to calculations by the Imperial Astronomical Bureau, this was the moment when the night’s energy was waning but not yet fully gone—when yin energy was gradually receding, and yang energy had not yet emerged—making it the most auspicious time for the deceased to embark on his final journey. 

The heir to the throne, Wen Maomao, led the procession at the very front, with seventy-two princes and nobles carrying the coffin and sixty flag-bearers; the funeral procession numbered nearly a thousand. The rest—whether imperial relatives or civil and military officials—all knelt on the left side of Beichizi Street to mourn and bid farewell. The procession stretched from Donghua Gate all the way to Yongsi Gate on Zhenshan Hill, a vast and imposing line extending nearly a li. 

However, the procession actually took only about the time it takes for two sticks of incense to burn. 

Although Zhenshan is called a mountain, it is merely an earthen mound created from the soil excavated to build the moat when the imperial palace was constructed. It may not be a mountain, but the path is quite narrow; looking back amidst the rows of pine and cypress trees, one could take in the nine cities of Yongji in their entirety, with nothing obstructing the view. 

Just past the Hall of the Long-Lived Emperor, a mere arrow’s distance to the east, stood the Hall of Eternal Remembrance. The hall faced south, with a hipped-and-gabled roof topped with green glazed tiles. Its eaves did not project far beyond the entrance, and a “King of Locust Trees” stood alone in the courtyard, forming a separate compound. Throughout the Great Qi Dynasty, emperors and empresses were temporarily housed here before their official procession to the mausoleum.

Having changed into a different white gown, Imperial Consort Huo accompanied her son as they carried the imperial coffin into the hall. 

Following a deep yet steady thud, Emperor Yingzong’s red-lacquered imperial coffin was set upon the golden ceremonial bier. The bearers removed the red ropes and filed out in single file, leaving the hall filled with the glow of candles for His Majesty and the assembled princes and ministers.

Just as the Minister of Rites, presiding over the funeral rites, was about to speak, a commotion suddenly erupted from outside. There were the sounds of horse hooves, and also…the sound of firecrackers. 

On Zhenshan Mountain, in front of the Spirit Hall, hearing the pounding of hooves and the roar of firecrackers in the dead of night was truly unbelievable. From the foot of the mountain at the palace gate, all the way along the clean, yellow-earth street lined with barriers—who would dare to ride a horse? Who would dare to set off firecrackers?

Yet the sound of hooves grew ever closer, and the firecrackers grew more and more frequent—crackling and popping as if it were the Lunar New Year, yet so urgent it was like a thunderclap shattering the heavens amid a sudden storm. Until someone finally shouted out the identity of the approaching figure: “Your Highness! Your Highness! You must not—”

It was the Prince of Su, who had finally returned to Yongji after a long journey of a thousand li. 

He had raced all the way without stopping, afraid of missing the final journey of his relative. Before the guards stationed outside the hall could even react, a figure clad in red had already burst straight inside. 

No matter how many times it happened, Wen Maomao had to admit that the Prince of Su’s entrance left an indelible impression on him.

This towering man, standing nine chi tall with bulging veins, wore layer upon layer of fiery-red bridal gowns over his clothes. 

To be precise, they were the brides’ wedding gowns. 

Since its founding, the Great Qi Dynasty had consistently adhered to a national policy of “no ceding of territory, no indemnities, no tribute, and no political marriages,” a tradition that was not broken until the reign of Emperor Yingzong, his father. 

Emperor Zhenzong once said it was most excellent: it was a great sacrifice for Your Majesty to shoulder the responsibilities of the state with a body as delicate as a golden branch—to subdue the barbarians with gentleness, win over distant lands with virtue, cement the friendship between the two nations, and secure the safety of the people beyond the pass. From that day forward, smoke from border beacons ceased to rise, and nomadic horsemen no longer set their sights on the southern shores. This is Your Majesty’s achievement. The people of Great Qi are deeply grateful in their hearts, and the imperial family of the Wen clan will never forget this until the end of their days. My descendants and I will spare no effort to ensure the nation rises again and regains its former strength. When that time comes, we will never again stray from our ancestral teachings, nor cause any future rulers to suffer such hardship. 

Should I violate this oath, I shall surely suffer divine retribution. 

Emperor Jinzong’s younger aunts believed it, then his sisters, and then his daughters… 

During the reigns of Emperor Zhenzong and Emperor Yingzong, how many princesses were married off to foreign tribes? That is exactly how many wedding gowns Prince Su now wears. Just as he had asked back when Emperor Zhenzong passed away, he now asked again in a thunderous voice before Emperor Yingzong’s spirit tablet: “Do you and your son remember the promise you made back then? Have you and your son fulfilled that promise? Wen Hui, Wen Chenghong, answer me! Even ordinary families consider it a disgrace to sell their daughters for a dowry—what about you? Have you ever felt even the slightest bit of shame?” 

Prince Su’s deafening, thunderous voice echoed for a long time among the beams of the grand hall, refusing to fade away. Alas, the dead could not answer his questions.

As for the living…

Not a single minister in the hall dared to lift his head in shame.

Emperor Zhenzong was all talk; Emperor Yingzong was even worse. Having tasted the immense benefits brought by marrying off his daughter, he had no intention of changing his ways—after all, he had no children of his own and could only marry off other people’s children. 

Back then, in front of the imperial coffin, Emperor Yingzong had tried to feign anger and demote Prince Su for gross disrespect. Prince Su responded by pulling out the imperial edict—a handwritten promise from Emperor Zhenzong to his mother, the Grand Princess of Pingyang—and using it as a weapon. Without a word, he beat Emperor Yingzong. While declaring himself a “barbarian,” he asked Emperor Yingzong which of his words constituted disrespect. 

Was it that Emperor Zhenzong had kept his promise to restore order to the nation and end the policy of marriage alliances with foreign powers, yet Emperor Yingzong had wronged him? Or was it that he had addressed Emperor Zhenzong by his given name? His mother was Emperor Yingzong’s great-great-aunt; though he was younger than Emperor Yingzong, he was still his cousin by generation—could he not even address his own nephew by name? In their homeland of Zhennan, such customs did not exist. 

Yes, Prince Su does not bear the surname Wen; he is, in fact, the sovereign.

His mother, the Grand Princess of Pingyang, was the first to be married off by Emperor Zhenzong for a peace alliance. Compared to being married off to a bitterly cold place like the Northern Wastes, the Grand Princess of Pingyang’s marriage was a stroke of luck amid misfortune—she was sent far away to Zhennan in the southwest.

At that time, Zhennan did not yet belong to Great Qi, but the ancestors had long served the Imperial Court with devotion. When the Grand Princess of Pingyang was married off, it was only natural that Zhennan joined the Great Qi.

And whether Zhennan stood as an independent kingdom or became a commandery of the Great Qi, it naturally belonged to the only son of the former Prince of Zhennan and the Grand Princess of Pingyang—that is, the Prince Su, who now stands before the spirit tablet with a cold smile. 

Strictly speaking, he could also be called the Prince of Zhennan. 

The Grand Princess of Pingyang never once blamed Emperor Zhenzong for her own marriage alliance—since it was voluntary; if she hadn’t married, her niece would have taken her place. She simply couldn’t understand why Emperor Zhenzong hadn’t kept his promise. She had gone to the alliance as promised and worked hard to persuade Zhennan to join Great Qi without resorting to war, thereby successfully cementing the friendship between the two nations. She had done everything she possibly could, but why would there still be an endless stream of princesses sent far away for marriage alliances? 

She had always wanted to return to the capital to ask Emperor Zhenzong and Emperor Yingzong about this.

Unfortunately, by the time she received the imperial edict summoning her to the capital, both of them had already passed away. 

The year Emperor Zhenzong died, Prince Su was still very young, and the Grand Princess of Pingyang was ill, unable to endure the hardships of a long carriage journey. So Prince Su rode at full gallop to the capital to ask Zong and Emperor Yingzong on behalf of his mother, his mother’s nieces, and his mother’s grandnieces. 

Back then, Emperor Yingzong fully demonstrated what it meant to dislike Prince Su yet be powerless against him—and he even took a beating from Prince Su for no reason.

Given the other party’s seniority—not to mention his well-known lack of literary refinement and his position as the ruler of the crucial southern frontier—Emperor Yingzong had no choice but to swallow this bitter pill to maintain stability and ensure that the leaders of the various ethnic groups who had married into the imperial family would continue to serve the country loyally. 

From that point on, however, he made up his mind never to summon Prince Su to the capital again.

He even hinted to his attendants that even after his death, he did not wish to see Prince Su. Over the years, the princesses sent in marriage alliances had grown old and passed away; one need not let that man know; he could easily imagine how Prince Su would fly into a rage. Who could bear to see, at his own funeral, a grown man dressed in a bridal gown, setting off firecrackers, and accusing him of things he didn’t believe he had done wrong? 

If this were recorded in history, how would future generations view him? 

However, this official was Bi Fang, and he was exceptionally adept at reading the situation. When the Office of Ceremonial Affairs heard the Emperor’s curiosity about what Prince Su looked like, he had already decided to feign “amnesia” on the spot. After all, at his advanced age, everything was a source of heartache; since the late Emperor had not issued an explicit decree, it would be very difficult for him to recall every word and deed of His Majesty during his lifetime. 

Incidentally, Bi Fang was promoted from Clerk to Chief Clerk of the Office of Ceremonial Rites, just as he had hoped. The Office of Ceremonial Rites is, in practical terms, the most powerful of the Twelve Bureaus, and the Chief Clerk is its head.

When the court officials were persuaded by the Huo Qichuan legend to decide to summon Prince Su back to the capital for the funeral, they had actually braced themselves for the possibility that Prince Su might lose his mind. This was also why they were in such a rush to move Emperor Yingzong’s coffin to the mountain—they wanted to create a time gap by relying on the distance and the long journey through mountains and rivers, so that Prince Su wouldn’t be present at the palace to witness that thunderous scene alongside everyone else.

They never imagined that Emperor Yingzong’s luck would be so bad—Prince Su returned to the capital on the very day the coffin was being moved. What else could they say?

They could only watch as Prince Su, with one hand holding the hem of his robe—which was dragging slightly on the ground—and the other lighting the leftover firecrackers set aside for the memorial altar, set them off. Amid the commotion—so lively it seemed as if the entire capital had turned out to witness the spectacle—Wen Maomao’s gaze met Prince Su’s eyes, which shone like bronze bells in the firelight, terrifyingly bright, as if two flames were burning within them. 

Huo Jintuo, having already received a subtle glance from his older brother Huo Qichuan, had positioned himself half a step away from Wen Maomao in advance.

They had no ill will toward Prince Su; on the main issue, it was indeed Emperor Zhenzong and Emperor Yingzong who had acted disgracefully, so Prince Su was free to vent his fury however he pleased. In fact, one of the reasons Huo Qichuan went to such great lengths to persuade Prince Su to return to the capital was to allow him to vent his anger properly before his father’s spirit tablet.

But all of this was contingent on Prince Su not taking his anger out on his own emperor’s nephew, just as he had done with Emperor Yingzong.

Never mind that Wen Maomao was only five years old; the fact is, he had absolutely nothing to do with the sordid deeds committed by Emperor Zhenzong and Emperor Yingzong.

But Prince Su was no man to be swayed by reason. Moving with ghostly agility, he leaped over the towering flames in just a few strides, appeared before the throne, and raised his hand—

The funeral procession was delayed today, well past his usual bedtime. He’d caught up on some sleep earlier, but since he’d gotten up in a rush, a tuft of unruly hair on his head stubbornly stood defiantly against the wind, refusing to be smoothed down or neatly tied back. He stood there, oblivious to the approaching danger. 

He ruffled his friend’s hair. 

Prince Su burst into hearty laughter: “My boy, I’ve heard all about it. You refused the proposal for a political marriage—well done.” 

Wen Maomao just looked up at him without saying a word. Prince Su, acting quite familiar, said, “Oh? Don’t you recognize me? It’s me—your great-great-uncle. Back in the day, we used to play together at my house.” 

Wen Maomao: …Huh?

Everyone quietly breathed a sigh of relief; it seemed Prince Su was in a good mood, since he was even joking around.

Only Wen Guan continued to watch Prince Su warily. This prince of a different surname, who had managed to claim the bloodline of Zhennan, ranked among the top three in the ancient Wen family—a lineage of divine beings as numerous as the stars—for his ability to act on sudden whims that ordinary people would find hard to fathom. He might be smiling and trying to ingratiate himself one second, only to draw his sword and stab you the next—more fickle than the emperor himself. 

Wen Guan dared not let his guard down.

And just as he had suspected, Prince Su’s next move was to suddenly clamp his arms around Wen Maomao—yes, clamp—as if he were a dockworker hoisting a heavy bundle, adding yet another load of goods, and carrying the five-year-old Emperor out. 

Huo Jintuo was frantic.

Only Wen Maomao still had the composure to think: when they’d first arrived, the task of moving the coffin was so urgent that he hadn’t been able to take a careful look back at Yongji from Mount Zhen; now, at last, in the night breeze, he could see it all clearly.

This is Yongji…

Oh, Yongji. 

That’s what a hopeless illiterate is like. 

The divine Prince Su, however, explained to Wen Maomao—who had been confined to the Northern Fifth Palace ever since arriving in the capital—that the capital was an ancient capital spanning several dynasties. When it was first built, it was divided into two parts: the left side was administered by Wannian County, and the right side by Chang’an County, symbolizing “Eternal Chang’an.” 

Unfortunately, Chang’an never lasted for ten thousand years; now it’s called the Yongji.

“Do you know what I’m trying to say?” Prince Su asked, looking down at the child in his arms.

Wen Maomao was delighted, for he knew the answer to this question. Not long ago, his Tiger had told him, “There is no emperor who reigns for all eternity, nor is there a dynasty that lasts ten thousand years.” Therefore, he felt no sorrow at being a tyrant; this was an inevitable part of historical development. As the wheels of the dynasty rolled on, it was merely a matter of one act ending and another beginning. 

Meanwhile, Prince Su—who had been sleeping rough and was now unshaven and disheveled—glanced at his distant great-grandnephew as if he were some bizarre creature. This notorious madman of the Great Qi Kingdom remarked, “What a strange fellow. What on earth is he rambling about? I told you to take a look, Uncle Zhong!” 

The elderly Uncle Zhong—the Uncle Zhong who had watched Wen Maomao grow up, the Uncle Zhong whom his friend had been secretly longing to see for who knows how many days—had finally arrived in the capital with the Prince of Zhennan’s entourage!

The old man was dressed in coarse hemp clothing, yet he looked vigorous and alert.

Escorted on horseback by a deputy general under the Prince of Su, he was now eager to return home and was just about to dismount and rush toward Wen Maomao. Uncle Zhong’s life during this period had been nothing short of thrilling. 

First, he received word that his young master had been taken into the palace by His Majesty to be raised there and could no longer return to Jiangzuo; barely two days later, he met a soldier who told him that his general—the elder brother of Consort Huo—had come to escort the young master’s steward to the capital on behalf of His Highness the Third Prince; Uncle Zhong had just packed his bags and set out, and was still on his way, when he heard that the Emperor had suddenly passed away and his young master had ascended the throne. 

Uncle Zhong was completely baffled. Who? Are you talking about my son—who’s only six in lunar age, has the build of a general, can’t read a single character, and still firmly believes that when playing hide-and-seek, if he hides behind a curtain—even if his feet are clearly sticking out from underneath—he won’t be found? That’s the young master who’s become the emperor? 

How on earth was he chosen?

Was it a beauty contest? 

Still, after hearing this news, Uncle Zhong traveled day and night, redoubling his efforts to reach the capital. Until, halfway there, he was caught in a sudden downpour and took shelter in a dilapidated temple nearby. At that time, quite a few heroic figures brimming with martial virtue were also taking shelter from the rain there, including Prince Su. 

Prince Su was an eccentric with a distinct foreign flair who enjoyed dancing and praying during heavy rain. Naturally, he had no time for mundane affairs, but his mother, the Grand Lady of Pingyang, was a down-to-earth mortal through and through. Having been blind for decades and with little else to do, her favorite pastime was chatting with people about everyday life. 

As luck would have it, Uncle Zhong had picked up this habit from his mistress, Old Lady Li. The two of them chatted back and forth, as if they’d known each other for years. At first, neither of them revealed their true identities.

One of them said, “My son is such a good and well-behaved man, but he’s just had bad luck. He was only five years old when he came to live here in Jiangzuo Prefecture, but suddenly, a wealthy and powerful—though not overbearing—relative forcibly took him back to be their son and carry on the family line.” 

The other replied, “That’s terrible.”

One said, “My son is so kind and well-behaved, but his life has been full of hardship. Because I, his mother, was a failure, not only was he sold to Zhennan by my family back then, but now no one at home is willing to support him. All these years, he hasn’t even been able to go to the capital to see what it’s like.” 

Another person said, “That relative is truly cruel!” 

When they asked each other later, it turned out they had the same destination: both were heading to the capital for a funeral. What else was there to say? They might as well travel together—it would be safer that way.

It wasn’t until they neared the capital that they realized one son was the current Prince Su, while the other… was the emperor’s sole pillar of support before his ascension. Both parties shared an awkward smile. As for Chuan Ge, who had originally helped Wen Maomao enter the capital, he had already been waiting near the city gates for several days. Upon recognizing Uncle Zhong’s face, he ordered the Hu Xiao Guards to open the gates specially. 

This was also the very reason Prince Su was able to force his way into the capital after curfew. Wen Maomao had specifically entrusted Chuan Ge and Huo Jintuo to ensure that, no matter when he arrived in the capital, he could enter the palace to meet with him immediately. 

Having heard all along how wonderful Wen Maomao was, and having been spared the ordeal of the Emperor Yingzong’s funeral procession, Prince Su naturally had no intention of causing trouble for the child. Once the funeral rites were over, he specifically set his sights on tormenting a group of elderly officials. He settled scores and vented his grievances, targeting particularly those ministers who still advocated for a generous peace treaty.

Some ministers were filled with regret and lamented their misfortune. They had once urged the Emperor to ignore their advice and pursue a grand undertaking; now, all they could do was weep bitterly and beg Huo Qichuan to use indirect means to save the country, asking him to step in and persuade His Majesty to calm his anger.

“Let Prince Su rein in his powers a bit.”

Minister Huo calmly reflected: Emperor Yingzong, though his character leaves much to be desired, is actually quite skilled at these maneuvers to consolidate power.