Imperial Palace, Sidé Gate, Northern Five Compounds.

This was Maomao’s twenty-second day in the capital, and also the twentieth day he’d been missing the sugar cakes from his hometown. 

It was only two days ago that Wen Maomao moved from the Fifth Prince’s Mansion to the Imperial Palace. The rules at the prince’s mansion were relatively less strict; Brother Xiao Chuan could occasionally slip out through the east side gate to buy him some snacks from the Imperial Market, but now even Brother Xiao Chuan wasn’t allowed to be brought into the palace. 

Sigh.

A five-year-old child crouched beneath a bracket carved with gourd patterns and let out a long sigh as he looked at his cloth tiger. Visiting a wealthy relative’s house is such a hassle. 

Early summer days, the south wind stirs the grass and trees. 

The afternoon sun was at its peak in the imperial palace, slanting across the glazed tiles of the main hall’s roof, the wind chimes and iron horses beneath the overhanging eaves, and Wen Maomao, who had moved to a spot not far from the window lattice.

In the spacious courtyard of the Third Residence, the leaves of the ancient trees—whose branches were still sparse—glowed like gold leaf, casting countless flecks of light onto the small patch of black shadow. 

The faint, sporadic chirping of cicadas drifted from the distance, echoing sparsely through the narrow, elongated passageway, much like the tentative vocal warm-ups of a female lead before the start of a play.

The footsteps of the palace attendants grew closer from afar, and the courtyard gates of each section opened one after another, the sound of the hinges turning rising and falling in tandem with the cicadas’ chirping. By the time Wen Maomao was found by the head maid, Jianlan, he had shifted his attention to studying the undulating dragon’s spine on the palace wall beside the ancient tree. As he ran along the wall holding his little tiger, the layered roof tiles seemed to form a single, unbroken dragon soaring through the clouds. 

This was a rare sight back in Jiangzuo. The young boy tried very hard to commit everything he saw and heard to memory, so he could return and describe this “thrilling” adventure in the capital. 

This was the scene Jianlan witnessed when she arrived with her entourage.

Beneath the vermilion corner of the wall, bathed in sunlight, sat a precious little young master, his skin as white as snow that never melts. A tiny little bundle, soft all over—with arms as tender as lotus roots, chubby cheeks, and a slightly accented Mandarin that sounded as if his mouth were glued shut with honey whenever he spoke. 

“Jianlan~” 

“Your Highness.” 

Wen Maomao, dressed in a royal blue brocade robe, was momentarily taken aback; he always forgot that he’d recently been given a “new title”—“Your Highness.” 

If you asked Wen Maomao, there were simply too many “Your Highnesses” in the capital. He didn’t know why everyone had to go by the same title—probably just to make things easier. 

Just like “Your Excellency.”

He still remembered what Uncle Zhong had told him just before he was about to enter the capital—it never hurts to be polite. Once you’re in the capital, whether you know them or not, you can’t go wrong by addressing everyone as ‘Your Excellency’ or ‘Young Master.’”

Uncle Zhong had also dutifully taught him the proper words to use when speaking with the Emperor: “Your Majesty.”

“Your—Majesty,” the little boy repeated, enunciating each syllable clearly, giving it a rather rhythmic cadence. “This servant is Mao Mao, the sixth-generation descendant of the Taizu.”

Wen Maomao froze for a moment, widened his eyes—with their distinct black and white irises—and earnestly corrected Uncle Zhong: “That’s not right. Grandma said our family’s surname is Wen—the great Wen of the nation—not Sun.”

When Wen Maomao’s grandmother, Li Cainang, was still alive, her greatest satisfaction with this marriage—arranged by her parents and a matchmaker—was, first, her husband’s good looks, and second, his surname, which could be traced back to the founding emperor. 

Unfortunately, this tenuous bloodline did little to improve the financial straits of her and her husband’s modest household.

Neither of them was particularly skilled at managing their finances, and the imperial court prohibited members of the imperial clan from taking the imperial examinations. 

They could only get by as best they could, relying on the annual stipend the imperial court allocated to imperial relatives to scrape by.

Uncle Zhong: “…‘Sixth-generation descendant’ means you are the great-great-great-great-grandson of the Founding Emperor, while His Majesty the current emperor is the fifth-generation descendant of the Founding Emperor—your ancestors were relatives. Since you’ve come to the capital at His Majesty’s summons, if he should ask, explaining it this way will help him understand which family you belong to.” 

“Oh.” Wen Maomao nodded, looking as if he half-understood. A look of honesty, as if a flood of knowledge had just swept through his mind without leaving a trace, crossed his face. “Then why did His Majesty summon me?” 

Because the Son of Heaven has been bedridden for a long time, yet has no heir, and for the sake of the Wen family’s enduring stability and the welfare of the realm, the court urgently needs to select a suitable future heir to the throne from among the outstanding clan heads.

Wen Maomao—who had lost both parents at a young age but was indeed his father and mother’s legitimate son—or, to be precise, their one and only blood relative—became one of the candidates.

Of course, as a distant relative of His Majesty—beyond the fifth degree of kinship—and having inherited only the position of Fengguo Zhongwei (a Sixth-Rank Junior Official) from his late grandfather, Wen Maomao’s chances of being selected by the Emperor were as unlikely as the sun suddenly rising in the west. 

“Also summoned to an audience with the Emperor alongside you are the eldest legitimate son of the Prince of Qin—born to his first wife and a half-sibling of His Majesty—and the eldest grandson of your own uncle, the Prince of Wu…” 

Each one was more prominent than the last, and each one was more formidable. “Of course, as small-time folk from the countryside like us, there’s probably no need for the nobles to give us a hard time.” 

Compared to them, Wen Maomao posed absolutely no threat whatsoever.

“Don’t be afraid, my lord. What’s our plan?”

Wen Maomao clenched his fist: “To go to a wealthy relative’s house for a nice meal!” 

Uncle Zhong: “……”

“I-is that not right?” The child, who came from a very poor family and had never seen much of the world, tilted his head and tentatively asked, “Then… how about having a few more good meals?”

Uncle Zhong smiled, his wrinkled face radiating contentment. He crouched down and smoothed out the sleeve of his master’s quiver bag, embroidered with a circular pattern—it was the only piece of fine fabric in the household, originally allocated by the Grand Temple of the Clan to celebrate the old master’s wedding: “There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s great that you think that way. Let’s go there happily and return just as cheerfully. If the Sage asks, just answer frankly; if he doesn’t ask, all the better. We’ll come back once we’ve had our fill.”

Wen Maomao felt a heavy sense of responsibility to save the family’s grain. With a serious expression on his little face—still retaining traces of his baby fat—he nodded solemnly: “All right!” 

And so, ever since he arrived in the capital, he’d been eating his way through the city—it had already been nearly a month. 

Every now and then, Wen Maomao would ask Jianlan, who was in charge of looking after him, “When can I go home?” 

He felt like he’d been away for a long time. He missed Jiangzuo a little, missed Uncle Zhong back home, and missed the sugar cakes Uncle Zhong used to make. 

“Your Highness, watch your words!” 

Every day, he happily counted on his fingers, wondering how much of his family’s hardship—caused by a lack of salt and oil—this silver could alleviate.

But when he asked him the same routine question again today, Aunt Jianlan turned pale with fright. Forgetting all about etiquette and hierarchy, she rushed forward and clamped her hand over her prince’s mouth, whispering softly yet urgently into his ear: “His Majesty has already brought you and the other two princes into the palace to raise you. From now on, the palace is your home, and His Majesty is your father.” 

On the day they moved from the prince’s mansion to the palace, the pale-faced, beardless eunuch who came to deliver the imperial edict seemed to have said something similar to Wen Maomao while offering his congratulations—something about the Emperor’s boundless grace, His Highness’s time spent in obscurity, and how from that moment on, his journey would begin and he would soar to great heights. 

However…

Wen Maomao, who was still a five-year-old illiterate, didn’t understand a word of that flowery, archaic language. He just felt like everyone had made a mistake. Although he had never met his parents and had been raised single-handedly by his grandmother, she had told him that he was by no means a child without parents; it was just that his parents were in such a hurry that they’d gone underground first to fulfill their filial duties to Grandpa, and their family would surely be reunited after a hundred years. 

Every year, Grandma would burn huge, huge houses for them down below, afraid there wouldn’t be enough living space later on. 

Wen Maomao wanted his distant relative, the Emperor, to make it clear to everyone that he was merely visiting the capital and would return home sooner or later. 

Unfortunately, before Wen Maomao reached him, the heavens unleashed a downpour that seemed set to soak the entire city through and through, making the Emperor’s already ailing condition even more precarious. 

It was said that His Majesty had not attended court for many days; afflicted by a chronic illness from which he could not recover, he had no time for state affairs, let alone to concern himself with the royal princes like Wen Maomao, who were temporarily residing in the prince’s mansion.

In the twenty-two days since Wen Maomao arrived in the capital, he had been granted only one hurried audience with the emperor, during which not a single word was exchanged. All he could recall was the emperor’s incessant coughing from behind the beaded curtain, his gaunt, withered face, and the imperial edict that followed that meeting.

Wen Maomao turned to Jianlan and asked, “Then when will I be able to see His Majesty?”

Aunt Jianlan’s expression finally softened. Her jade-green court robe made her look like a figure from a detailed court painting—a composure so deeply ingrained through years of service that she dared not stray from protocol. 

Though addressed as “Aunt,” she was in fact merely a young woman in her early twenties. Stepping back two paces with measured grace, she apologized for her earlier action while answering the Prince’s question: “This servant has come to see Your Highness precisely because of this matter. Eunuch Bi Fang of the Office of Ceremonial Affairs said that His Majesty is in good health, and Her Majesty the Empress plans to host a banquet tomorrow in the Jiaotai Hall to formally meet the three Princes. It’s possible that His Majesty might even attend.” 

Wen Maomao was delighted—at last, he would be able to set the record straight with his distant relative, the Emperor! He promised Jianlan, who was looking at him with concern, “I’ll do my best.”

Before Aunt Jianlan could say anything, the group of eunuchs and palace attendants behind them were already nodding in agreement, eagerly encouraging their young prince to do his best

“Quite right, quite right. If His Majesty knew of Your Highness’s good intentions, he would surely grow even fonder of you.”

The current Emperor had granted permission for three princes to enter the palace. Although they had not yet been formally enfeoffed, nor had an imperial edict explicitly designated which of the Empress or the other consorts would raise them, following the precedents of previous dynasties, regardless of which of these three princes eventually succeeded to the throne, it was a foregone conclusion that at least one of the remaining princes would become a Prince of a Commandery or a Duke of a State. Their future prospects were incredibly bright.

Those of them who had served His Highness from the very beginning were just one step away from rising to prominence along with him. Palace attendants dared not discuss court affairs recklessly, lest they sow discord within the imperial family, but it could never be wrong to hope that their own prince would strive for excellence and bring comfort to the Emperor’s heart.

This head maid, who was exceptionally skilled at caring for children, was different from the others. Rather than encouraging her prince to strive for some vague sense of “advancement,” she hoped above all for his safety. 

Setting aside the character of the one sitting on the Dragon Throne for the moment, how many of those who manage to remain at the imperial court for a long time and win the Emperor’s favor are actually easy to get along with?

Jianlan had been sold into the palace by her parents at the age of ten. She had encountered countless people of all kinds—some brimming with ambition, others simply seeking to live out their days in peace. But no matter how lofty their aspirations or what their true nature might be, in the end, only those who never made mistakes survived.

She raced against the clock to cram her survival wisdom in the palace into her young prince’s little head, breaking it down and simplifying it for him as a last-minute cram session, analyzing the guests likely to attend tomorrow’s banquet and the various taboos of the noble ladies who could determine his very life or death. 

The Empress strictly adhered to etiquette; the Imperial Consort was clear in her likes and dislikes; and the Four Great Consorts each had their own distinct characteristics—some were meticulous, while others were well-rounded.

In other words, the Empress is strict and rigidly traditional, tolerating not the slightest transgression—not even a mere possibility; the Imperial Consort is domineering and arrogant, her haughty attitude—demanding life for those she loves and death for those she hates—growing ever stronger with the military merits accumulated by her father and brothers; the four principal consorts also share common traits in their likes and dislikes: for instance, a delicate nature often signifies sensitivity and suspicion, while being considerate of every detail may indicate insincerity and coldness. 

As for the Emperor—the current True Dragon, the Son of Heaven—he embodies the very essence of all their personalities. 

Everyone praises His Majesty as a sage, but Jianlan has never seen a sage’s reign where people live in such constant fear, as if walking on thin ice. Not to mention speaking offhand in everyday life—the palace attendants serving at the imperial court are so cautious that they dare not even show the slightest inappropriate expression. 

Would a true sage create such an environment for those around him? Jianlan did not know. 

She dared only to ponder this in her heart. After all, it was common knowledge that the Imperial Palace’s intelligence network was just as well-connected as that of the Imperial Guard outside the palace walls. Words can bring disaster; such remarks would not only endanger herself but also her young master standing before her.

She dared only to take the risk of whispering a final reminder: “The more you say, the more mistakes you make; the less you say, the fewer mistakes you make; and if you say nothing, you make no mistakes.” 

The child, who came only up to her waist, was already quite adept at nodding in agreement. Secrecy is the key to success! He understood! 

Before setting out from Jiangzuo, Uncle Zhong had already reminded him countless times—enough for Wen Maomao to know it by heart. As if he’d keep a secret and pretend to be a mute!

Take this very moment, for example: Jianlan would never guess that as he stood under the blazing sun, poring intently over the palace walls of the North Third Compound, he wasn’t trying to get a tan—he was pondering something of great importance…

—His little tiger had suddenly started talking. 

It was Wen Maomao’s favorite cloth tiger—made of red satin on the outside and soft cotton on the inside, with tightly stitched seams. It was smaller than a fist, just the right size for him to hold for long periods without getting tired. 

Wen Maomao had always treated it with great care. It was one of his best friends.

Until that day, when his best friend spoke. It said its name was the “System of Inherent Evil,” and that it would eventually rule the world, making all the foolish mortals tremble! 

The little boy didn’t know what a “system” was; he only knew that Uncle Zhong always said on the “Book-Drying Days” during the hottest part of summer: “If something’s broken, just take it out to dry in the sun, and it’ll be fine.”

Just let it air out, and your mind will clear up!