Chapter 8

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In the Qingxiao Hall, ascending the jade steps led into the golden pavilion. Dragon pillars coiled upward, supporting the dome of the hall. Bells, drums, and strings played in harmony; flutes, shengs, and zithers sang melodiously. Beautiful courtesans waved their sleeves as they danced gracefully, while palace maids served like clouds around them. Jade cups flew for a thousand days, and exquisite banquets offered rare delicacies.

Emperor Shun’an leaned sideways on the dragon throne, his figure bloated and weary. By his side sat two young consorts who had only recently entered the palace this year, blooming with youthful charm. At this moment, they weakly nestled close to him; one gently waved a round fan to send a breeze, the other held a golden cup delicately to his lips.

The Empress sat on the phoenix seat opposite, watching coldly, accustomed to this scene long ago.

Now fifty-eight, Emperor Shun’an had indulged in debauchery before ascending the throne as a prince, and after becoming emperor, he spent years in reckless drinking, revelry, and licentiousness. His already frail imperial body was utterly drained.

In truth, if not for the deep affection between the late emperor and the empress dowager—and the tragic early death of the eldest legitimate son, Crown Prince Xiaoying—the throne would never have come to Shun’an, the second legitimate son. The late emperor, sacrificing his eternal reputation, insisted that the empress dowager’s bloodline ascend the throne, so this dragon seat was never meant for Shun’an.

To secure the kingdom for his incompetent and unruly son, the late emperor had painstakingly appointed eight regents, all childless and loyal ministers, well-versed in both civil and military affairs, to assist Emperor Shun’an in ruling. This was to prevent his ambitious and capable brothers from undermining him.

Fearing that the great clans would unite to oppress the weak ruler, the late emperor decisively placed several noble daughters into Shun’an’s harem, stirring conflict between the imperial consorts and external clans vying for the crown prince’s position—thus diverting the swords away from the emperor himself.

But no matter how meticulously the late emperor planned, who could foresee a century ahead?

Now, all eight regents have perished, Emperor Shun’an grows old and feeble, and there is no longer any struggle for the crown prince’s position. Shun’an left no surviving sons; those born were either deformed or gravely ill and died shortly after birth. Even the princesses who survived were frail and clung to life by medicinal tonics.

Ultimately, the throne must pass to someone else.

Emperor Shun’an’s eyes were clouded and dim; in recent years, his vision worsened and often blurred.

From his lofty dragon throne, he gazed down upon the princes of the imperial clan and the assembled consorts. Their faces were indistinct, veiled by a thin mist. In the haze, he barely made out identical smiles and identical gazes.

All were coveting this dragon throne.

Yet he no longer cared much. Heaven had forsaken him, never granting him a son. The only two he bore were stillborn or died young. The three princesses alive were all sickly, sustained only by medicine.

He had been a nominal prince for over a decade, crown prince for another ten years, and emperor for more than twenty. He needed no court physicians or alchemists to tell him the truth: no matter the flattery, the dragon throne would soon belong to another.

Only which nephew would inherit it remained uncertain.

With trembling hands, Emperor Shun’an raised his cup, lips sagging with age, and smiled faintly: “My loyal ministers, today’s banquet, let us drink this cup together.”

The hall echoed as everyone raised their cups in unison, shouting long live the emperor.

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After downing a full cup, Emperor Shun’an’s gaze darkened and swept across the nearby faces, finally settling on the deputy seat to the right.

After the banquet, the young prince held his cup, drinking slowly.

“Seventeenth Prince,” the emperor squinted and called.

That single summons drew every eye in the hall, as if thousands of blades had pierced them.

Zong Lin paused mid-hold of his cup, set it down steadily without haste or panic, and lifted his head: “Your Majesty.”

The emperor smiled, his face sagging with brown age spots. He had taken pills before coming, and now the medicine’s effect invigorated his spirit.

Studying the nephew he had not seen for years, his muddled mind recalled his own younger brother’s image, only to sigh with some disappointment—this nephew resembled his mother more.

Yet his stature and bearing were exactly like his ninth brother’s.

“Seventeenth Prince, why haven’t you married yet?” The old emperor’s laughter rumbled from his throat with a hint of mockery.

“Look now, among the princes, you’re the only one unmarried. Why do you delay in taking a princess bride?”

His tone was gentle, that of a kindly elder playing matchmaker.

Yet as his words fell, the nearby Kings Kang and Gong stiffened sharply, alert.

Zong Lin’s expression remained unchanged, meeting the earnest old emperor’s gaze with a faint smile and quiet voice: “I have not yet considered these matters.”

The emperor frowned immediately: “Eh—you’re no longer young. These years you and your father have guarded the northwest; it’s understandable you haven’t arranged these affairs. But now that you’ve entered the capital and come of age, seize this good opportunity and pick a princess bride. If you have a family in mind, just say it—I'll decide for you.”

He chuckled heartily.

This sudden suggestion from Emperor Shun’an barely fazed Zong Lin, but the other princes grew instantly vigilant.

Historically, marriage alliances were prime means to consolidate power. Should Zong Lin choose a bride from a renowned official family or one wielding real influence, the Prince of Jin’s already formidable forces in the northwest would become even harder to confront.

Thus, all eyes burned fiercely, fixed on Zong Lin’s reaction.

A faint curl of his lips, he respectfully replied, “Thank Your Majesty for your kindness. I shall carefully consider it. Yet this matter cannot be rushed and must be planned over time. I ask Your Majesty to grant me some days.”

Only then did Emperor Shun’an nod in satisfaction: “It’s good you keep it in mind. I recall your father was about your age when he married your mother.”

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Zong Lin’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly, lips still curved faintly: “Your Majesty’s grace, you even remember such details.”

The emperor waved his hand: “Your father was a hothead. If he knew you remained unmarried for so long, he’d surely fret. You must settle this soon. If you cannot decide, I’ll have the Empress select a few suitable families for you to consider.”

The Empress’s face stiffened briefly at these words but quickly returned to its usual composure. Following the emperor’s lead, she smiled at Zong Lin:

“Your Majesty speaks rightly. The Prince of Jin is young and bears heavy responsibilities entrusted by His Majesty. It would be unwise for him to handle marriage alone, without guidance. Should the prince be too busy, he may have someone send word to the palace; I can then take charge and select a bride for him.”

Zong Lin rose calmly from his seat and clasped his hands: “I thank Her Majesty and His Majesty for their magnanimous grace. I am deeply grateful.”

…

Past the hour of si, Emperor Shun’an, drunk and drowsy from the banquet, prepared to return to his chambers for a short rest.

Before the imperial carriage set out, he ordered that various entertainments begin within the palace, overseen by the Empress. The main event, a grand hunting contest, would be held after noon.

After seeing off the emperor and empress, the imperial clan members emerged one after another from Qingxiao Hall. Nearby, the male officials’ seats had already dispersed.

Ignoring several cousins who approached, feigning cordiality to pry for information, Zong Lin turned and strode away.

Behind him, Kings Kang and Chen and others seethed with anger but dared not speak, only brushing off their sleeves in frustration and muttering curses such as “brat,” “disrespectful,” and “insolent.”

Halfway through his walk, as he passed the imperial garden’s spring pool and artificial rockery, a lean figure suddenly appeared and rushed to Zong Lin’s side, kneeling and bowing deeply.

He Cheng stepped forward swiftly, raising his arm to block: “Who goes there? How dare you approach the prince’s carriage!”

The thin servant trembled, kowtowing repeatedly, then stammered, “Your Highness, forgive me! I am from the Marquis of Wen’an’s household! My lord commands me to invite Your Highness for a meeting.”

He then drew from his bosom the marquisate’s token and offered it with both hands.

Zong Lin glanced coldly at the reddish-brown token, a faint, enigmatic smile curling his lips: “Where is the Marquis of Wen’an?”