He turned his gaze toward the eastern wall of the bedchamber.
Hanging on that wall was a massive map of Grand Zhao’s territory.
Mountains and rivers were embroidered in gold thread upon the silk, while the Thirteen Provinces were marked in cinnabar.
His eyes fell upon the location of Jiangnan and lingered for a moment.
“If you had stayed honestly in the Directorate of Ceremonial, I would have at least allowed you to have a peaceful end.
“But you just had to go and throw your lot in with the First and Second Princes.
“I indulged your departure from the capital, and I indulged your journey south.
“And yet you thought I was blind and deaf?
“That I knew nothing?”
He let out a cold laugh. The blood at the corners of his mouth had not yet been wiped clean, making the smile look exceptionally chilling.
“I gave you a chance.
“I wanted to see how far you would go, to see if you would turn back.
“But you didn't turn back, even until the moment of your death.”
He slowly closed his eyes.
“Forty years of master-servant bond, in the end, it was nothing more than the path to the afterlife I personally arranged for you.
“Cao Zhengchun, oh Cao Zhengchun, do not blame me. You chose this yourself.”
As soon as he finished speaking, the flame of the Everlasting Lamp in the hall suddenly jumped.
The flame shrank into a tiny point of blue light the size of a needle tip before suddenly expanding, blooming into a ghostly blue lamp flower in mid-air.
The moment the lamp flower burst, all the light and shadows in the hall fell into chaos.
The golden dragons carved on the four walls seemed to come to life simultaneously, baring their fangs and brandishing their claws as they circled the walls before returning to their original forms.
Zhao Heng, however, showed no surprise.
He didn't even open his eyes; the cold sneer at the corner of his mouth merely deepened.
“What, do you think I am just making empty talk?”
A voice rang out from the darkness.
It was a strange voice, making it impossible to tell which direction it came from.
Even stranger was the texture of the voice. It didn't sound like it came from a human throat, carrying a rustling quality that made one’s skin crawl.
“Hehehe, I was just wondering if you truly felt a moment of pity for your old dog when you said those words just now?”
“Pity?”
Zhao Heng snapped his eyes open. A sharp light burst from them, showing none of his previous sickly frailty.
“What I pity is the forty years of time.
“As for Cao Zhengchun, from the day he began to seek another path, he was already a dead man in my eyes.”
“Hohohoho.”
The voice laughed, and the manner of the laughter was even more bizarre.
“Quite the cold-blooded imperial scheme.
“I like this heart of yours.
The Emperor of Grand Zhao should be like this: decisive in slaughter and cold-blooded toward kin.
“If you were to suddenly show kindness, I wouldn't know what to do with you.”
Zhao Heng snorted coldly.
He reached out and took the cold tea cup from the side of the couch. Without a hint of distaste, he tilted his head back and took a large gulp, suppressing the metallic taste of blood in his throat.
“ I do not need you to teach me how to be an emperor.
“I only ask you: I have followed your plan.
“Every single thing I promised you, I have done.”
He set the tea cup down heavily on the red sandalwood table, making a dull thud.
“Then what about what you promised me?”
The hall fell silent for several breaths.
The eerie voice rang out again, the mockery in its tone fading slightly, replaced by a hint of gravity.
“Rest assured.
“I will naturally not go back on what I promised you.
“Now, we only wait for the duel between your two Sword Immortals.”
Zhao Heng stared into the empty darkness before him, a bitter smile surfacing on his lips.
“Go. I am weary.”
He closed his eyes, and the coldness and majesty belonging to an emperor faded away with the last flicker of the lamp.
All that remained was the face of an old, exhausted, and frail middle-aged man.
In the darkness, the flame of the Everlasting Lamp flickered once in the windless hall.
It was as if something invisible had brushed past the flame.
Then the flame stabilized again.
The pervasive, eerie aura in the hall vanished completely in that instant.
Only a dying emperor remained in the bedchamber, along with the scent of ambergris mixed with the bitterness of medicinal soup.
Zhao Heng kept his eyes closed, his finger unconsciously rubbing the jade thumb ring engraved with the words “Mandate of Heaven.” His lips moved slightly.
Then, he moved no more.
...
By the time the rain stopped, the sky was completely dark.
Lu Chenzhou was still sitting in his study.
The old plum blossoms outside the window had been battered by the rain, their petals littering the ground.
They lay pale and ghastly upon the bluestone slabs, struck one by one by the lingering droplets falling from the eaves.
The clouds had not yet dispersed. The moon occasionally showed its face through the gaps in the clouds, only to be quickly swallowed again.
The only light source in the courtyard was the dim yellow candlelight on the study’s window paper.
It bled into a blurred, warm glow in the damp night.
He had been sitting like this for nearly an hour.
The ginger tea on the desk had long since gone cold, and a thin layer of tea residue had formed on the rim of the cup.
The candle on the stand had burned down more than halfway, the candle tears flowing down the edge of the bronze cup and congealing into a jagged ring of milky-white lumps.
And the bamboo scroll dampened by the moisture still lay spread out where it was.
The ink had become even more blurred by the water vapor, making the original characters almost indistinguishable.
He didn't go to put it away, nor did he call anyone in to clean up.
The wooden door of the study was slightly ajar. Occasionally, a disciple on night watch would walk past the corridor, carrying a lantern. Seeing that the light inside was still on, they would move away quietly.
He was thinking about the words Liu Yinsheng had brought from Zhizhou Tower.
He had lived for most of his life reading the books of sages, teaching the principles of cultivating oneself, regulating the family, governing the state, and bringing peace to the world. His livelihood was that of preaching the Dao, imparting knowledge, and resolving doubts.
From its founding until now, Qingya Academy had existed for one hundred and seventy years. It had endured war, plague, and dynastic changes, yet it had never closed its doors for a single day.
Even during the hardest years, when the previous Mountain Lord led the disciples to dig wild vegetables on the back mountain to stave off hunger, the sound of clear reading never ceased.
He had thought this time would be the same.
That by enduring and waiting, it would pass.
But Liu Yinsheng was right; this time was different.
The First Prince wanted the brand of Confucianism, not the Dao of Confucianism.
He wanted the words “Let the ruler be a ruler, the subject a subject, the father a father, and the son a son” carved into the bones of every scholar in the world.
As for the content in the sages' teachings regarding benevolent governance, the people as the foundation, and “the people are the most important, the state comes next, and the ruler is the least important,” he didn't want to hear a single word of it.
The Second Prince went without saying.
As for the Third Prince, he favored martial arts and slighted literature. Every one of the eight hundred retainers in his manor possessed extraordinary skills.
If he were to succeed the throne, the Academy might not be suppressed too harshly.
But it would merely be a different, silent way of slowly withering away.
Three princes, three paths.
Every single one led to the same ending.
And the current Emperor.
Lu Chenzhou’s brow furrowed even tighter as he thought of this.
He was unwilling to criticize the sovereign in his heart, but he was not blind.
In recent years, the Emperor's attitude toward the Academy and Confucianism could no longer be described as merely “cold.”
Cutting the budget of the Imperial Academy, replacing Education Commissioners, stopping the customary grants for the Mountain Lords of various academies...
Each of these things, taken individually, might have a reasonable explanation.
But when every piece was connected, it formed a clear net.
A net that was tightening inch by inch.
Zhizhou Tower was right.
Regardless of whether he, Lu Chenzhou, was willing.
Regardless of how clearly the iron rule that Qingya Academy must never participate in imperial court struggles had been written for one hundred and seventy years.
They had already waded into this murky water.
Lu Chenzhou closed his eyes.
He had been the Mountain Lord for most of his life, managing classical studies and handling the relationship between teacher and student.
He had never imagined that one day he would have to face such a situation.
It wasn't a fear of offending the powerful, nor was it a fear of losing his old life.
It was the fear that the one-hundred-and-seventy-year foundation of Qingya Academy would be destroyed in his hands.
It was the fear that the futures of the hundreds of disciples under these eaves would be buried by a single lapse in judgment on his part.
Could it be that the only way is to establish the Fourth Princess as the Crown Prince?
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