In the sixth year of Chongning, deep winter, snow fell several feet deep.
The vast palace complex lay hidden within the cold, desolate gleam of ice and light, silent and bitterly chill.
The bewitching consort Jiang Nong was dead, at just twenty-six years of age.
This was not only excellent news for the ministers and nobles of the Tan Kingdom—for it meant their daughters and nieces might finally have a chance to enter the palace and win glory for their families—but also, for the deceased herself, the best possible news.
Jiang Nong’s life had been a tumultuous one: first the Ninth Princess of the Xi Kingdom, then the Crown Prince’s consort of the Dang Kingdom, and finally the caged golden finch of the Tan Kingdom’s sovereign. Yet after her death, she was granted no funeral rites, no coffin, not even a single grave mound.
Only on the night of the seventh-day soul-returning ceremony was a ritual held within the Tan royal palace.
This ritual was no act of deliverance, but a soul-trapping spell—an evil, heretical art that existed only in legend.
Using the blood of the deceased’s closest kin as a catalyst, they summoned the departed soul and imprisoned it within the palace at the formation’s focal point, preventing her from reincarnating or finding peace in the afterlife.
Though it was winter, eerie muffled thunder rolled across the sky, accompanied by a heavy crush of black clouds that pressed down oppressively, choking the breath from all.
Violet lightning intermittently slashed through the night, illuminating the dark cyan bracket arches and carved beams of Yuluan Palace, as well as the sharp, fierce brow of the man standing amidst the fluttering black banners of the spell formation.
Though all of Tan called Jiang Nong the “bewitching consort,” no one could ever quite determine whether Yu Lingxin truly cherished this princess of Xi, or hated her enough to wish her dead.
If it was hatred—why, when she had already married another, did he, after ascending the throne, brave public condemnation to march against Dang, seize her for himself, and keep the six palaces empty for her? And if it was love—why imprison her in Yuluan Palace for three years, denying her all freedom?
Now, even in death, he would not let her find release. At last, everyone understood: love turned to extreme hate, so that even in death she could not rest in peace.
The dead are to be honored. In the customs of Tan, regardless of the sins committed in life, the deceased must be buried in peace—even condemned prisoners in the dungeon were no exception. Yet Jiang Nong’s body remained unentombed.
Upon reflection, this sovereign of Tan was cruel and twisted in nature, vindictive to the core. Every one of those who had once slighted him in his youth had been strung up in the side courts and slowly tortured to death. The most gruesome victim had his limbs flayed to bare bone while his belly bulged like a ball, his stomach eventually bursting from the very flesh carved from his own body.
That Yu Lingxin, driven by love turned to hate over Jiang Nong’s past rejection and humiliation, would confine her for three years and torment her to death—this was entirely in keeping with his character.
The young child whose finger had just been pricked—whether from the pain, the terror of the scene, or perhaps because she truly saw her mother’s spirit—had escalated from whimpering to wailing, her delicate pink face turning red and purple from the strain.
The nursemaid, terrified, tried to soothe her, patting her back gently in an attempt to quiet her.
By rights, as Yu Lingxin’s eldest and only daughter, she should have been born to the highest honor and utmost indulgence, a princess coddled and treasured. But her mother was Jiang Nong, and she had been born in the eighth month of pregnancy—prompting endless speculation in both court and harem that she was not of Yu Lingxin’s blood.
Now a full year old, she still had no name, her status painfully awkward.
The nursemaid broke out in a cold sweat of panic. Seeing the emperor’s gaze seem to drift their way, terrified the child might lose her life as well, she frantically covered the infant’s mouth and dropped to her knees with a thud.
At that moment, a black-robed Daoist, disheveled and barefoot, stepped forward and whispered briefly into the ear of the standing emperor.
The painted vermilion doors of Yuluan Palace slowly swung open. Within, no lamps were lit—pitch-black, stretching on without end.
After its mistress’s death, this palace had been excavated several zhang deeper, and walls of ice cast on all four sides. Now, the cold surged forth from within, nearly condensing into a tangible white mist—like an unfathomable dark abyss, or the maw of a colossal beast, quietly awaiting its prey to enter.
Whether the legendary soul-trapping secret art was true or false, no one knew. Jiang Nong’s body was rumored to be stored here, and whether her soul had indeed returned to Yuluan Palace remained equally unknown.
Yu Lingxin merely walked slowly inside, his dark figure gradually swallowed by the mist.
The heavy palace doors groaned shut once more.
After a roll of thunder passed, crystalline snowflakes, wrapped in the bitter winter wind, began to fall—thicker and thicker, until they merged into a single white veil. All things in heaven and earth fell silent, save for the heart-wrenching cries of the young child.
Jiang Nong—you think death can free you from me?
Even as a ghost, I will not let you go.
If Jiang Nong had any awareness after death, she would scarcely have seen death as release.
—BOOM!!
Lightning split the night, piercing through the lattice window, illuminating the dark palace for an instant.
Pale green gossamer drapery cascaded down from the ceiling like ink in an inverted funnel, gently veiling the bed.
The slender wrist of a young girl hung over the edge of the couch. Startled by the thunder, it trembled once, then clenched tight.
Jiang Nong sat up abruptly in bed. The lightning outside the window lit up her pallid face.
Her breathing was ragged; a few strands of hair at her temples clung damply to her burning forehead.
The furnishings before her were unmistakably those of Ruiyi Palace—exactly as they had been before her marriage!
She pinched her thigh hard before she could believe this was real, and not yet another midnight dream of her youth within Yuluan Palace—one of so many.
The vortex of nightmare and the scenes of reality intertwined, dragging her into a chaotic mire, leaving her unable to distinguish what was real and what was illusion.
She felt as though she had lived through an incredibly long, terrible nightmare—the agony of her dying moments still ravaged her limbs and bones, as if she had truly perished once before.
In the dream, she and Yu Lingxin—the hostage prince sent from Tan—had developed feelings for each other. Later, when their relationship was exposed, she was betrothed to another and cruelly cast him aside.
Her father, the king, charged Yu Lingxin with misconduct and sent him back to Tan. A year later, she was married far away to the Dang Kingdom as a diplomatic bride, wed to the Fourth Prince, Chao Ning.
She had thought that would be the end of it. Who could have foreseen that five years later, Yu Lingxin—once a despised and lowly prince—would ascend the throne in a single stroke, becoming a warlike and tyrannical ruler? Not only did he march his armies against Dang, kill her husband, and imprison her in Yuluan Palace—he also destroyed her homeland.
At the thought, Jiang Nong’s eyes once again conjured the image of Chao Ning’s dripping head and his lifeless, dull pupils.
In the end, she had been tortured to death by a slow-acting poison.
The pain and hatred were so vivid—she could almost still smell the metallic tang of blood.
So real—was it merely a dream, or had she truly died once before?
Ever since the fall of the Great Qi, the five regional warlords who had carved up the land had each declared their own kingdoms. Years of continuous warfare had long since worn the people to the bone. To preserve peace, the five kingdoms established the custom of exchanging royal hostages.
For many years, every hostage sent to another state had been an unloved imperial heir—already eliminated from succession.
Moreover, Yu Lingxin had been afflicted with illness since birth. The king of Tan had even blamed his mother for his ill-omened condition—there was absolutely no way he could ever inherit the throne.
And that shy, retiring person—always standing in the corner, never uttering a word even when bullied—how could he have become a tyrant?
Her personal maid, Rong Mian, had been keeping watch at her bedside. At the sound of movement, still half-asleep with eyes closed, she groggily reached out to pull up the covers—only to jolt fully awake when her hand touched Jiang Nong’s icy wrist.
“Your Highness?”
Startled by the touch, Jiang Nong’s body gave an involuntary tremor. It took her a moment to compose herself.
“What day is it today?” she asked.
Rong Mian, unsuspecting, broke into a wide grin. “You’ve been ill for days, Your Highness—no wonder you’ve lost track. It’s the third of the tenth month!”
“The third of the tenth month?”
“Of the eighteenth year of Zhengyuan!”
Jiang Nong’s clasped hands tightened unconsciously.
The eighteenth year of Zhengyuan—the eighteenth year of her father’s reign—was Yu Lingxin’s sixteenth birthday.
—If I want to know whether it’s real or false, I only need to test it.
With that thought, Jiang Nong abruptly rose from the bed, startling Rong Mian, who rushed to support her.
After three days confined to bed with illness, her steps were unsteady, but youth was on her side—she managed not to fall.
She dressed swiftly, gathered her long hair in her left hand, twisted it into a coil, and pinned it with a wooden hairpin. Then she took up an umbrella and made for the door.
Rong Mian was nearly moved to tears. She plopped down on the floor, wrapped her arms around Jiang Nong’s calves, and wailed: “Your Highness! Your Highness, where are you going? It’s about to rain! You’ve only just recovered from your fever—if you ruin your health again, you won’t be ready for the end-of-season examinations!”
Jiang Nong quickly clamped a hand over her mouth, afraid she would summon the night-watch attendants.
Rong Mian pursed her lips but still couldn’t help protesting: “Are you going to celebrate Yu Lingxin’s birthday again? Why be so good to him… Nobody else likes him. And besides, his mother is dead, he can never go back to Tan—he’s bound to live out his days here in Xi. Lady Song won’t be pleased if she finds out you’re close with someone like him.”
Lady Song was Jiang Nong’s mother.
Rong Mian’s voice trailed off as she belatedly realized she had misspoken. By painting Yu Lingxin as so pitiable, she had only made Her Highness more reluctant to abandon him.
Jiang Nong couldn’t explain herself to her.
According to the memories from her dream, though she and Yu Lingxin had not yet confessed their feelings to each other, they were on good terms.
Tonight, Yu Lingxin would appear at the lotus pond a li from her bedchamber to release lanterns and pray for her well-being. Then he would be shoved into the water by several princes who looked down on him. He was not a good swimmer, and with autumn’s chill already biting, he would fall gravely ill for days.
Jiang Nong needed to verify it.
…After much pouting, Rong Mian nonetheless stationed herself at the entrance to the lotus pond without complaint, keeping watch for the two who were meeting in the dead of night.
Jiang Nong walked alone through the winding, zigzagging path under her umbrella, brushing past a patch of still-green bamboo. The closer she drew, the louder the clamor became.
Four or five young men in brocade robes were tossing several lotus lanterns back and forth in mockery. Jiang Nong recognized them—they were companions to her royal brothers, led by Wen Zuhuan, the sole grandson of the Marquis of Huaiyin.
They pinched their voices, reading the words on the lanterns in sarcastic tones: “May the Ninth Highness enjoy lasting joy and peace, free from sorrow through the years~”
“Ooh—written for Jiang Nong! Look at yourself—what a crippled wretch! Though, honestly, besides Jiang Nong, who in this palace would even bother with you?”
“Haha, she’s always been one to stick her nose where it doesn’t belong. So let’s see if she comes to save you this time.” Wen Zuhuan sneered, rolling up his sleeves.
The others crowded forward, ready to shove him into the lake.
They kicked at the backs of Yu Lingxin’s knees. He didn’t dodge—he was long accustomed to this. He knew that the more he tried to evade, the worse the beating would be. He only repeated, over and over: “Give me back my things.”
His voice carried the hoarseness of a recent voice change, caught in that hazy space between boy and young man. His tone was flat, steady—like a still pool of water undisturbed by any stone cast into it.
Leave a Reply