Chapter 111.

Amid the chaos, Noble Consort Wen was swiftly escorted out of the room.

But all attention turned to Master Ziyuan, who was hurriedly summoned from the sacred Xuanqiong Hall. The Emperor trusted him implicitly—so much so that he was carried over in a luxurious sedan. Upon arrival, he adjusted his robes with a practiced elegance, his wide sleeves billowing as he strode into the Qianqing Palace, exuding an air of ethereal authority.

The moment Emperor Longfeng laid eyes on him, a glimmer of clarity returned to his otherwise dim and aged gaze. He struggled to keep his composure, mindful of the imperial physician’s warnings not to let his emotions surge, yet his eyes never wavered from Master Ziyuan.

The master moved gracefully before the dragon bed, pacing a few steps with his head bowed, fingers rhythmically calculating something unseen. After a long, silent pause, he finally looked up, his expression heavy. “There is a sinister presence within the palace,” he pronounced gravely. “Your Majesty has been ensnared by it.”

Emperor Longfeng’s heart clenched. It must be Noble Consort Wen! Lust had clouded his judgment, and now he was paying the price. A mix of resentment and regret flickered across his face.

Indeed, he adored her. For years, she had been his perfect companion—her beauty, charm, and submissive nature pleased him in every way. Even in the most intimate moments, her charm was unparalleled.

And unlike other consorts, she had no powerful family to back her. Even after bearing him a son, she remained utterly dependent on his favor. She was his to indulge, with no strings attached.

None of the countless beauties brought into the palace over the years had ever compared.

But his indulgence had its limits.

Ever since a prolonged illness had left him bedridden some time ago, Emperor Longfeng had become obsessed with safeguarding his health. He detested the weakness he had endured and vowed never to let it consume him again. He even stopped summoning concubines to his bed, devoting himself instead to Taoist practices under Master Ziyuan’s guidance and consuming medicinal elixirs to restore his vitality. Slowly, he had regained some strength.

And now, it was all ruined!

The imperial physician’s warning about a potential stroke had shaken him to the core. Panic spread like wildfire through his mind. Gritting his teeth, he raised a trembling hand and pointed toward the door, his voice hoarse and strained: “Noble Consort Wen… Jingren Palace!”

Taking the hint, Master Ziyuan promptly departed with a retinue to investigate the consort’s residence.

Half an hour later, he returned.

By then, Emperor Longfeng had taken his medicine and was resting against a cushion, still weak but slightly more composed. He leaned forward anxiously, his eyes sharp. “Well, what did you find?”

Master Ziyuan nodded solemnly, his face a mask of compassionate sorrow. “A malevolent force lingers above Jingren Palace, and Noble Consort Wen herself is entangled in dense, inauspicious energy. It appears she carries unresolved karmic burdens.”

“Can it be dealt with?” the Emperor demanded.

“A ritual can dispel the malevolence,” Ziyuan replied with measured calm. “But karmic debts are far more challenging to absolve. Furthermore…” He hesitated briefly before continuing. “Your Majesty’s health remains fragile. Until her karmic burden is resolved, it would be wise to… refrain from intimacy with the consort.”

Shame and frustration flushed the Emperor’s face. He clenched his fists, silently berating himself for his lack of restraint.

“Very well,” he muttered. “I leave it in your capable hands.”

At the Emperor’s command, Master Ziyuan quickly set up an elaborate Taoist altar in front of Jingren Palace, ready to perform the ritual that would expel the darkness lurking within.

The rumors of haunting in Jingren Palace could no longer be suppressed. Whispers spread like wildfire, fueled by tales of murder and revenge. It was said that the eunuch who had poisoned the Empress was none other than a pawn sent by Noble Consort Wen. The deceased maid, Feicui, was allegedly silenced to cover up the scheme.

Why else would the palace erupt in supernatural chaos immediately after their deaths?

Noble Consort Wen, trapped within the haunted halls of Jingren Palace, was placed under house arrest by Emperor Longfeng. His decree was clear: she was forbidden to step outside until the exorcism was complete.

The rumors, relentless and venomous, reached her ears through her personal attendants. They made her blood boil with fury, yet beneath her simmering rage was an icy undercurrent of dread.

A suffocating sense of inevitability clawed at her, as if she had stepped into a pit of quicksand, sinking deeper with every move.

The exorcism was scheduled three days later, a date meticulously chosen by the Taoist master, Ziyuan Zhenren. It was a day brimming with yang energy, ideal for banishing evil.

The fated day arrived, bringing an uncharacteristically sunny morning. After weeks of gloomy skies, the sun finally broke through heavy clouds. Though the lingering chill of winter remained, the sunlight carried a warmth that hinted at renewal.

In the grand square before Jingren Palace, Emperor Longfeng and the Empress sat regally on either side, their presence commanding attention. Behind them stood an assembly of concubines and palace servants, their expressions a blend of awe and anticipation.

At the center of the square, the altar stood ready. Ziyuan Zhenren, adorned in robes bearing the symbols of the four cardinal directions and eight trigrams, performed the ritual. With a peachwood sword in hand, he moved with deliberate precision, chanting incantations to purge the palace of its dark presence.

Meanwhile, Noble Consort Wen, the supposed source of the palace’s “karma-laden misfortune,” knelt humbly on the altar. Stripped of her finery, she wore plain garments, her head bowed as she chanted sutras in a bid to cleanse the lingering darkness.

Her gaze swept across the crowd, catching glimpses of barely concealed smirks and gloating eyes. The humiliation stung, and her teeth clenched in silent rage.

But the worst was yet to come.

Halfway through the ritual, the clear skies darkened as thick, ominous clouds gathered overhead. The sunlight vanished, replaced by a foreboding gloom. In moments, the atmosphere grew tense with the promise of an impending storm.

From the depths of the darkened sky, faint rolls of thunder began to rumble, growing louder with each passing second.

The sudden shift unsettled the onlookers. Ziyuan Zhenren, his voice heavy with alarm, muttered, “This is not good.” He bit his finger, smearing fresh blood onto his peachwood sword, and quickened his ritual movements.

Then, it happened.

A deafening crack of thunder split the sky, shaking the earth beneath their feet. The Taoist master faltered under the pressure, collapsing onto one knee as blood spewed from his mouth.

His trembling gaze lifted to the churning clouds above, and he whispered in disbelief, “Such overwhelming resentment… how can this be?”

Panic erupted among the crowd. Emperor Longfeng sprang to his feet, his voice sharp with urgency. “What’s happening?”

Ziyuan Zhenren, breathless and pale, confessed, “Your Majesty, forgive me. The resentment here is too powerful—beyond my ability to quell.”

“What kind of force could possess such terrifying strength?” The emperor’s tone was laced with fear and desperation.

Ziyuan Zhenren replied, his voice grave, “A male and female spirit, bound together in hatred, forming a Yin-Yang twin scourge. Their unresolved vengeance amplifies their wrath to unimaginable levels.”

The emperor’s expression darkened, and just as he was about to ask how to handle the situation, a sharp, panicked scream split the tense air outside Jingren Palace:

“It wasn’t me! I didn’t kill you! It wasn’t me!”

The voice belonged to a female official of Jingren Palace, her trembling figure clad in the uniform of her station. Her wild eyes darted around as though she had seen something unspeakably horrifying. Then, in a fit of desperation, she scrambled to flee, stumbling and crawling as she cried, “It wasn’t me! It was the consort’s order! I had nothing to do with it!”

Her piercing voice cut through the heavy silence of the scene, drawing every gaze.

The emperor’s face grew even colder. He barked sharply, “Bring her here.”

At his command, Xue Shu, who stood nearby, signaled with a glance. Without hesitation, two members of the imperial guards stepped forward, seizing the woman and dragging her over. She struggled violently, shouting incoherently all the while, but was forced to her knees before the emperor. Her body shook uncontrollably, like a leaf caught in a storm.

“I didn’t want to kill you... I didn’t want to... Don’t haunt me...”

The emperor’s expression had turned utterly grim by now, but he held his silence. Xue Shu, quick to read the mood, stepped forward to interrogate her with a calm yet pressing tone.

“Who did the consort order you to kill?”

“Feicui,” she stammered, her face drained of all color.

Feicui—the palace maid found dead in Jingren Palace.

“And why did the consort order Feicui’s death?” Xue Shu’s questions were gentle but unrelenting, like a blade stripping away her defenses.

The sky groaned with thunder as if mirroring the brewing chaos. The woman seemed on the verge of losing her mind, her words tumbling out in frantic, disconnected bursts.

“Because... because Feicui was Wang Shi’s partner! Wang Shi is already dead, so Feicui had to die too! The consort said they both had to die!”

Wang Shi—the eunuch who poisoned the pastries.

At this, the truth of the situation began to fall into place, the pieces aligning all too clearly.

Xue Shu asked no further questions but glanced toward the emperor, whose face remained unreadable, dark and impenetrable.

“Your Majesty?” he asked, seeking direction.

The emperor’s gaze briefly flicked to Consort Wen, who stood near the altar, her face pale as she trembled under his icy scrutiny. Before she could speak, he turned to the Daoist priest Ziyuan Zhenren, who sat meditating nearby.

“Can this malevolence be eradicated?”

The priest opened his eyes, his tone somber. “The resentment is too strong. It must first be dissipated. The remains of the two must also be buried in a place of strong yang energy, lest their lingering hatred grow unchecked. The consequences would be dire.”

The emperor considered his words in heavy silence before issuing his command. “Xue Shu, this task is yours.”

Xue Shu bowed in acknowledgment and gestured for the guards to take the female official away. Her wails echoed as she was dragged out of sight.

As for Consort Wen, though her guilt had not been formally declared, the emperor did not lift her confinement in Jingren Palace.

The Eastern Bureau wasted no time investigating. The consort’s attendants—both maids and eunuchs—were all detained and questioned. Though they bore no outward marks of torture, they emerged pale and broken, their spirits seemingly drained.

Stripped of her trusted aides and left blind to the outside world, Consort Wen was no longer the formidable predator she had once been. Now she was nothing more than a defanged beast, pacing and thrashing in futile frustration, awaiting the inevitable judgment that loomed over her like a blade poised to strike.

She racked her brain, desperately trying to figure out when the trap had been set.

Was it the moment she stepped into Qianqing Palace?

No, it had to be earlier—back when the rumors of ghosts haunting Jingren Palace began. That was when she stumbled, unknowingly, into the snare her enemies had meticulously laid.

There was no escape from it now.

She couldn’t even pinpoint when the court lady who exposed her during the exorcism had been bribed.

This wasn’t the work of Yin Ciguang, that useless fool. It had to be the Crown Prince. Only he had the cunning and the power to pull this off.

Consort Wen clenched her teeth in seething hatred. She had tried everything to get an audience with the Emperor. If he could just spare her a glance, a shred of pity, he wouldn’t have the heart to punish her too harshly.

But the guards around Jingren Palace were all under Xue Shu’s control. No matter how much silver she threw at them, it was like tossing stones into the ocean—no response, no leverage.

In just three days, the entire case had been pieced together with ruthless efficiency and presented in a flawless dossier to Emperor Longfeng.

The story was damning.

The eunuch Wang Shi and the palace maid Feicui were from the same village, and their bond had grown into forbidden love after entering the palace. They secretly became a pair, but their rendezvous outside Jingren Palace was discovered by one of Consort Wen’s trusted attendants, who promptly reported it to her.

Instead of punishing them outright, Consort Wen saw an opportunity.

Using Feicui’s life as leverage, she coerced Wang Shi into working for her. Wang Shi, though insignificant in the Emperor’s eyes, served in Qianqing Palace and occasionally attended the Emperor directly—a useful pawn.

On the day Consort Rong was poisoned, Consort Wen learned that Empress Yu and Consort Rong were heading to Jiao Garden to admire the scenery. She deliberately invited Emperor Longfeng to the nearby area, ensuring their paths would cross. When refreshments were prepared in the imperial kitchen, she slyly mentioned the Empress and Consort Rong’s presence in Jiao Garden.

The Emperor, in a whimsical gesture, ordered two plates of osmanthus cakes to be sent to them. And the one tasked with delivering the cakes? Wang Shi.

Under Consort Wen’s threats, Wang Shi laced poison into one of the cakes, intending to kill the Empress.

Consort Wen promised Wang Shi that if he took his own life after the deed, she would spare Feicui.

Wang Shi, cornered and desperate, complied and later committed suicide out of guilt. But Consort Wen broke her word. Two days later, she ordered her trusted attendant to strangle Feicui and dispose of her body in a dried-up well in the Cold Palace.

The crimes were undeniable. Attempted regicide. Spying on the Empress’s whereabouts. Ruthless murders. One accusation after another piled up, and Consort Wen’s guilt was beyond question.

“The burial site is prepared. We can relocate Wang Shi and Feicui’s remains soon,” Xue Shu said, standing calmly by the Emperor’s bedside. His tone was measured, neutral, without a hint of bias. “How shall we deal with Consort Wen?”

According to the Taoist master Ziyuan, to pacify the wrath of the yin-yang spirits, the culprit must face justice.

Emperor Longfeng hesitated. The word “kill” stuck in his throat, refusing to come out.

When plagued by malevolent spirits, he had loathed Consort Wen. But now, as the moment to sentence her drew near, he felt an unshakable reluctance.

Killing her would leave the Empress unrivaled in the harem. Would that be wise?

When Emperor Longfeng found himself torn and unable to make a decision, the court dredged up scandals from the Wen family’s past.

The emperor despised the idea of powerful in-laws, which is why Noble Consort Wen’s maternal family held a shallow, ornamental title—shiny on the surface but devoid of real influence in court.

Despite this, the Wen family had grown bold over the years, emboldened by the consort’s favor in the palace. They avoided large-scale crimes but indulged in petty corruption—seizing women, encroaching on land, and running usurious loan schemes.

For years, no one dared to intervene. But now, someone had uncovered and meticulously presented these transgressions before the emperor.

The more accusations piled up, however, the more hesitant Emperor Longfeng became, unable to reach a verdict.

Then came the news. From Yongxi Palace came word of death—Consort Rong had passed away.

Her life, precariously held by rare medicinal treatments, had finally slipped away.

When Yin Chengyu arrived at Yongxi Palace, the consort’s body was already being prepared by palace servants. Yin Ciguang knelt woodenly by the bedside, his expression blank, hollow, and lost.

Yin Chengyu called to him, but it was as though he didn’t hear, his eyes void of emotion, his entire presence steeped in a heavy, lifeless stillness.

A lump formed in Yin Chengyu’s throat. After everything—the endless twists and turns—they had failed. Consort Rong hadn’t made it.

In their past life, mother and son had died unjustly, burdened by false accusations, their names stricken and tabooed in palace lore. In this life, they had endured, fought, and survived long enough to glimpse hope—only for it to shatter cruelly before them.

Fate was merciless. For a moment, Yin Chengyu couldn’t decide which was crueler for Yin Ciguang: the past they had escaped or the present they faced.

“I won’t let Noble Consort Wen go unpunished.” Any words of comfort felt useless and hollow. After a long silence, this promise was all Yin Chengyu could give.

Yin Ciguang’s gaze wavered, and slowly, he turned to face Chengyu. His voice was quiet, hesitant. “Did I… make a mistake?”

“What?” Yin Chengyu didn’t understand what he meant.

But Yin Ciguang didn’t seem to want an answer. He rose unsteadily to his feet and staggered toward the door.

This winter had been unusually long and bitter. March brought no spring, only howling winds and unrelenting cold.

As the gusts billowed through his wide robes, Yin Ciguang tilted his head back, staring into the oppressive, leaden sky. His frail frame, gaunt and spectral, seemed ready to vanish with the wind.

Since childhood, his mother had taught him to endure.

Low status and neglect? Endure.

Dressing as a woman and living in constant fear of discovery? Endure.

Noble Consort Wen’s arrogance and constant persecution? Endure.

The high walls of the palace loomed like the jaws of a monstrous beast, and he and his mother had cowered within, scraping by without protest, without resistance. Survival demanded silence and submission.

He had hated, raged, wanted to scream at the heavens, but his mother always said to wait. Just endure a little longer, and it will get better.

And he had believed her. He truly thought things would change.

But fate had reared back and struck him down at his highest point, a cruel reminder that he was, and always would be, nothing more than an ant in the shadow of this imperial cage. His life, his dignity, his very existence—held tightly in the hands of others.

A shudder ran through him as he bit down hard, his teeth clenched, his eyes rimmed red. But not a single tear fell.

He lowered his head, staring at his hands—pale and powerless hands that couldn’t protect his mother.

Slowly, he clenched them into fists, his fingertips digging deep into his palms.

*

The funeral for Consort Rong was extravagant, befitting the rites of a Noble Consort.

While unloved in life, she was honored lavishly in death.

Perhaps out of guilt, Emperor Longfeng issued an edict following the funeral: Yin Ciguang was granted the title of Prince An and assigned a post in the Ministry of Revenue. According to imperial tradition, princes could only receive their titles after the coming-of-age ceremony, but this time, an exception was made. Among all the emperor’s sons, Yin Ciguang was the eldest, yet even he hadn’t reached the age for the ceremony.

As for Consort Wen, her crimes were severe enough to warrant death. But Emperor Longfeng, despite his deliberation, couldn’t bring himself to execute the woman he had once adored. Instead, the Wen family was punished, her title stripped, and she was banished to the Cold Palace.

In just half a month, the winds of the court and the harem had shifted drastically.

Once titled Prince An, Yin Ciguang prepared to move into his official residence. Renovations on his estate had been ongoing since the end of the previous year and were finally complete.

On the day he left the palace, he made his way to Ciqing Palace to bid farewell.

As Eunuch Zheng led him toward the Hongren Hall, he couldn’t help but notice how the once silent and withdrawn First Prince had grown even more distant—a figure like a deep well, his emotions buried at the bottom, leaving no trace of humanity on the surface.

With a sigh, Zheng Duobao led him into the hall before respectfully stepping aside.

Yin Chengyu, already informed of his arrival, emerged to greet him. Studying his expression, he maintained a friendly tone, as though nothing had changed. "I thought you’d be too busy moving today, so I planned to visit in a few days for tea. I didn’t expect you’d come here first."

Yin Ciguang, dressed in mourning white, betrayed little grief on his face. His voice was calm and steady, as though he had already moved past his loss. "You and the Empress Dowager have cared for my mother and me. Today, I’m here to tell you this: I don’t believe the rumors outside, and neither should you."

His eyes flickered with surprise, caught off guard that he would come all this way just to say this.

“When I’ve steadied myself, I’ll invite you for tea,” he added, his tone as composed as ever.

Yin Chengyu looked at him, as though searching for something in his eyes, but there was nothing to find.

After a moment of silence, he softened her voice. “Very well.”

Having said all he needed to, Yin Ciguang excused himself. He walked him to the door, and just as he was about to leave, Yin Chengyu's voice followed softly, almost inaudibly: "The guards near the Cold Palace have been withdrawn."

Yin Ciguang's steps faltered for the briefest moment, but he didn’t turn back, continuing his path forward.

It was only after he had walked far enough that he turned around. From a distance, he saw a crimson figure step out of the hall and stand beside Yin Chengyu. Though their postures weren’t overly intimate, the unspoken connection between them was undeniable—an atmosphere that allowed no one else to intrude.

The two spoke briefly, then turned and disappeared back into the hall together.

Yin Ciguang lingered, watching for a moment before finally turning away.

The mountains envy their steadfast resolve; the crane, its carefree detachment.

The heavens had always been stingy with him, denying him the path to walk beside them.

———TN: Oh no! I’m worried Yin Ciguang is going to clash with Yin Chengyu to seize power. Don’t let this happen—please, just don’t!