Chapter 75: The Emperor’s Extra

I was born as the Crown Prince, and also happened to be the third prince of the current dynasty. Before me, two princes had already passed away in the palace. My birth was an immense joy—for my father, the emperor, a legitimate son represented the rightful lineage, while for my mother, the empress, I was merely a new solace within these palace walls.

My father and mother were childhood sweethearts who married young. The Eastern Palace I later resided in had once been their newlywed home. According to Aunt Dan Shan, my mother’s personal palace maid, my father had once painted my mother’s eyebrows and composed portraits of her.

They seemed no different from any loving couple among the common folk.

But good times did not last. My father ascended the throne and became the new emperor.

That was the fourth year of their marriage.

My mother had never conceived, and dissatisfaction with her had long simmered throughout the court. Meanwhile, my father, newly enthroned, faced endless affairs to attend to. Thus, even within the same palace, separated by mere distances, they seldom met.

From sunrise to sunset, watching the golden tiles and crimson walls of the palace bathed in sunlight, counting the leaves falling from the trees—another day would pass.

Perhaps only when night fell and palace lanterns lit up the darkness would my father occasionally visit this palace, which felt somewhat unfamiliar to him.

“But when Father doesn’t come to Mother’s place, where does he go? It’s so cold outside—it would freeze a person.” My naive childhood words shattered the beautiful dream in my mother’s memories.

My mother remained silent for a long time. She looked at me, then smiled faintly.

From a young age, I remembered many things—what others said or did, I could always recall.

Yet that smile of my mother’s was one I easily forgot.

A Crown Prince might avoid taking secondary consorts, but an emperor could not be without heirs.

In the second year of his reign, the court petitioned my father to hold an imperial selection. Their implication was clear: if the emperor did not fill the harem and produce heirs, the state would falter, its foundations crumbling.

It wasn’t difficult to understand—for the daughters of court officials, entering the palace and bearing imperial offspring was both a gamble and a benefit for their families.

My father frowned daily, and finally, unable to withstand the pressure, he stepped into my mother’s Kunning Palace one day.

That day, all palace attendants withdrew from the main hall, leaving only the young couple to face each other honestly.

Aunt Dan Shan later told me that it was my father who wept that day, while my mother did not shed a single tear.

After the imperial selection, the palace gained many young and beautiful imperial concubines. They were like flowers in full bloom during spring, willingly offering their beauty and long years to this cold, rigid court.

It was almost inevitable that some imperial concubines would gain favor, and among them, one or two always stood out.

While criticism of my mother continued unabated in the court, a favored Jieyu named Wen emerged in the harem.

She had a delicate, smiling appearance and spoke softly and slowly, her voice gentle and refined.

Yet this seemingly frail woman, without a trace of fear, successively caused the deaths of several princes in the palace.

The eldest prince was born to Consort Chen in the palace. Her rank was too low, and even after giving birth to the Imperial Eldest Son, she was barely elevated to the rank of concubine—just enough to keep the imperial heir by her side.

But joy lasted only a few months before the eldest prince died prematurely from a bout of wind-chill illness.

Coinciding with the harsh winter, the entire palace was steeped in profound sorrow.

Consort Chen, overwhelmed by grief, hanged herself from a beam seven days later.

Afterwards, rumors gradually spread in the court, claiming that my mother’s fate was ill-omened and clashed with the nation’s fortune.

My father expended great effort to deal with those who spread such rumors and showed disrespect toward my mother.

It was after this that my father visited my mother’s palace less and less frequently.

Until the second prince was born, in early summer, when the koi in the pond swam joyfully.

But this prince was born frail—sickly, with a bluish complexion. The Imperial Physician spoke in vague terms, only telling my father that the second prince was unlikely to survive.

Indeed, before a month had passed, the second prince fell ill and died.

Rumors arose again in the court, but this time, before my father could intervene, my mother voluntarily requested to reside long-term at Changyong Mountain.

My father agreed.

In truth, my mother was pregnant at the time. Fearing that someone might harm me, she made an agreement with my father that after ten months, he would go to Changyong Mountain to bring her and me back to the palace.

Changyong Mountain was remote, yet it was a sacred site for the imperial court, where successive emperors performed rituals to communicate with heaven.

My mother spent a peaceful period at Changyong Mountain. On the day I was born, according to the records of the court historians, colorful clouds gathered over Changyong Mountain, and the sky was filled with radiant light. In the Wuji Temple on the mountain, bells and tripods rang of their own accord—a truly wondrous sight.

When the news reached the court, my father was overjoyed and immediately issued an edict naming me Crown Prince, bestowing upon me the name Mingheng, hoping that as emperor, I would be fair and wise.

Perhaps because he had already lost two children, my father was exceptionally cautious with me, specially assigning attendants from the Imperial Presence to guard my side.

From the time I became aware of my surroundings, my mother often loved to sit by the palace door, gazing at the flowers.

Later, I heard from Aunt Dan Shan that my mother was not looking at the flowers but rather watching to see if my father would come to visit her that day.

When I was three years old, my mother fell seriously ill. It was then that she called me to her bedside and quietly asked if I would be willing to go to Consort Qiao’s palace.

I could not perceive her anxiety, her despair, or her reluctance. She asked, and so I answered.

I asked her why.

Suddenly, she threw things at me—soft pillows and bedding from the bed—all tossed to the floor, alarming the palace maids outside, who hurriedly took me out of the room.

As she wished, I went to Consort Qiao’s palace.

At that time, Consort Qiao held only the rank of concubine.

She was a close friend of my mother’s and treated me with great care, often speaking of my mother’s virtues and saying that she had not always been like this.

In the palace, princes and princesses passed away one after another, and imperial concubines were implicated one by one.

Among them was Consort Wen.

She held the rank of consort and had given birth to a prince, but as she harmed others’ children, others in turn harmed hers.

When all these sordid affairs were brought to light, my father realized how foolish he had been, manipulated by a few women.

Consort Wen was demoted to slavery and sentenced to death by a thousand cuts. The other concubines who had harmed the royal heirs met the same fate—all were executed.

Suddenly, the palace became much emptier.

Gradually, Concubine Qiao rose to become Guifei Qiao. She treated me very well, and my father frequently visited her palace.

Amidst the endless waiting, my mother became pregnant again.

I was filled with joy for the upcoming younger brother or sister, and my mother was exceptionally happy as well. But this happiness vanished when she miscarried in the fifth month.

That year, I was exactly eight years old.

My mother began to refuse food and drink. Unable to persuade her, my father suggested that Consort Qiao try to talk to her.

During that time, it had not rained for a long while. As my mother disliked being attended to, only a few young palace maids remained by her side.

Consort Qiao and the Empress Dowager conversed late into the night. Unexpectedly, a fierce fire broke out in the side hall of Kunning Palace. The thick smoke billowed into the main hall, causing my mother and Consort Qiao to fall unconscious in the smoke and perish in the flames.

After the national mourning, I saw that half of my father’s hair had turned white. The profound sorrow in his eyes often left me silent.

Apart from me, there were other princes in the palace, yet it seemed as though he had placed all the burdens solely on my shoulders.

Thus, he took me under his wing, teaching me how to become a competent emperor.

As I grew older, I gained power but did not agree with his policy of leniency.

Perhaps it was precisely because my father treated court officials and the imperial harem with too much gentleness that he ended up in such a state.

Before his passing, my father told me that he had always cherished my mother. He had pretended to favor Wen Shi to prevent court officials from focusing on my mother’s faults. Little did he know that such actions were also a prelude to my mother’s broken heart.

He advised me to treat the imperial harem with impartiality and, if I ever had a beloved, never to openly display my affection for her.

Looking at his aged face, I ultimately did not utter a word of agreement.

I am different from him. After ascending the throne, I boldly purged the court of stubborn and corrupt officials. Those guilty of embezzlement—executed; those who showed disrespect—executed; the incompetent—well, there was no need for execution, but how could such officials stand before me? I dealt with them all.

From then on, the entire court spoke of my ruthless methods, trembling at the mere mention of them.

It was precisely because I appeared as a heartless yet wise ruler that, although the court harbored concerns about my lack of heirs, they dared not inquire too deeply.

I originally thought my father was overthinking it—when had I ever had a beloved?

But upon later reflection, if one day I truly found someone dear to my heart, I would not hide her away as my father suggested, loving her only in secret. Instead, I would openly display my affection for her, letting everyone see.

I would never let her sit in the palace day after day, waiting in melancholy, as my mother did.