Song Yunzhao’s thoughts turned swiftly—this was a golden opportunity.
The three consorts must never form an alliance, or she wouldn’t stand a chance.
The self-reproach edict crisis undoubtedly involved all three consorts.
At the core of it all, their ultimate target was still her.
After a brief exchange between Consort Zhuang and Consort Wan, Song Yunzhao remained quiet, her head slightly lowered, deep in thought.
Seeing this, even Consort Zhuang lost interest in bickering with Consort Wan.
Meanwhile, Consort Wan was thoroughly frustrated, and with no patience left for pretense, she abruptly stood and left.
The moment Consort Wan departed, Consort Zhuang turned to Song Yunzhao.
“You’re aware of the self-reproach edict matter, aren’t you, Song Jieyu?”
Song Yunzhao hadn’t expected Consort Zhuang to bring it up directly.
Still, she nodded frankly, then smiled apologetically.
“I don’t understand the self-reproach edict very well, so I asked Consort Wan about it. But instead, she scolded me, telling me not to speak carelessly. I really don’t know what I did wrong.”
“Oh? Consort Wan went a bit too far,” Consort Zhuang remarked, studying her.
“And what does Song Jieyu think about this matter?”
Song Yunzhao wore an expression of hesitation.
“Niangniang, I honestly don’t know how to answer. But I did notice that His Majesty’s mood was particularly tense, and even the palace attendants outside were talking about it. I just found some aspects strange—some things don’t quite make sense.”
“What doesn’t make sense?”
Consort Zhuang’s curiosity piqued.
Song Yunzhao looked at her, her face innocently curious.
“The court ministers are pressuring His Majesty into issuing a self-reproach edict. But let’s say His Majesty complies—would that stop the floods in the south? If the disaster continues, doesn’t that prove this wasn’t His Majesty’s fault? And if it wasn’t his fault, then doesn’t that mean the court ministers are to blame? Yet despite being at fault, they are forcing His Majesty to bear the guilt. How do they expect to resolve this mess?”
Consort Zhuang had assumed Song Yunzhao’s words were merely curious musings—but her own pulse quickened at the realization.
Song Yunzhao sighed lightly.
“This is just some idle speculation on my part, niangniang. Please don’t take it seriously.”
Consort Zhuang suppressed the ripple of unease within her, then calmly advised,
“Go and rest, Song Jieyu. And don’t mention the self-reproach edict to anyone else—it’s not a matter to be carelessly discussed. It’s better to avoid unnecessary trouble.”
Song Yunzhao smiled with gratitude.
“Thank you for your advice, Your Highness.”
Consort Zhuang hurried away, needing to write a letter to her father.
Had she acted too hastily?
Song Yunzhao watched her departing figure, her smile unchanged.
She lifted her skirt hem and stepped out of the pavilion, heading toward Wangyou Palace.
***
Taiji Palace
Before Feng Yi lay a towering stack of books and official records detailing past flood disasters.
He flipped through each one, his expression growing darker.
Before he ascended the throne, he had been the most overlooked, least favored prince.
His education in the palace had been superficial, focused on refined arts, utterly useless for governance.
Whether it was the Empress or noble consorts, they ensured their own sons had the best tutors, learning strategies for statecraft.
But him?
He had been left to study alone, without a single esteemed teacher to guide him.
Since his accession, the ministers had clung to power, doing their best to mislead him, ensuring he knew nothing.
The less he understood, the easier they could manipulate him.
A blank-slate Emperor—perfect for their designs.
Yet, as ruler, he had been forced to learn everything himself, taking on every burden, engaging in constant battles with the ministers.
Despite his unwavering effort, there were still too many things he hadn’t yet mastered.
He had always known water management was difficult, that rivers could shift course, that dykes could collapse.
He had known that not all relief funds truly reached the disaster victims.
But he had never realized just how many layers of deception lay within the rebuilding process.
As the sky darkened, Taiji Palace glowed brilliantly—but the Emperor’s heart sank into darkness.
There was still far too much to learn.
Irritation flared in his chest—he suddenly rose to his feet, striding toward the exit.
Meng Jiuchang wasn’t present—Zhang Maoquan immediately shoved past Xu Sixi, following closely.
Xu Sixi stumbled, nearly losing his footing.
By the time he steadied himself, the Emperor was already far ahead.
He nearly swore out loud—that damned Zhang Maoquan was becoming more insufferable by the day.
Zhang Maoquan could keenly sense the Emperor’s turmoil.
With measured steps, he followed, waiting for the moment His Majesty’s pace slowed.
Then, he noticed something—wasn’t this the path toward Wangyou Palace?
At the crossroads, Feng Yi paused.
The breeze cooled his mind, his frustration gradually easing.
He lifted his gaze toward the stars, their brilliance scattering across the night sky.
The heavens were radiant, yet his path felt shrouded in darkness.
Everyone believed being Emperor was a blessing.
Only after claiming the throne did he truly understand what it meant.
Zhang Maoquan watched the Emperor stand still, then stepped forward slightly, speaking in a low, measured tone.
“Your Majesty, if Song Jieyu were to know you were visiting her at this hour, she would surely be overjoyed.”
Feng Yi glanced at Zhang Maoquan, who kept his head lowered, not daring to look up.
His heart pounded with tension.
When he saw the Emperor finally step forward, he let out a quiet sigh of relief.
Meanwhile, Song Yunzhao had just finished her evening meal, rinsing her mouth when she suddenly heard the announcement of the Emperor’s arrival.
Quickly, she spat out the water, wiped her lips, and hurried out to greet him.
Stepping outside, she saw Feng Yi standing with his hands behind his back, silhouetted against the moonlight, his features obscured by shadow, yet his entire presence carried an air of restraint.
Her heart sank slightly.
“I pay my respects to Your Majesty,” Song Yunzhao stepped forward and bowed.
“Rise,” Feng Yi studied her.
She was wearing a simple, narrow-sleeved gown, her hair pinned loosely with a single jade hairpin—a clear sign that she had rushed out without tidying herself properly.
Seeing her like this, Feng Yi felt his tension ease slightly, reaching out to help her up.
Song Yunzhao took his hand, rising gracefully, but she did not let go.
Instead, she interlaced their fingers, lifting her gaze to him, her expression filled with concern.
“Your Majesty, have you had your evening meal?”
Though she asked the Emperor, her eyes flicked toward Zhang Maoquan.
Zhang Maoquan tensed instantly, stepping forward.
“Replying to Your Highness, His Majesty completed his work and came directly to visit you.”
Hearing this, Song Yunzhao beamed, her expression radiant with joy.
Turning to the Emperor, she playfully chided, “Even if Your Majesty wishes to see me, you must still take care of yourself first.”
Before giving him a chance to respond, she immediately issued orders.
“Send word to the imperial kitchen—prepare a bowl of chilled noodles. The weather is warm—this dish will be just right.”
Her voice rang out, clear and crisp, bright with happiness.
Her eyes sparkled, luminous like stars in the night sky.
Watching her, Feng Yi felt his mood lighten slightly.
Song Yunzhao gently pulled him toward the courtyard’s chairs, coaxing him to sit.
Meanwhile, Xiang Xue and Shi Zhu lit incense, driving away mosquitoes and pests.
Her chair had been custom-made, designed for two, so they could sit closely together, increasing both warmth and intimacy
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