Chapter One: The Death of Xue Shao

Year Four of the Reign of Chui Gong, Ninth Month, Eleventh Day. The autumn deepened; thunder roared, lightning flashed, and rain poured in torrents.

Before the Grand Palace of Ming, the crimson-bricked, red-wooded Tower of Phoenix was barely visible through the curtain of rain that filled the world. Across the vast plaza, its hundreds of paces empty, only the sound could be heard—no sight of a soul.

On the gatehouse, a row of pitch-black banners bearing Tang characters hung limp, wrinkled and twisted, wrapped tightly about red flagpoles. All five gates stood open, each arch a yard high and ten yards deep. Outside every portal, two rows of ten armored guards stood, clad in straw raincoats and conical hats. The wind drove fat droplets against their bodies like whips, snapping sharply.

“Damn this cursed weather,” someone cursed.

The straw coats were of little use; the rain quickly soaked through their clothing, and the wind chilled them to the bone. The guards, all in their teens and twenties, shivered and complained.

“You! Blockhead! Move to the front!” At the farthest right gate, a particularly tall and burly guard was kicked forward to bear the brunt of the wind.

He stumbled but obediently took his place at the front. He dared not curse anyone, nor the sky. His eyes wandered, bewildered, like a senseless wooden stump.

He did not belong here; he was already dead. His death was peculiar—a fashionable demise, drowning in a pool of paint while painting with his own body. He had painted for over twenty years, his hair turned white from hardship, achieving nothing, living a life of frustration. In his forties, still unmarried, he finally threw himself into the frenzy of the young, hoping to become an internet celebrity.

He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again, forcing out rain from his sockets and trying to keep his vision clear.

A millennium had passed since his death. Now, this was the flourishing Tang dynasty. He had become a member of the imperial clan, named Quan Ce. His mother was Princess Yiyang, Li Xiayu, eldest daughter of Emperor Gaozong.

Princess Yiyang was not widely known, but he had a famous grandmother—Empress Xiao.

Quan Ce’s whole body was chilled. The hen crows at dawn, the world is overturned—a generation’s empress stunning history, her throne built upon countless white bones. Unfortunately, he, his family, his uncle’s family, his aunt’s family, were all part of those bones.

His gaze dropped to his hand clutching the ceremonial blade. His fingers were slender and pale, his skin smooth and taut. He was only fifteen, in the prime of youth.

Even an ant clings to life; he truly did not wish to die again.

His mother married at thirty; the son of a princess, yet received no favor, only a modest post as a sixth-rank captain in the Left Guard. Young, powerless, constantly bullied. Forbidden from approaching the imperial presence, he was assigned to guard the Phoenix Gate—far enough from the center.

Pat, pat.

A line of men in black strode through water ankle-deep, clutching square bronze chests, marching straight in. The guards were like clay and wood, unmoving.

The Grand Palace was the heart of imperial politics, rife with intrigue. Quan Ce kept his gaze straight, calculating how to save his own life. He realized, sorrowfully, that he bore original sin, had no capital to his name, could neither advance nor retreat, only tread the wire between.

“Everything depends on fate,” Quan Ce murmured.

The shadow of the sundial shifted; horns sounded from atop the palace walls.

The hour had passed—time to change shifts.

The relieving guards lined up, and Quan Ce followed his unit toward the guardhouse by the imperial avenue.

“Big Brother,” someone shoved him. Through the rain, faces were unclear; the figure hurried past, only the outline of a broad face and big ears visible. Wang Hui, his cousin—son of Princess Gao’an—was a seventh-rank captain, even worse off than himself.

Quan Ce snapped to attention. Guarding the Phoenix Gate was always the duty of the noble and imperial guards; he belonged to the imperial guard and could not follow them. He quickly veered left, heading to his own guardhouse.

The room was simply furnished: rows of benches, a few stoves with tin kettles puffing steam. Few people, about twenty, made the space seem empty. Nobody spoke; it was silent. As Quan Ce stepped in, eyes turned to him, then quickly away.

He removed his hat and raincoat, took a seat by the wall. Rainwater streamed from his armor down his trousers, soon pooling beneath him.

“Hey, Quan Ce’s grown up! Soaked to the bone, didn’t cry this time!” Another batch of imperial guards entered, led by a swaggering young man in his twenties, the chief officer—the highest commander of their unit.

Many laughed aloud, some frowned and turned away, others remained expressionless.

Quan Ce glanced around and only realized they meant him when the stares intensified. He steadied himself and stood, bowing slightly, “General, you jest.”

The commander raised his brows, seeming surprised, shot him a sidelong glance, and snorted coldly, “If you’ve matured, let’s see you tested further. Tomorrow, report to the Left Martial Guard for patrol duty.”

“Yes,” Quan Ce replied obediently.

The commander glared at him, his face reddening, suddenly stood, “Quan Ce is insolent! He disobeys his superiors! Seize him—twenty strokes with the military rod!”

Quan Ce was horrified. Instantly, two comrades stepped forward, grabbed him, dragged him outside, and pressed him to the ground. A burly man spat into his palms, raised the black rod to strike.

“Hehehe—”

A giggle pierced the rain. A line of palace maids glided along the corridor, their goose-yellow skirts fluttering, their chest-high robes cut low, exposing much of their bosom. The leading female officer wore a deep purple palace dress, a pink shawl, her hair piled high in a cloud-like chignon, jade hairpins swaying, a flame-shaped ornament on her brow, apricot eyes lively, her smile bright, “The son of a princess, so delicate; it’s a shame to punish him so. Might the general spare him this time?”

“By command of the palace attendant, how can I not obey?” The commander, Wu Yanyi—second son of Wu Chengsi—set aside his arrogance and waved his hand.

Quan Ce was released. He hurriedly pulled up his trousers, his heart bleeding—forty years of chastity, now paraded before all, his dignity lost.

The palace attendant stood nearby, the scent of peonies overwhelming, making his heart race wildly; his hands fumbled with the intricate sash, sweat cold and hot alike.

She scoffed, twisting her waist, her ornaments ringing, her voice suddenly cold, “By the Empress’s decree: Imperial Censor Yu Baojia and Consort Xue Shao are suspected of treason. Dispatch men to seize them and bring them to the Imperial Prison for interrogation.”

“Your servant obeys,” Wu Yanyi replied loudly, spinning around, “I’ll personally apprehend Yu Baojia; another squad for Xue Shao. Choose your own.”

With a rush, the imperial guards surged forward like hungry hounds, crowding around him.

Hearing the name Xue Shao, Quan Ce’s heart trembled; he hurried forward, keeping his head down among the throng.

Wu Yanyi sneered, fingers like knives, his voice harsh, “Quan Ce, the palace attendant pleaded for you, yet you show no gratitude, only shirk your duties. Have you any heart?”

With a scolding and a point, those around Quan Ce swiftly dispersed, leaving him exposed. Wu Yanyi’s lips curled in a cold smile, the palace attendant raised her brows—they both fixed their gaze on him. Whether fortune or disaster, he could only accept his fate, replying quietly, “I’ll follow any order from the attendant and the general.”

Wu Yanyi grew angrier instead of pleased, breathing heavily, his face and eyes reddening, “You—insolent…”

Quan Ce bowed, appearing meek, his mind working quickly, gradually piecing together the situation. Wu Yanyi, young and newly elevated, lacked prestige among the guards, usually using him as a prop to boost his own reputation. Today, Quan Ce’s composure denied him that satisfaction.

Under the eaves, one must bow. Quan Ce, resigned, hooked his pinky around his sash; his trousers fell to his ankles. He yelped, covering himself in embarrassment.

“Hahaha!” Wu Yanyi laughed heartily, the guards echoing, their laughter shaking the room.

The palace attendant covered her mouth, her oval face’s smile fleeting, “Commander Wu, assign him twenty guards and set out immediately.”

Wu Yanyi finished assigning duties. Night was falling, the rain had eased. Quan Ce mounted his horse, led his squad, exited the Phoenix Gate to the right, passed Guangzhai and Yishan districts, arriving at Changle district, home to Princess Taiping—her residence occupying more than a quarter of the district.

At the mounting stone, Quan Ce reined in his horse and called to the gatekeeper, “Please inform Her Highness: Captain Quan Ce of the Imperial Guard, by order of the Empress, requests the presence of the Consort.”

He remained mounted, eyes closed, waiting for the storm.

After a stick of incense, the inner gate opened. A frail scholar stepped out, adorned in brocade, clean-shaven, bright-eyed, holding an oil-paper umbrella, his white boots rippling the puddles.

Quan Ce dismounted to greet him.

A steward in black stepped forward, “Captain Quan, the Princess commands: Outside, the Palace is supreme and you are a subject; inside, you are her nephew. She is with child and wishes to avoid unpleasantness.”

Xue Shao smiled gently, elegant, folding his umbrella, his wide sleeves brushing as he stepped onto the steward’s back and entered the carriage.

Quan Ce’s expression flickered, stunned for a long moment.

Thunder crashed in the distance, lightning slicing the night sky like dazzling swords.

The storm returned.

Quan Ce placed his rain hat on his head, mounted his horse, looked up at the seven-tiered spiral copper rivets atop the carriage, and glanced at the flickering sky above.

“To avoid the rain, we’ll return via Yan Zheng Gate, through the eastern inner gardens.”