Chapter Twenty-Two: Within and Without the Palace

Dayan Sect, Martial Arena.

The entire Martial Arena was a sea of people; though it spanned dozens of yards in every direction, it still felt crowded. Here, thousands upon thousands of disciples had gathered from all corners of the world, all drawn by the pursuit of martial mastery.

At the very front of the arena stood a high platform, several yards above the ground, with a great banner planted atop it. Embroidered upon the banner was a single, bold character: "Martial."

Within the arena, the throng of new disciples milled about like headless flies, forming groups of three or five, launching into spirited discussions and debates. Encircling the Martial Arena, several hundred senior disciples kept watch, forming a stern circle around the newcomers. Each wore a severe expression, their very presence commanding respect. Yet they paid no heed to the noisy chatter of the new arrivals.

As the noise swelled to a crescendo, an elderly man with a white beard quietly spoke from not far away, "Silence!"

His voice was not thunderous, yet it reached every ear as gently and surely as a spring breeze. At once, the idle children ceased their endless personal orations.

No one had noticed when he had appeared; all were subdued by the suddenness of his voice.

"When did that old man show up?" Li Shun muttered, eyeing Xi Menghe, who had glided into view.

From the very instant Xi Menghe appeared, these fledgling disciples sensed he was no ordinary man. Under the eager gaze of the crowd, he leapt onto the platform with a movement as light and effortless as bamboo shooting from dry ground, landing steadily.

"Could he be one of the sect's elders?" some wondered in the crowd.

"Oh! Now I remember—my uncle told me that this year, the one overseeing the induction of new disciples is Elder Nine, Xi Menghe," a well-informed new disciple declared, immediately drawing the attention of those around him. Many pressed him for more information about the sect, and he, proud of his moment in the sun, launched into an enthusiastic, if somewhat childish, lecture.

But after only a few minutes, Xi Menghe cleared his throat and called for silence again, finally closing the mouths of the young crowd.

Xi Menghe looked down with displeasure at the sea of heads below. The quality of each year's intake directly affected the elders' prospects, and this year's crop seemed especially lackluster. It looked as though there would be little to gain.

The disciples below had no inkling of his thoughts, nor could they even discern the tightly furrowed brows upon his face.

Yet whenever Xi Menghe thought of Su Bai, now waiting in his own residence, his gloom dissipated. That was a seedling worth nurturing at great cost.

His face now composed and serene, he addressed the new disciples waiting below, "Since you have passed through many layers of selection to enter the Dayan Sect, you must possess talents beyond the ordinary. I hope you will not squander your youth; cultivate diligently, and become pillars of our sect."

At this age, none of the children harbored complicated thoughts. Barely eight or nine years old, their hearts swelled with excitement at these words, each imagining themselves as a future luminary of the Dayan Sect or even a renowned figure in the martial world.

"Elder! Elder!" A small, innocent face bobbed up from the crowd, calling out to Xi Menghe, "Is everything you said true?" The boy wore ragged, patched clothes, his face smeared with dirt as if he’d been dug out from a coal pit. Yet his eyes shone with hope, longing for the answer he desired.

Some around him cast disdainful glances his way, but said nothing more.

Xi Menghe had seen countless children like him—those who sought to change their fate by entering a great institution. Yet few ever truly leapt over the dragon gate.

But who would tarnish their own reputation? Xi Menghe smiled kindly, "I am more than a hundred years old—how could I deceive you with empty words?"

At these words, the boy could no longer hold back his tears. Since he could remember, only his mother had been by his side, dragging her ignorant child from place to place, begging for survival.

In the depths of winter, to care for him, she would go out searching for food in nothing but a thin, patched sack that could hardly be called clothing. One day, she never returned, and he was left alone, shivering as he searched for her in the snow.

He could still recall that scene: a world of endless white, with no trace of his mother. Suddenly, his vision failed him—snow blindness—and he stumbled in the deep drifts, his numb hands groping until they found a frozen body.

His fingers, though clumsy with cold, touched the jade pendant his mother had always worn. He had grown up watching her cherish it, never once selling it even when they starved. Now, it lay buried with her beneath the snow.

Wei Mingyuan sobbed uncontrollably. In that moment, he knew he would never again hear his mother’s admonitions or feel her care; he was alone, adrift in the world.

This boy, not yet eight, wept harder and harder in the snow, until at last he fainted in his mother’s arms.

When he awoke, the first person he saw was the Dayan Sect’s Second Elder, Yu She. Yu left him a token and told him to come to the Dayan Sect before late autumn of the following year to seek apprenticeship.

He had crossed mountains and rivers for this one hope. Never in his life had he known a single day of comfort—his father absent from birth, his mother gone too soon.

He understood all too well: it was because he lacked power. In this harsh world, no one would listen to the words of a child, nor would anyone pity him for his origins. Only by growing stronger could he rise above his fate, so that he, unlike his mother, would not have to toil endlessly just to feed a child.

No one dared mock his tattered clothes, for his dazzling entrance, extraordinary talent, and ruthless resolve—so rare at his age—commanded respect.

At this thought, Wei Mingyuan clutched the jade pendant at his chest and whispered in his heart, "Mother, your son will become a man of honor and strength. You always said that some day we would have enough to eat every day. Now, I have done it. Rest in peace."

Shendu—Skyreach Pavilion

"Your Majesty! How could you send our son to Danhuan? Isn’t that a place from which no one ever returns? Can you really bear to see our son buried there?" A beautiful woman in palace attire, her figure full and graceful, her phoenix eyes brimming with tears, clung to the Emperor’s leg, weeping bitterly—she would not relent until her wish was granted.

Qin Chaoyang sat firmly in his chair, unmoved by her frantic pleas.

He reached out and raised her smooth chin, smiling, "Oh? If that is the case, why don’t you accompany him there—what do you say?"

"Ah?" The woman was struck dumb by his words.

Everyone knew that those sent as hostages to other nations—be they princes or princesses—rarely returned, and many died young.

"Your Majesty, surely you jest. I... I wish only to continue serving you," Consort Chen replied, forcing a smile.

Though her own flesh and blood was at stake, imperial men were famously heartless. As a mere woman, she had to struggle simply to survive in the palace, and would not risk her life so lightly.

She had borne the Emperor two princes, and the years had left no mark upon her face; if anything, time had only deepened her matronly allure, giving her a charm irresistible to men. It was this that kept her in the Emperor’s favor—were it otherwise, he would not be so gentle.

Qin Chaoyang paid her no further attention, but rose to address Li Yunfeng, who waited nervously below, "My son, I know you do not wish to go to distant Danhuan, but the current situation is beyond my control. Only by your sacrifice can our Great Ming be saved from peril."

Just months after Su Qing’s death, the two northern nations had joined forces and shattered the Great Wall built by the Great Ming, sweeping south like hawks, seizing two northern provinces. Corpses littered the land, families were torn apart, and locust plagues brought famine so dire that people had begun to eat their own children.

To prevent Danhuan from attacking the south, an alliance had been formed—at Ming’s initiative—and the hostage demanded was not the child of a noble, but a prince. For the sake of the realm, Qin Chaoyang had no choice but to send his youngest son.

The little prince could not have fathomed the dangers ahead. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he had known only his parents’ love; he could hardly bear to leave them now.

But Qin Chaoyang cared nothing for his wishes. With a wave of his hand, attendants dragged the weeping boy away.

Consort Chen shrank in terror beside the throne, speechless.

Qin Chaoyang watched his son being led away, sighed deeply, then seated himself once more upon the dragon throne and said to Consort Chen, eyes closed, "Beloved, come and massage my head."

"Yes... I’ll come at once," Consort Chen replied, her legs weak, barely able to haul herself upright and steady herself behind him.

Gazing at the Emperor—so near and yet so far—she could only reach out her soft hands to gently knead the dragon’s head.

"My dear," Qin Chaoyang suddenly said, recalling their first meeting, "your hands feel just the same as they did twenty years ago. Back then, I was traveling incognito and saw you about to be sold to a brothel madam. I intervened, and you begged me to flee, saying the madam knew people of great power and I’d be doomed if I stayed."

He sighed, "You were just a girl of seventeen or eighteen then, untouched by the world’s dust—your beauty remains vivid in my memory. Alas, palace life is a great dye vat; even a lotus like you cannot remain unstained."

Consort Chen could not help but shed silent tears. She remembered those carefree days, traveling the land with the Emperor, seeing the wonders of the realm, each wholly devoted to the other.

But the closer she drew to the center of power, the more she had to learn to hide her feelings. She could no longer recall how many lonely nights she had fallen asleep clutching her bedding, while another beauty shared the Emperor’s side.

Her hands faltered, but she did not notice.

Then Qin Chaoyang’s tone turned cold, "Had you always behaved yourself, I might have made you Empress, for you have given me two sons. But your actions regarding Lady Li were simply too much."

At the mention of Lady Li, especially from the Emperor’s lips, Consort Chen was stricken as if by lightning.

All dignity forgotten, she rushed to kneel before Qin Chaoyang, sobbing, "Your Majesty, I am innocent! Wasn’t Lady Li’s case already settled? It was Sishun who did it, not me—please believe I am blameless!"

Qin Chaoyang stared at her, unmoved by her cries of injustice. After a long silence, he drew a handkerchief from his breast.

Who knew how long it had been stored—the fine cloth was yellowed with age, but its quality had preserved it through many storms. In the capital, such things were trifles, easily discarded by the upper classes.

Qin Chaoyang gently wiped the tears from Consort Chen’s cheeks, his voice both apologetic and icy, "Tears shed from shock are cold; those of true injustice are hot. I have indeed wronged you, but once you enter the imperial family, you must obey its rules. Things are as they are—I cannot keep you here."

On hearing this, Consort Chen seized his arm, hoarse with desperation, "Your Majesty, for the sake of the twenty years I have served you, spare me! I will be the wife you want me to be. If I cannot remain in the palace, at least spare my life!"

But Qin Chaoyang’s reply was ice itself, "That won’t be necessary. Go and join Lady Li."

He shook her off and gestured for the attendants to take her away.

Soon, the guards reported, "Your Majesty, Consort Chen has been executed."

Qin Chaoyang did not blink, but tossed the handkerchief to a guard. "Consort Chen fell into the water while feeding fish in the Imperial Garden and drowned. All her personal eunuchs and maids are to be executed and buried with her."

Before the attendant could reply, Qin Chaoyang tossed over the silk handkerchief again. "This handkerchief will be buried with her."

"Yes!" the attendant caught it deftly.

"Leave me. I wish to be alone," Qin Chaoyang said, gazing impatiently at the setting sun.

The attendant, who had served him since childhood, could not help but plead, "Please take care of yourself, Your Majesty!" Then he vanished.

Qin Chaoyang looked at the dying sun and scoffed, "So this is what it means to be truly alone."