101. This Grudge Bears No Blame on Wind or Moon

Awakening from a nightmare, Pei Jinghong propped herself up against the bed canopy. The vivid blood-red sky from her dream and the crimson azaleas in the back garden of the Pei residence weighed heavily on her chest—not with sharp pain, but a crushing burden that seemed to break her heart and blood vessels.

Fragments of memories flooded in like a blazing inferno, overwhelming her all at once. It was as if her entire life replayed in an instant, dredging up long-buried pieces purposely hidden deep within her heart. For a fleeting moment, those suppressed memories surged violently, engulfing her completely.

From the youthful pride of her adolescence to the tumultuous decade of worldly vicissitudes and calamities, the recollections were still unbearably painful. In that instant, it felt as though someone had stabbed her through the heart, catapulting her back to when she was thirteen years old.

“Ah!!!” A sharp cry pierced the silence—this sound struck her eardrums, releasing the breath and blood energy she had been holding within her chest for years.

Outside the door, Qingyu and Xiyue, who had been standing guard, hurried in upon hearing the scream. “Madam, what’s wrong?”

“Ah!!! It hurts! It hurts so much!” She felt her head splitting as if it would burst; the world around her shook violently, the floor cracked beneath her feet, and tremors rippled through the air. The scent of blood mingled with screams and sobs, roaring deafeningly in her ears. All these sensations seemed intent on shattering her heart and mind.

Xiyue had never seen her like this before. She clung tightly to her, crying and calling out, “Madam, what’s wrong with you?!”

Qingyu was frantic but managed to steady herself enough to shout to the other palace attendants, “Summon the imperial physician! Quickly, the imperial physician!” The servants dared not delay; one by one, they rushed off to fetch the doctor or summon His Majesty the Emperor.

Night fell and the dawn rose; stars and moonlight shone through intermittent clear skies and rain.

Fu Lanchen had not slept all night. Opening his eyes, he regarded the world with clear vision. The intense storms and shadows of the past dissipated like clouds after rain, leaving only a bright, clear sky. A-Zhao had regained her memory. Could they still start anew, as they once had?

He called to her, “A-Zhao.”

She answered, “Fifth Brother.”

Again and again, month after month, year after year.

Time rewound in an instant, and the dazzling years of prosperity crumbled into ashes. Turning back, that fleeting moment in memory seemed to be what was called forever.

She had regained her memory???

She had truly regained her memory!!!

When the imperial physician informed Fu Lanchen of this, he was utterly stunned. After so many years, his A-Zhao had completely returned!

No longer lost or hidden, she was thoroughly and unmistakably the Pei Zhaojin who had grown up with him.

After delivering the news, the physician expected the emperor to rejoice, yet Fu Lanchen only froze briefly before swiftly turning away without hesitation.

What was going on? Was this not what His Majesty had longed for? Where was he heading? What was he going to do? Or was he afraid to face certain truths?

The sun gradually sank, casting a blood-red glow across the sky. They watched Fu Lanchen’s figure recede, the wind lifting the edges of his robes as he slowly vanished at the palace’s edge.

Piece by piece, she had remembered everything! Shouldn’t he feel joy, elated beyond measure? Yet he dared not face her, his heart gripped by fear—fear she would question him, resent him, or turn cold toward him.

“Your Majesty, the Duke of Cheng has sent a reply,” Wei Yuan stepped forward, handing him a letter with both hands.

Fu Lanchen snapped back to reality and apologized. General Cheng Jingyun commanded a hundred thousand troops stationed in the western outskirts, yet he had sat idle, lost in thought all day.

After reading Cheng Jingyun’s letter, Fu Lanchen picked up another secret dispatch from the Southern Frontier resting on the desk. Two powerful armies—this situation was proving tricky.

He had long opposed the princess’s marriage alliance with the Southern Frontier, believing such a fragile pact akin to drinking poison to quench thirst, doomed to fail. Though relations between the two states had deteriorated, he was willing to care for Princess Yongqing until her death, but that was no guarantee she would accept it. Unlike the empty threat posed by the Qi King, the tense standoff between Dayi and the Southern Frontier, combined with Cheng Jingyun’s forces, presented a formidable alliance—his first true challenge as emperor.

There was no choice. The mess left by the retired emperor had to be resolved by him, the rightful heir.

When Fu Lanchen entered Jinghong Hall, Xiyue was tending to Pei Jinghong’s foot bath. Seated on the consort’s couch, eyes closed with her sharp chin raised, she muttered, “The water’s too hot.” Xiyue quickly added cold water but stopped short upon seeing Fu Lanchen, about to bow in greeting, only to be halted by a gesture from him.

Fu Lanchen knelt halfway, removing Pei Jinghong’s shoes and socks, massaging her feet gently. Xiyue had fetched cold water to mix with the hot.

Pei Jinghong finally noticed the hands on her feet—unlike Xiyue’s soft touch, these were firm. Opening her eyes, she saw Fu Lanchen smiling as he immersed her feet into the soothing water. Startled, she exclaimed, “Your Majesty, what are you doing? Please get up! What if someone sees?”

Xiyue rolled her eyes internally—was she not one of those “someones”?

Fu Lanchen’s smile was radiant as he softly asked, “Have you eaten dinner?” His hands never ceased their motions.

Pei Jinghong shook her head, frowning. “A little, but lately, because of Duke Cheng’s affairs, A-Wei has been unhappy. Seeing her like that unsettles me too.” Having regained her memories, she naturally cared deeply for Cheng Hewei.

Fu Lanchen, still half-kneeling, his brow furrowed like mountain ridges, spoke clearly: “I have already issued four edicts to Duke Cheng. If he chooses a path of no return, there is nothing we can do.”

Pei Jinghong was puzzled. “We initially only suspected his involvement in the old Pei family scandal and had summoned him back for investigation. But judging by his current state, it has dispelled many of our doubts.” Some truths could not be hidden.

“The envoy from King Mu of Daxiang will arrive at the imperial city early tomorrow. The truth of the past will soon be unveiled,” Fu Lanchen said.

In the first year of Taihe, early May, the Southern Frontier revolted first. Cheng Jingyun, commanding one hundred thousand troops, marched under the banner of purging corruption, threatening the imperial city. Panic spread throughout the court.

Since regaining her memory, Pei Jinghong visited Cheng Hewei daily at Hehuan Hall, dining with her and assuring her not to worry. Cheng Jingyun’s rebellion was a personal betrayal, unrelated to her. Fu Lanchen was no retired emperor; he could distinguish loyalty from treachery.

Cheng Hewei smiled brightly, as if untroubled. “A-Zhao, you’re alive. I’m truly glad.” She pointed outside the hall, laughing softly. “When news came that the entire Pei clan had been executed, it was a spring day much like this—gentle breeze, clear skies. The begonia tree in Grandmother’s courtyard bloomed brilliantly, dazzling all who saw.”

As she spoke, she stepped outside, recalling the scene with bittersweet laughter. “Back then, your fate was uncertain, Fourth Uncle lay gravely wounded, and Grandmother lived only by medicine. I almost could not endure.”

“Looking back now, I’m grateful I held on, or I would not be able to see you today, A-Zhao,” she said, turning back with eyes sparkling in the sunlight.

Pei Jinghong approached, grasping her hands warmly. “A-Wei, I’ve returned. From now on, I am your family.”

Cheng Hewei smiled wistfully. “Yes, you have finally come back.” But is this truly the Pei Zhaojin of old? From the late spring of Chengxiao’s eighth year to the late spring of Taihe’s first year—a full thirteen years—though the features are familiar, the gentle gaze is gone.

She and Pei Jinghong, Fu Lanchen and Pei Jinghong—the three of them were no longer the young children playing in the Wujing Marquis’s garden. He bore the weight of empire and nation; she carried the vengeance of a slain family, burdened with grave injustice; she had family and kin, a heart pure as ice.

Who could compromise? Who could let go? Who could retreat?

The next day, after Pei Jinghong finished breakfast, Qingyu brought unexpected news: Consort Nangong was ill—no, more precisely, had suffered a stroke and was paralyzed in bed.

“How could she have a stroke without warning? The noble consort has been confined these years but remained in good health,” Xiyue found it strange and looked to Pei Jinghong for her reaction.

“Did the imperial physician diagnose it as a stroke?” Pei Jinghong asked calmly.

“Yes. The retired emperor had summoned nearly all palace physicians to Mingguang Palace,” Qingyu replied in a low voice.

Previously, when the Qi King rebelled, Emperor Yongyi knew he could not save him and requested that Consort Nangong be brought to live with him in Mingguang Palace. Truly, Yongyi’s deepest affections were bestowed upon Consort Nangong—unable to save his two sons, he wished at least to protect her. But could she truly be protected?

The previous dynasty was chaotic and restless. The Southern Frontier’s uprising, the new King of Baiyue attempting to march north but blocked by Shangguan Hao’s fifty thousand troops at Pingchuan; the Crown Prince of Huai leading a rebellion in his fiefdom of Chuyin, with Shen Yu dispatched to quell it; and Cheng Jingyun’s hundred thousand northern troops, directly commanded by Marquis Changping Song Gu, all made for a fractured realm with three battlefronts: Pingchuan, Chuyin, and Guangling.

The ministers at Deqing Hall were practically living in the council chamber. It was said that Chief Secretary Lu had been so busy for days that he hadn’t changed clothes. Lu Zhirou, worried about her aging father’s health, had assigned two imperial physicians to stay ready in the chamber at all times.

Because of this turmoil, aside from communicating with the physicians himself, Emperor Yongyi dared not disturb Fu Lanchen regarding Consort Nangong’s stroke.

Lu Zhirou had to manage the six palaces and tend to her father’s health. Cheng Hewei had not left the palace for some time. Only Pei Jinghong had the time to visit the noble consort.

In the sultry afternoon, dressed in a brocade palace robe of crimson with golden twin lotus patterns, her wide sleeves flowing, hair adorned with a five-phoenix dawn gold hairpin and pearl rings, with a red lotus flame-shaped forehead decoration, Pei Jinghong set out for Mingguang Palace.

All palace attendants had been dismissed from Huaiyi Hall, leaving only Pei Jinghong by the bedside, holding a ruyi fan blossoming with twin flowers, gently fanning the noble consort.

“Madam Jinghong?” The once-vibrant Consort Nangong lay bedridden, barely able to move, her eyesight diminished, recognizing only figures by their outlines.

“I heard the noble consort was ill. I’ve come to visit,” Pei Jinghong said, gazing at the woman in bed—a strong yet fortunate lady. Though both her sons had been stripped of titles and confined, she could still enjoy a peaceful old age under Emperor Yongyi’s favor.

“You… you’re not Madam Jinghong. You are Consort Shu? Have you returned to claim your life?” The noble consort’s eyes widened in panic upon seeing the lotus mark on Pei Jinghong’s forehead. Her voice sharpened. “You’ve come for revenge, so why seek me? You should go to the emperor, to the empress! It was they who killed you, your Pei family! Why come to me?” She struggled to distance herself, but her paralyzed lower body betrayed her. She could only scream futilely, ignored by all.