97. The Autumn Hues Beyond the Palace Walls and the Aged Wutong Tree

For a long time, Nurse Wu truly believed that miracles existed in this world. Surely, heaven was watching over mortals somewhere, so that good people would eventually reap benevolent outcomes—just like her Crown Princess. Whether it was Xu Guiyi or Pei Jinghong, as long as she knew her Crown Princess was alive and well, she was content.

The day after Fu Lancheng brought Pei Jinghong to the Eastern Palace, Cheng Hewei and Lu Zhirou came to visit the second Miss Pei. Fu Lancheng accompanied them personally, while Lu Zhirou gazed gently at Pei Jinghong, neither daring to touch her nor speak loudly.

In contrast, Cheng Hewei held Pei Jinghong’s wrist firmly, smiling softly at times, shedding tears at others, her heart filled with both sorrow and gratitude.

Pei Jinghong’s reappearance sparked much speculation throughout Guangling City. But now, with the Crown Prince serving as regent, everyone knew that the second Miss Pei was the apple of his eye. Anyone who dared to speak ill risked becoming an enemy of the future monarch.

In early autumn, Nurse Wu declared her intention to take Pei Jinghong to Guìhóng Temple to offer incense and fulfill a vow. Cheng Hewei and Lu Zhirou insisted on accompanying them, so the entire family set out together. After court, Fu Lancheng headed straight to Guìhóng Temple to escort Pei Jinghong back to the palace.

Beneath the vast blue sky, wild geese flew in orderly formations. The outskirts of the capital were adorned with crimson leaves, and a warm breeze brushed gently against one’s face. The sunlight was at its most resplendent. Guìhóng Temple, a newly built royal shrine, attracted few worshippers.

A small town nestled beneath the temple housed several dozen households, a place of simple yet charming beauty.

Fu Lancheng wore a deep azure long robe embroidered with cloud and lotus patterns. Around his waist was a wide belt of pale qilin-hued silk, adorned with dragon and phoenix motifs. His jet-black hair was tied atop his head. On his feet were snow-soled boots that seemed to tread upon clouds. In his right hand, he held a jade fan of Buddhist green, fashioned with eighteen wing-like ribs.

In good spirits that day, Fu Lancheng alighted from his carriage to stroll. Suddenly, a guard hurried after him, reporting urgent news. Wei Yuan stopped the guard behind Fu Lancheng and asked, “What is the matter that disturbs Your Highness?”

The guard stepped back two paces, cupped his hands in respect, and said, “Your Highness, a man claiming to be an old acquaintance from Qingzhou requests an audience.”

Fu Lancheng’s bright eyes flickered briefly; his fan-waving slowed, and he halted, pondering. An old acquaintance from Qingzhou—that phrase rang strangely familiar. Yet he concealed his thoughts and calmly replied, “Very well. Find a quiet place ahead for the meeting.”

“Understood,” the guard responded promptly. Wei Yuan had already located a vacant, serene chamber, and the guard led the visitor inside.

Seated at a square table of blue-stained wood, sipping tea, Fu Lancheng wondered which old friend from Qingzhou this could be. Upon hearing footsteps, he looked up to find none other than Prince Shunqin of Dongling.

“Prince Shunqin?” he recalled. Last year, when Dayi and Dayue waged war for three months, Dayue eventually sought peace. On that day, Dayi’s troops were led by Marquis Changping, Song Gu, and he certainly would not consent easily.

Song Gu had demanded that Dayue’s emperor hand over the mastermind behind the assassin. Upon investigation, it turned out to be his own crown prince who had orchestrated the plot. After much deliberation, the emperor deposed his heir, ending the war.

It was Prince Shunqin of Dongling who later negotiated peace with Dayi. Now, he held the title of Prince of Dayue. Clad in a blue robe, his sharp features as piercing as blades, he humbly cupped his hands in greeting: “Prince Shunqin of Dongling pays respects to the Crown Prince.”

Fu Lancheng, straightforward as ever, smiled faintly and said, “Prince Shunqin, to come all the way from the Dayue capital while evading your uncle’s scrutiny must have required great effort. What urgent matter compels you to meet me personally?” He then gestured for him to sit opposite.

The prince nodded and took his seat, calm and composed. “I have traveled thousands of miles to discuss matters concerning the relations between our two nations.”

Fu Lancheng harbored disdain for Dayue’s fickleness and timidity, though he maintained a neutral expression. “Did we not already come to a peace agreement last year?”

Seeming to have anticipated this, Prince Shunqin continued, “Indeed, but this is about a deeper accord. Though Your Highness governs as regent, supporters of the Qi Prince remain. Do you not wish to resolve this once and for all?”

He lifted his teacup and lightly clinked it against Fu Lancheng’s, “I come bearing goodwill, hoping to assist Your Highness.” Fu Lancheng’s gaze lingered on him, cold and penetrating enough to send chills down his spine.

At that moment, Prince Shunqin recalled their first meeting many years ago on the streets of Qingzhou.

That year, fresh from earning the title “Qingzhou’s First Blade,” he had led a celebratory procession around half the city. Crowds gathered eagerly. Wearing an indigo robe embroidered with misty wave motifs and arrow-shaped sleeves, astride a fine steed, he accepted congratulations at the front. Near the city’s busiest district, the crowd thickened, and a light rain began to fall, slowing the procession and his horse’s pace.

Among the crowd stood a man clad in a wide, moon-white robe patterned with water ripples, holding a turquoise oil-paper umbrella painted with intertwined blossoms, its frame made of twenty-four golden bamboo ribs—a striking figure with a jade-like face and starry eyes. Prince Shunqin could not help but steal several glances.

Their first encounter had occurred many years ago.

Fu Lancheng’s voice rang clear as he said, “Prince Shunqin, we are both straightforward men. Speak plainly—you know I dislike beating around the bush.”

The prince smiled lightly and handed over letters and evidence he had long prepared. “This is my sincerity. Please accept it, Your Highness.”

Fu Lancheng glanced over the documents coolly, his expression unchanged.

Aware that Fu Lancheng’s mind was as clear as a mirror, Prince Shunqin said no more, simply clasping his hands. “Dayue is a minor state, hardly worthy of deep alliance. Yet I implore Your Majesty to consider the safety of the Liaodong people carefully.”

The testimonies from Dayue’s prince implicated the deposed crown prince of Dayue in collusion with the Qi Prince of Dayi, plotting to assassinate Dayi’s heir—events of earth-shattering consequence.

Fu Lancheng had no reason to doubt the accusations against the Qi Prince. He merely smiled coldly, “Surely, Prince Shunqin, you have held these proofs for some time—why not present them on the battlefield rather than in my presence?”

“You must understand, my father once instructed me to treat my kin with kindness. Would you accuse me of unfilial conduct?” Prince Shunqin’s lips twitched to suppress a smile; he had anticipated this question and was unfazed.

“Your Highness has agreed to your emperor’s terms, sparing the Qi Prince. Is this not the best opportunity I have to present to you?”

Fu Lancheng lowered his brows, eyes narrowing. With a flick of his hand, he pushed his fan, exuding calm assurance. “If this comes to pass, would you not be closer to the throne than your own emperor?”

Prince Shunqin, a man of great ambition, saw no point in concealment before Fu Lancheng and replied frankly, “Indeed. Crown Prince, we each seek what we need. You desire peace of mind; I wish to reclaim what rightfully belongs to me. Is that not reasonable?”

Fu Lancheng lightly tapped his jade fan against his palm, eyes narrowing further. “It seems Nangong Mingchen was wise to urge me to let you go.”

At the mention of Nangong Mingchen, a glint flickered in Prince Shunqin’s eyes. “Do you still intend to keep the Nangong family, Your Highness? After all, this young prince now is far more capable than the late one. Are you confident?”

If it were him, he would not be so lenient, Prince Shunqin thought.

“Dayi’s internal affairs are not for you to concern yourself with,” Fu Lancheng replied coolly, smiling disdainfully. The prince realized his misstep and said no more, “As you wish, Your Highness.”

After autumn set in, Empress Song’s illness relapsed, lingering and intensifying over two or three months. Imperial physician Jiang said the empress’s condition was due to accumulated exhaustion and heartache, and recovery to her former health seemed unlikely.

Both Emperor and Empress now convalesced in the Northern Garden, living together and spending much time in mutual care. Though once estranged, their bond had endured through hardship. Meanwhile, Pei Jinghong’s spirit-wandering affliction had stabilized over half a year, allowing her to accompany Fu Lancheng when paying respects to the empress.

Outside the palace gates, leaves drifted on the wind amid fine drizzle. The Empress gazed upon Pei Jinghong’s face and was flooded with memories.

Thirty years prior, General Feihong Pei Xuewan brought Cheng Jingyun to the prince’s residence for a discussion. In the study, as the Consort of Crown Prince Yi, she accepted Pei Xuewan’s first formal salute.

Twenty years ago, the second Miss Pei of the Marquis of Wujing was granted the title of Virtuous Consort. As Empress Dowager, she received Pei Shufei’s homage for the first time.

Fourteen years ago, after General Feihong’s death, the entire Pei family was imprisoned. Pei Shufei came to Changqiu Palace with Pei Zhaojin, begging Empress Dowager for aid. She chose to side with the emperor, refusing the plea.

The poisoned wine in Pei Shufei’s chambers was prepared by none other than the empress herself.

Thirty years of marriage—she had done so much for the emperor, taken so many lives; her hands were stained with blood.

All were entangled in the imperial city, devoured by power and sacrificed to conspiracy—who could blame them when all were driven by greed?

General Feihong Pei Xuewan had devoted her life to protect the nation but failed to recognize that glory could overshadow the sovereign. Thus, she was doomed to perish in Chelan City.

Virtuous Consort Pei Xueyun devoted herself to the emperor but acted recklessly and without restraint, so she was condemned to death in Jin Cheng Palace.

But what of Pei Zhaojin? At thirteen, what had he done wrong? Was he to die merely for being a son of the Pei family? The emperor intended to root them out completely.

Yet she had watched him grow—from his first birthday rite to his schooling to his blossoming youth.

Now standing before her was Pei Jinghong, the second Miss Pei who had survived tribulations; only her eyes remained from the past self.

In the main hall of Mingguang Palace, the emperor left Fu Lancheng behind to discuss preparations for the empress’s upcoming birthday. He wished to hold a grand celebration to brighten her wan complexion.

Leaning against the dragon throne, wrapped in a Persian woolen blanket, the emperor massaged the soft fur with his right hand, then spoke after a long silence.

“Crown Prince, your mother lived a frugal life. Every birthday banquet was modest and simple. This time, I want to give her a proper celebration.”

Fu Lancheng looked at the emperor’s weary face, a pang gripping his heart. He bowed deeply. “As you command, Father. I shall prepare it.”

The emperor laughed heartily at his son’s rare obedience. “Good. You handle the arrangements; your mother will be pleased.”

They discussed state affairs further and dined together in the empress’s chamber before Fu Lancheng took Pei Jinghong back to Chenghua Palace.

Yet, despite the secret preparations for the birthday feast, the empress’s health did not hold until the day arrived.

On the fourteenth day of the tenth month in the nineteenth year of Chengxiao reign, Empress Song passed away in the Lecí Hall of Mingguang Palace. The nation mourned deeply. The emperor, ill himself, composed a long eulogy and posthumously honored her with the title “Zhaosu.”

On the day of the empress’s burial, Fu Lancheng stood beside the emperor and asked calmly, “Father, every year you cultivate new peony seeds for Consort Nangong. But do you recall that Mother favored the late autumn parasol trees?”

The emperor’s face instantly paled, freezing in place. When Fu Lancheng quietly departed, he came to himself and coughed violently for some time.

The peony—delicate and radiant; the parasol tree—proud and melancholic. In the end, he had forsaken both the flower he loved and the tree he revered.

Heaven divides the seasons evenly, yet I alone grieve this bitter autumn.

When the white dew falls and herbs wither, I am left bereft beneath these parasol trees.

Departing from the brightness of day, I embrace the endless night.

As fragrant blossoms fade in their prime, I am left withering in sorrow.