Emperor Jiaping's decree of sin confession was issued swiftly. Rather than saying he wrote it himself, it's more accurate to say he watched as someone else wrote it for him. Yes, for him.
Identical handwriting, even down to the tiniest personal writing quirks, made him question whether his eyes were faulty. He looked at the woman pursing her lips to blow dry the ink, his favored consort, Consort Hua.
He knew Consort Hua's fondness for calligraphy in her daily life and her liking for cursive script, but he never knew she could replicate handwriting with such precision—his handwriting no less.
Realizing this, Emperor Jiaping felt a chill throughout his body. A thought emerged from his mind, daring not to delve deeper.
A person who can mimic his handwriting so flawlessly could do how many things?
Terrifying upon closer thought.
"You..." Zhao Mingjun looked at Consort Hua, barely starting to speak when he felt something amiss, his mouth agape, but he couldn't hear his own voice.
