(From the Perspective of Emperor Yongxi)
When I abolished the six palaces, I had reigned for three years. The old ministers of the previous court knelt in protest, calling me mad, claiming the dynasty's foundation was shaken, that the lack of royal heirs would bring ruin.
They did not understand. They had not seen the blood that spilled from Fengyi Palace, flooding past the threshold. Had not heard her breath, thin as silk. Had not felt the terror of nearly losing her forever.
I still remember the first time I saw her. It was spring of Yongxi's first year. I had just ascended the throne and visited Duke Zhen's manor to celebrate the old duke's birthday. Under the pear blossoms in the rear garden, she was chasing butterflies with her sisters. She ran too fast and crashed into my arms, petals scattering across my robes.
She looked up, cheeks flushed, eyes bright like stars soaked in spring water. No fear—only the flustered annoyance of being caught, and a hint of playful charm. "You blocked my way!" she said.
She was the only one who ever smiled at me, not because I was emperor.
Later, I defied all opposition and brought her into the palace. On our wedding night, beneath the weight of her phoenix crown, she whispered, "Your Majesty, I'm hungry." I removed her ornaments with my own hands and watched her nibble through a plate of pastries like a little squirrel. That night, I thought—this cold palace finally had a trace of warmth.
When she conceived Lian'er, I was overjoyed. But I did not know that joy would lead to the edge of a cliff.
On the day of labor, her cries rang from morning till night, growing hoarse, then silent. The midwives brought out basin after basin of blood, pale-faced and trembling. "Your Majesty… the Empress… she's hemorrhaging…"
Hemorrhaging. Two words that struck like thunder. I could barely stand. I shoved aside all who blocked me and rushed into the birthing chamber. The stench of blood was suffocating. She lay there, face ashen, as if she might dissolve into light at any moment. She looked at me, lips moving, but no sound came.
In that moment, the throne, the empire—none of it mattered. I held her hand, cold as death. And I swore to her, to all the gods above: "Hold on… please hold on… If you survive, I'll give up everything. I only want you."
Perhaps my prayer reached her. Perhaps she could not bear to leave. At dawn, she pulled through—just as a weak cry of a newborn pierced the silence.
Lian'er was born safely. She had walked through the gates of death. The imperial physicians spoke in hushed tones: her body was gravely damaged. She would likely never conceive again.
I held our tiny son in my arms and looked at her sleeping form, fragile as glass. There was no regret—only overwhelming relief. She was alive. They were safe.
What use is a flourishing lineage, if I had lost her?
So on Lian'er's first birthday, I knew what I had to do. I would never allow anyone or anything to threaten her again. Her place must remain unshaken.
I defied the court, bore the pressure. To those ministers who bled from kowtowing, I said: "Heaven has granted me a son—this is the foundation of the realm. The Empress nearly gave her life to bear him. If I betray her, how can I face the heavens or govern this land? From this day forth, any talk of concubines or new consorts shall be deemed treason!"
I poured all my energy into governance—reforming the civil exams, repairing waterways, easing taxes. I wanted the world to see what a court without harem strife, led by a devoted emperor, could achieve. I wanted them to know—my Empress is irreplaceable.
Lian'er grew up cheerful like her, stubborn like me. He is our only child, the crystallization of what I nearly lost.
I taught him to read, to write, to rule.
Sometimes, deep into the night, she would bring soup and gently scold me: "He's still young. Don't be so harsh."
I would only smile. Precisely because he is my only heir, I must be strict. I want to clear his path, leave him a fortress of a kingdom—and a court that will understand and accept his every choice. The road I walked with his mother—I do not wish him to tread with such fear and caution.
Over the years, temptations came. But every time I remembered the blood and terror of that day in Kunning Palace, all desire vanished. My heart is small. After nearly losing her, it can hold no one else. Only the girl who once crashed into me beneath the pear blossoms—and whom I nearly lost.
Sometimes I see the fine lines at her eyes and recall the physician's words. Perhaps our lineage is thin. But when I see her smile without shadows, see Lian'er laughing beside her, I know—it is enough.
She gave me a home with half her life. I gave her the whole empire, for a lifetime of peace and singular devotion.
Now, Lian'er is grown. And I see the way he looks at that child of the Aimo family— So intense, so defiant of the world, yet so utterly resolute.
I once thought I had cleared his path. But it seems this child will walk a road like mine—one led by love above all.
So be it.
If this empire could bear me trading it for one person, then surely… it can bear his heart of fire.