Chapter 42: Terminal Love-Stricken? Beyond Saving, Just Wait for Death 11

When the Empress received the news, darkness clouded her vision and she collapsed backward in a faint. Chaos erupted in the Empress’s palace, yet Qin Ye kept Qin Ming behind and dismissed everyone else. "Do you know why I had the King of Chu declared dead from illness?"

Qin Ming: …

Even if he understood, he dared not admit as much.

Fortunately, Qin Ye hadn't summoned him merely to rebuke or threaten him. Before Qin Ming could muster a careful response, Qin Ye continued, "Qin Yun was not suited to be born into the imperial family. If I don’t have him die of illness now, in the future he might truly suffer a wretched death from illness."

Qin Ming was startled. He had just opened his mouth to speak when Qin Ye silenced him and pressed on, "Don’t bother claiming you’d never harm my only remaining son. Becoming emperor does not mean you may act as you wish, that your every desire can be fulfilled. On the contrary, an emperor must consider far more than most. I know Qin Yun’s temperament well. Even while I yet live, he acts with such reckless abandon. If I were gone, all it would take is a few words from an ill-intentioned courtier, and he’d convince himself that your ascension was only possible because he yielded the throne to you. He would expect your endless gratitude, day after day, year after year. I believe that even if not for my sake, you would tolerate him out of kinship, since he is your cousin. But day after day, year after year—how long would that last? Spare me any grand, impractical promises; I won’t believe them, so you needn’t say them. I have decreed his death by illness. Henceforth, there will be no former Crown Prince, no current King of Chu—only the commoner Qin Yun. If, in the future, you wish to show him some care, you may do so. If not, you may behave as though he never existed."

Qin Ming: …

He was silent for a long time before finally speaking, "Your Majesty’s love for your son is sincere and pure."

There was a trace of envy in Qin Ming’s words.

Qin Ye could have had Qin Ming adopted as his own, so the boy would call him ‘Father Emperor.’ Yet, after considering the life of the King of Yue—who had always trod on thin ice and, after receiving the late emperor’s will, had remained utterly loyal only to meet a tragic end—Qin Ye decided against it. He thought it unjust to bully an honest man simply because he was honest. So, he issued no such decree, and Qin Ming remained the King of Yue’s son, not his own.

Emperor Yong’an and the King of Yue were brothers by blood; their lineage was the same, so adoption would not have undermined Qin Ming’s legitimacy. As for this so-called paternal affection—Qin Ye felt none of it. He was simply exasperated.

Truly, if Qin Yun had ever said a word, Qin Ye would have granted him a marriage.

Xie Fanghua was no time-traveling heroine; her greatest wish at the start was only to escape the prison of the Xie household, to no longer be tormented and humiliated by the concubine-favoring Master Xie and his women. Fate had other plans, and so she was swept along the currents of the story.

Now, though the plot had deviated, Xie Fanghua had still managed to fake her death and escape.

As for whether the character Xie Hua would ever appear again, Qin Ye found himself indifferent.

Xie Fanghua, though born a woman, had entered court as an official, becoming a close minister to the Son of Heaven—not solely on the strength of Qin Yun’s affection, but by virtue of real talent and learning.

A time-traveling woman would resist an imperial marriage, for she, as an awakened woman, would not accept subjugation to feudal norms. Yet, as a native-born heroine, Xie Fanghua would not resist a marriage bestowed by the emperor; or if she did, she would still resign herself to fate.

She was a native heroine, but Xie Fanghua had an inkling of modern female consciousness. At least, unlike most women, she dared to disguise herself as a man, reinvent herself, sit for the imperial examinations, and serve as an official—no small feat.

Especially as she had truly succeeded.

Regardless of whether the heroine’s aura played a part, Qin Ye genuinely admired her. Though he found it rather unhinged to imagine the world as mere playthings in their narrative, this did not lessen his appreciation for this native-born heroine.

The truth was, for a time-traveling woman to be cast into a feudal era was a tragedy in itself. In that world, she would find every step difficult. Never mind proving that women were as capable as men; she would find she could not even control her own destiny. The more she resisted, the more she would see that the world around her was devouring—either she would be assimilated and lose all sense of her modern self, or remain painfully lucid, despairing at her chains, struggling in vain for freedom that could never be won. To be awake yet shackled by desperate dogma, unable to move until death claimed her.

Of course, as a protagonist, a transmigrated heroine would not end so bleakly. But for those who were not heroines, life would be worse than death. Born into wealth, she might have a decent start; born into an ordinary family, her days would be even harsher.

As his thoughts wandered, Qin Ye realized he was succumbing to a rare sense of compassion for the world’s sorrows.

He reined in his thoughts, spoke a while longer with Qin Ming, and then waved him away.

Qin Ming withdrew respectfully, leaving Qin Ye alone in the great hall.

Dusk was falling, and no lamps had yet been lit, casting the chamber in gloom. No attendant dared enter to light the lamps without Qin Ye’s express order—he had just drafted an edict declaring the death of his only son, and none believed his mood would be good.

As emperor, he had the right to vent his anger as he pleased; if anyone incurred his wrath, they would have no recourse.

Night deepened, and meanwhile, the Empress, who had fainted, regained consciousness.

As soon as she awoke, she spoke coldly, "I must see His Majesty."

A palace maid knelt. "Your Majesty, an urgent secret decree has arrived from His Majesty. We were told to present it to you upon your awakening. If, after reading it, Your Majesty still insists on seeing His Majesty, then you may as well relinquish your position as Empress."

The Empress’s face turned ashen. She opened her mouth, only to cough up a mouthful of blood.

"After all we’ve weathered together as youthful husband and wife, is he truly so heartless?" she murmured, her voice barely audible as the attendants, all kneeling, held their breath.

At last, her trusted attendant produced the secret decree. "Your Majesty, the decree."

The Empress took it, unsealed it, and after reading, vomited blood once more and collapsed.

"Your Majesty…"

The decree to the Empress contained only a record of Qin Yun’s actions, delivered as an imperial secret to ensure she learned the truth.

The Empress was not like Qin Yun.

Her father, Qiu Ruhai, was a renowned scholar of the realm, and had only two daughters. He raised his eldest as though she were a son, teaching her as he would a male heir.

Yet, the eldest daughter, burdened with ambition and denied all opportunity simply by virtue of her gender, sank into despondency and died young.

Grief-stricken, Qiu Ruhai changed his approach with his younger daughter, instructing her only in the ways of conduct.

Yet even so, the Empress was exceptionally intelligent.

When she entered the Eastern Palace as the Crown Princess, Emperor Yong’an was still young, strikingly handsome, gifted, and possessed the dignity and steadiness befitting an heir apparent.

How could the Empress not be drawn to such a husband?

At the time, the position of Crown Prince was precarious. The former emperor, now aged, grew indecisive, no longer as firm as he once was, wavering in his affections.

Yong’an, as Crown Prince, walked on a knife’s edge, much as the King of Yue would after his own accession.

Through those difficult times, the Empress gave her all to support him, and together they overcame every obstacle.

But after Yong’an ascended the throne, he grew enamored of beauty, and the Empress, his youthful wife, had already passed her prime by the time his great enterprise was complete.

She saw that the imperial heart was fickle and changeable; the tribulations they had shared became, in time, an unspoken taboo. So she withdrew her affections, devoting herself to the role of a proper empress, wanting nothing more.

Qin Yun had never experienced the intrigues of palace life, for the Empress had cleared every obstacle for him and for Huayang.

Once the emperor abandoned hopes of expanding his lineage—accepting that he would have but these two children and no more—he lavished all his love upon them. Qin Yun thus had no chance to taste the bitterness of palace strife.

The Empress never taught her children those sordid arts, because she saw no need. As a mother, she hoped her children could grow up in sunlight and open air.

The result was that Qin Yun was more naïve than the sons of mere provincial gentry.

Those wealthy sons, after all, had fathers with many wives and concubines, numerous siblings, birth mothers and stepmothers—constant intrigue and rivalry from birth.

But if the Empress shielded her children from palace scheming, she was otherwise strict in their upbringing.

Qin Yun, as former Crown Prince, could not have been ignorant of the consequences should he, as a mere prince, absent himself from the capital without leave; he knew it was a grave offense, yet left without a word to anyone—not his subordinates, not the Empress, not even Huayang.

The blood the Empress vomited after reading the secret decree was prompted by Qin Yun’s actions.

When her confidante had informed her of the emperor’s edict, the Empress was incensed, believing the emperor so ruthless as to kill his own child, who had done no wrong, simply to clear the way for Qin Ming.

Such heartlessness, added to the pain of losing her son, caused her to faint.

But after reading the truth, her anger toward Qin Ye faded.

Once she regained her senses, she no longer sought an audience with him. She seemed utterly drained, aged a decade in an instant, streaks of white showing through her hair—though she had always taken great care of herself and never appeared as old as the emperor.

Her chief attendant, overcome with pity, gently said, "Your Majesty…"

"Have I truly failed?" the Empress asked, her voice heavy with weariness. "My only two children, raised to become this…"

The attendant's nose tingled with emotion, nearly shedding tears. She composed herself and tried to comfort the Empress. "Your Majesty, this is not your fault. Please don’t let it weigh on your heart. The Princess’s wedding draws near—you must rally your spirits to send her off in splendor."

"Yes, Huayang’s wedding is almost upon us, and at this very moment, her only brother has been declared dead by the emperor…"

"Your Majesty, the decree has not been announced to the world. Though the edict is written, it has not been issued. Please, Your Majesty, you must stay strong!"