Shen Meizhuang comforted her warmly, saying:

“Heroes are never judged by their origins. Younger sister, you are so beautiful—why belittle yourself?”

As they spoke, a eunuch arrived with a decree, summoning An Lingrong to meet the Emperor.

An Lingrong held the pair of earrings gifted by Zhen Huan in both hands. Turning back, she cast a grateful look at Zhen Huan before hurrying toward the selection hall.

Zhen Huan was confident that An Lingrong would have her wish fulfilled this time and felt no concern for her.

However, the thought of meeting the Emperor herself soon made her uneasy.

She recalled her past life, when she had conspired with Noble Consort Ning to bring about the Emperor’s death. A heavy sense of guilt weighed on her.

To the empire, he had been an excellent ruler. To her, he had also been a good husband.

In this life, Zhen Huan desired nothing more than to stay by his side until the end of their days.

At that moment, Huang Guiquan arrived to summon her, Shen Meizhuang, Sun Miaoqing, and the others to meet the Emperor.

Despite her prior experiences, the thought of seeing the man she had essentially driven to his death in her past life still sent a chill down her spine.

Yet, she was grateful for the lessons of her previous life, which enabled her to maintain a calm demeanor.

Before long, they arrived at Tiyuan Hall.

Zhen Huan did not immediately lift her head to look at the Emperor seated in the grand hall.

She understood the importance of palace etiquette—wandering eyes could easily be deemed improper conduct by either the Emperor or the Empress Dowager.

Such impropriety could range in consequence from being overlooked to facing a calamity that might implicate her family.

The gravity of such matters depended entirely on the Emperor’s disposition, and taking unnecessary risks was unwise.

Soon, the eunuch’s long, drawn-out voice announced:

“Shen Meizhuang, daughter of Shen Zishan, Associate Commander of Jizhou, age seventeen.”

Zhen Huan watched as Shen Meizhuang gracefully knelt, paying respects to the Emperor and the Empress Dowager.

The Empress Dowager looked at Shen Meizhuang and asked:

“Have you read any books?”

Shen Meizhuang replied respectfully:

“Your servant is slow-witted and has only read The Rules for Women and The Instructions for Women. I recognize a few characters but am not well-read.”

Immediately afterward, Zhen Huan heard the voice she had so dearly missed in her later years:

“Those two books emphasize women’s virtue. Not bad. Have you read the Four Books?”

Shen Meizhuang responded, “Your servant has not.”

Although Zhen Huan did not look up at the Emperor, she could guess that he must feel somewhat disappointed.

Though it was said, “A woman’s virtue lies in her lack of talent,” the Emperor preferred women who were well-versed in poetry and literature.

Such women would naturally share more topics of conversation with him.

Even someone as talented as An Lingrong had suffered setbacks due to her lack of scholarly knowledge.

Zhen Huan couldn’t help but wonder what An Lingrong’s fate might have been had she also been well-versed in poetry and literature.

However, one detail Zhen Huan had overlooked in her past life was that Shen Meizhuang clearly knew her books but had intentionally claimed ignorance.

It seemed her family had devised this strategy for her.

The Empress Dowager appeared quite satisfied with Shen Meizhuang’s lack of scholarly knowledge. Smiling, she said:

“For young ladies, it is more important to focus on needlework and domestic skills. It is already commendable that you can read.”

As a result, Shen Meizhuang was chosen, receiving a token and a sachet.

Zhen Huan recalled how, in her past life, she had been so focused on Shen Meizhuang’s selection that, when the eunuch called her name, she had failed to notice.

The eunuch had to call her name twice—a serious breach of decorum.

This time, when the eunuch announced:

“Zhen Huan, daughter of Zhen Yuandao, Deputy Minister of the Court of Judicial Review, age seventeen,”

Zhen Huan immediately knelt and said:

“Your servant Zhen Huan pays respects to the Emperor and the Empress Dowager. May the Emperor and the Empress Dowager enjoy great fortune and health.”

She had anticipated the Emperor’s question.

Sure enough, upon hearing her name, the Emperor asked:

“Zhen Huan—what Huan is that?”

She hesitated briefly, considering whether to introduce her name with a line of poetry.

The Empress Dowager disliked women versed in poetry and literature, fearing they might meddle in state affairs. However, the Emperor appreciated such qualities.

Zhen Huan reasoned that the Emperor’s favor was ultimately more advantageous.

Thus, she decided to proceed as she had in her previous life, aiming to capture his attention.

“The line ‘Huanhuan yinian Chu gongyao’—that is the Huan of my name. It is my courtesy name.”

“From Cai Shen’s poetry?”

“Yes.”

The Emperor praised her literary knowledge and commended Zhen Yuandao for his excellent teaching.

He then asked her to lift her head so he could see if she was worthy of her name.

Zhen Huan complied, raising her head.

For a long moment, neither the Emperor nor the Empress Dowager spoke.

In her past life, Zhen Huan hadn’t understood their reaction. But now, she realized how shocked and delighted the Emperor must have been.

She bore an uncanny resemblance to Pure Consort Yuan.

In her past life, Noble Consort Yixiu had committed countless wrongs, yet invoking Pure Consort Yuan’s name always earned her the Emperor’s forgiveness.

This showed how deeply the Emperor cherished Pure Consort Yuan.

Zhen Huan had initially struggled to comprehend the Emperor’s feelings for Pure Consort Yuan.

But after experiencing life and death, she finally understood.

It wasn’t that Pure Consort Yuan was exceptionally remarkable, but that she had died at the height of the Emperor’s love for her.

Her beauty and their love were forever frozen in time.

Only the deceased could preserve such perfection.

This was why Pure Consort Yuan held such significance.

Had she lived, even a minor event could have led the Emperor to grow weary of her.

Initially, Zhen Huan had been heartbroken to discover she was merely a substitute for Pure Consort Yuan.

But by the end of her life, she had let it go.

The dead were gone, but the living could use their memory to achieve their own goals.

Why not?

Noble Consort Yixiu had clung to the title of “Elder Sister” for her entire life and seemed content.

Zhen Huan thought to herself, no wonder Yixiu had so thoroughly outmaneuvered her in her past life—she simply hadn’t been as perceptive.

In the harem, the Emperor had initially loved her because she resembled Pure Consort Yuan.

But over time, he loved her because she was Zhen Huan.

One should not deny the conclusion of a story simply because of how it began.

By now, Zhen Huan’s neck ached from holding her head up. Finally, the Empress Dowager broke the silence:

“A showgirl with the surname Zhen violates the Emperor’s taboo.”

Zhen Huan remained silent, knowing the Emperor would persuade the Empress Dowager to keep her in the selection.

The Emperor gazed at her for a long time before finally saying:

“The surname Zhen is good—it speaks of loyalty and virtue.”

“Jiangnan had the two Qiao sisters, and Hebei had the beauty Zhen Mi. Zhen Mi was one of the three great beauties of the late Han dynasty.”

Zhen Huan could hear the delight in his tone.

But she also knew the Empress Dowager would still test her, just as in her past life.

This time, however, Zhen Huan felt no fear of cats.

She was confident that whatever challenges the Empress Dowager presented, she could handle them.

“Step forward,” the Empress Dowager instructed.

Zhen Huan complied.

After a few steps, a eunuch splashed tea toward her feet.

A few more steps later, Bamboo Xi, a servant by the Empress Dowager’s side, released a cat onto the ground in front of her.

Zhen Huan remained poised and unflustered, her composure unshaken.