Chapter 1: Mistakenly Entering the Emperor’s Tent

The ninth year of Xuanzheng.

On a late autumn night, the long street lay silent, broken only by the distant sound of the night watchman’s clapper. The sound passed faintly through the high courtyard walls and barely reached the small courtyard of the Marquis Anning’s residence.

Inside the room, the brazier fire had long gone out, its glow faded. Cold wind crept through the cracks of the window, greedily stealing away the lingering warmth.

A young woman sleeping on the bed seemed to sense something. In her dreams, she furrowed her brow and, chilled by the cold, instinctively burrowed deeper into her quilt.

Outside the room, Zhou Lu stood guard at the door, looking up at the leaves blown down by the wind. He couldn’t help but click his tongue in quiet lament.

Eventually, unable to resist the chill, the woman slowly woke up. As if warned by something, she opened her eyes in a flurry—only to see the outline of a figure sitting upright on a huanghuali chair just outside the gauze curtain. At the same time, a faint scent of dragon musk drifted through the curtain and filled the tent.

The man played with a smooth piece of white jade in his hand, the coldness seeping from it enough to chill the air.

He watched as the delicate woman on the bed slowly sat up, her slender hand parting the curtain, revealing a frightened and aggrieved face. He sighed inwardly.

“Zhao-zhao, I’ve come.”

—

The ninth year of Xuanzheng. It was early autumn when the Emperor went on a seasonal hunting expedition and allowed lower officials to bring their families in attendance.

In the Imperial City, the leaves had begun turning yellow, waiting only for late autumn to fall. Yet outside the city, on Mount Eoming, the forest was still lush and green, the skies clear like midsummer. But once night fell, the bright foliage from the day vanished. Those traveling by foot in the dark moved with fear and unease. In the deep darkness, it felt as though spirits roamed the mountains, making it hard to even breathe.

Within one of the many tents assigned to the ministers and their families, Ning Zhaorou poked her head out from beneath a thick quilt. She heard footsteps outside the tent and began trembling like a leaf, her limbs cold and weak.

Soon after, someone pulled aside the tent flap and stepped inside.

The person quietly approached the edge of the bed and softly called out, “My lady, it’s me, Shuangwu.”

Ning Zhaorou abruptly threw off her blanket and sat up. Her eyes were filled with fear and anxiety, the black and white of her pupils stark against each other, glinting in the dim light. Her face, flushed from being under the covers too long, looked pitifully red, and her pale, slender neck looked so fragile it seemed it could break with the slightest pressure.

She panted softly, then whispered, “H-how is it? Did they say anything… up front?”

Shuangwu gently shook her head. Standing off to the side, her expression was difficult to read. But seeing the desperate hope in Ning Zhaorou’s eyes, she finally spoke: “His Majesty is furious. He ordered a thorough investigation. They lit torches and caught a few ‘assassins.’ They were… beaten to death on the spot.”

At these words, Ning Zhaorou nearly lost her breath. She trembled even more violently. If she had known it would turn out like this, she never would’ve taken the risk to seek out that young general. She never would’ve ended up in the wrong tent, touched all over before realizing who he was—and then fleeing in panic, only to have part of her disguise torn off.

“What do I do… what do I do, Shuangwu—I’m finished, His Majesty is going to kill me!” Ning Zhaorou’s eyes turned red as she spoke.

She was never one with much courage. Though she was the legitimate daughter of the Marquis Anning, her mother had died young. In the vast marquisate, she had grown up like a wildflower. If not for her stepmother Lady Wu’s malicious plan to marry her off to some filthy household far from the capital, she wouldn’t have followed the royal hunting party to Mount Eoming, hoping to find her own way out.

She had thought everything would be fine. The young General Chu seemed to have some affection for her too. But with so many eyes on the mountain, she couldn’t speak openly. That night, she dressed as a maid, wanting to find him and get a clear answer—she couldn’t wait any longer. Once she returned to the marquisate, she feared Lady Wu already had plans to send her out of the capital, cutting off all her options.

But everything went wrong. That very night, assassins struck during the banquet. The Imperial Guards were searching for culprits. She and Shuangwu got separated in the chaos and, afraid of being mistaken for assassins, they tried to hide—only to stumble into a tent where no candles had been lit.

Ning Zhaorou dared not recall what had happened afterward in too much detail—she only remembered the lingering pain from the bruises left on her chest after being groped.

The thought made her pull the blanket tighter around herself in a panic.

Watching her, Shuangwu felt a deep pang of pity. When they were separated in the chaos, and she finally found her lady again, Ning Zhaorou had been hiding behind a thicket, her clothes disheveled beyond recognition, her entire person shaken and helpless.

At this point, there was no solution to be found. Even if His Majesty hadn’t yet discovered the identity of the girl who had mistakenly entered his tent, it was only a matter of time before he did. All they could do was pray he was a wise ruler who would at least allow her mistress a chance to explain.

Late at night, in the Emperor’s tent—

Zhou Lu stepped forward with a freshly poured cup of hot tea. He glanced at Zuo Qiu, the imperial bodyguard still kneeling below. No one dared to look up at the Emperor, whose face betrayed no emotion.

Yin Mingyu casually put down the memorial he had been reading and asked, “Has that girl been found yet?”

Zhou Lu immediately responded, “Your Majesty, the Yulin Guards saw the girl enter a tent meant for an official’s family. It’s likely she’s just a maidservant from one of the courtier’s households who lost her way. We should have it confirmed by tomorrow.”

A maidservant?

Yin Mingyu grasped the tea cup, his expression softening slightly. A faint smile tugged at his lips, and his refined features relaxed slightly, as if something had crossed his mind.

But after a moment, he set the cup down. His gaze shifted downward, and the smile vanished.

“That wasn’t a maid. Keep investigating.”

A chill ran down Zuo Qiu’s spine, his muscles tightening involuntarily. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or more afraid. He quickly responded, “Yes, Your Majesty,” then got up and quietly left the tent.

Ning Zhaorou spent the entire night in fear, barely able to sleep. When morning came and she heard someone approaching the tent, she stayed curled up under the blanket, listless and afraid.

The visitor was Ning Wanqing.

As soon as Shuangwu saw her enter with others, her heart tightened, and she gave a slight bow. “Eldest Miss, our young lady is unwell.”

Ning Wanqing cast her a glance, then looked toward the unmoving figure on the bed. She sneered, stepped closer, and studied her carefully. “Oh my dear sister, just yesterday Father was scolding you for your disgraceful behavior, afraid you’d embarrass the Marquis household—and now today, you’re conveniently ‘sick.’ What perfect timing.”

“But today, Consort Liang is hosting a banquet at the front. Since you’re so ill, you’d better not attend. Wouldn’t want to spread your sickness to the nobles and bring punishment upon yourself. Not worth it.”

Ning Zhaorou lay motionless on the bed, her voice hoarse yet soft—like the tender dialects of Jiangnan, sweet and gentle, stirring pity for no reason at all. “Elder Sister is right. I won’t go.”

“You—” Ning Wanqing frowned deeply. She wanted to ask who she was pretending for with that tone when no one else was in the room. But thinking it better to scare her into behaving, she lowered her voice and said ominously:

“You probably don’t know yet, but last night during the search for the assassins, His Majesty had a certain Lady Fang dragged out—she was young and beautiful, and they found her right where you always liked to admire the flowers. The blood… it sprayed three feet high.”

Ning Zhaorou’s heart seized up. She turned her head behind the curtain and asked, “What… what did Lady Fang have to do with it?”

“Are you stupid?” Ning Wanqing scoffed. “Lady Fang clearly tried to assassinate His Majesty and got caught. I heard she was quite favored by him too—delicate and sweet, just like you. Last night, she screamed herself hoarse. Tsk tsk tsk. Truly pitiful.”

Only she and Shuangwu knew about her sneaking out dressed as a maid. Even if she knew Ning Wanqing’s words held no real meaning, her guilty conscience flared. She was sweating beneath the blanket, saying nothing at all.

Having scared her enough, Ning Wanqing left quickly—afraid she’d be late for Consort Liang’s banquet.