On the Guangling River, atop a brilliantly lit yellow dragon barge, a man and woman stood side by side at the prow, admiring the scenery.
The young man, clad in the python robe of a Liyang vassal king, whispered softly, “I’ve wronged you.”
The stunning woman gently grasped his hand and shook her head, her smile tender.
The young vassal king slammed his hand on the railing. “That Song Li has the audacity! Just wait until I—”
She suddenly covered his mouth.
The young vassal king held her hand, his expression sorrowful, then turned to gaze at her face—a visage he could never tire of. He forced a smile. “Don’t worry. I, Zhao Xun, won’t let this break my spirit!”
Among Liyang’s three great vassal kings—Yanchi King Zhao Bing, Shu King Chen Zhibao, and Jing’an King Zhao Xun—who had joined forces in rebellion, Zhao Bing bore the most infamy, Chen Zhibao was the most feared, and Zhao Xun was the one who evoked the deepest sighs of regret.
Even though the court and the public knew Zhao Xun would eventually be pushed onto the throne by the other two vassal kings, many Liyang officials still believed the young king had been forcibly imprisoned during the Spring Snow Tower incident—a pitiful puppet used by Zhao and Chen to deceive the world.
In truth, the capital of Tai’an had guessed only half right. It was true that Zhao Xun had been unwilling to rebel, but the claim that he harbored no ambition to usurp the throne was false.
The two generations of Jing’an Kings, whose domain lay at the strategic heart of the Central Plains—from Zhao Heng to Zhao Xun—had always nurtured grand ambitions to vie for the empire. This was something both generations of Northern Liang Kings knew, as did Yuan Benxi, the former imperial tutor of Liyang, the blind strategist Lu Xu who had once served in the palace, and now, Nalan Youci.
Zhao Xun bitterly regretted why he hadn’t trusted that slip of paper. The handwriting on it was familiar—it belonged to the blind man’s maidservant—urging him to return swiftly to Jing’an after Wu Zhongxuan pacified the Guangling campaign.
But Zhao Xun had wanted to personally show the woman beside him the sights of Guangling and forge ties with the military officers and officials destined to rise in the court. So he had decided to stay for the Spring Snow Tower victory banquet before leaving Guangling.
And now, here he was. At first, Zhao Xun had thought misfortune might turn to fortune when someone personally assured him they would help him ascend the throne. Regardless of any schemes, Zhao Xun chose to believe—because the words of that man carried more weight than even Yanchi King Zhao Bing’s promises.
The reason was simple: that man was Nalan Youci.
Yet lately, Zhao Xun had been suffocating in frustration. Song Li, the general who had once risen from the Spring Snow Tower and was second only to the military governor Lu Baijie and the administrator Wang Xionggui among Liyang officials in Guangling, had grown increasingly arrogant with his victories on the northern front. Not long ago, he had boarded the barge and shamelessly demanded Zhao Xun’s woman with a smirk!
Zhao Xun had trembled with rage but ultimately uttered no threats.
Song Li, after all, dared not openly seize her on the barge. Before disembarking, the Xiangfu-era general—whom Tai’an had branded the “Three-Surnamed Traitor”—even “kindly” reminded the young vassal king: “At the old dowager’s age, how much longer can her beauty last? Why not gift her to me, Song Li, to cherish in a golden house? I’ll repay you handsomely someday!”
It was long known that Guangling had a General Song, not only a trusted aide of Guangling King Zhao Yi but also hailed by him as a “lucky general” with a penchant for collecting beauties. After the Western Chu’s revival and the fall of its capital to Liyang forces, Song Li had reaped bountiful spoils, lamenting, “If only the Jiang Empress hadn’t died at Xileibi!” When Zhao Bing’s army later occupied the ill-fated city, Song Li, now holding the prestigious rank of Zhennan General, swiftly pledged allegiance to Yanchi King—and of course, not empty-handed. Rumor had it that during a victory banquet, Zhao Bing once jokingly asked, “General Song, do you need more mansions to house your beauties?” The favored Song Li replied with a line that won every man’s admiration: “The more of both, the better!” Zhao Bing clapped in delight and vowed, “I swear never to disappoint General Song! From now on, whenever the Rouge Rankings are announced, a top beauty shall be delivered to your estate!”
Moreover, Song Li not only enjoyed Zhao Bing’s trust and command of troops but also shared a brotherly bond with Crown Prince Zhao Zhu.
Faced with such a favored figure, what could Zhao Xun—a vassal king in name only—do?
Frowning, Zhao Xun gazed at the scattered lights of the naval barges on the river.
She reached out to smooth his furrowed brow.
He smiled. “Come, let’s return to the cabin.”
They retreated to their opulent yet cage-like quarters, where an exquisitely carved clothing rack stood—displaying a resplendent imperial yellow dragon robe!
When Nalan Youci had visited, the last surviving strategist of the Spring and Autumn era had been accompanied by a maidservant bearing this very robe.
Since then, Zhao Xun had repeatedly caressed the robe, entranced, silently counting its golden dragons.
Tonight, he approached the rack again, tracing the dragons before crouching to touch the “seas and mountains” embroidered at the hem.
Suddenly, he looked up at her and asked with a smile, “Do you know why this robe has four frontal dragons and four in motion—eight visible dragons—instead of the imperial nine?”
She pondered. “Because the emperor is the true dragon, making nine when he wears it?”
He burst into laughter, pinching her cheek. “Wrong! The ninth dragon is hidden inside the lapel. Go on, lift it and see.”
Hesitant, she refused to touch the garment every man dreamed of.
Zhao Xun suddenly took the robe, had her stand straight, and draped it over her shoulders.
She stood frozen, bewildered.
After meticulously adjusting the robe, Zhao Xun stepped back, eyes glistening. “I know many in Jing’an call you the ‘she-king’ and a femme fatale. But I don’t care.”
She bit her lip, speechless.
Tears streamed down Zhao Xun’s face. “I know you’re not her… not her. I don’t even care whose spy or assassin you are. At first, I did. Now? Not at all. Why? Because I love you. Even if you wore another face, I’d still love you…”
Shu Xiu’s lips trembled, blood seeping from where she bit them.
Suddenly, Zhao Xun grinned, bowed deeply, and said tenderly, “Your husband greets his wife.”
The cabin glowed with candlelight.
Clad in the dragon robe, she looked as though wearing bridal red.
Slowly, she curtsied and murmured in a gentle voice, “Your Majesty.”
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