Chapter One: The Scapegoat Princess Is Sentenced to Death (1)

Qingzhou, Qidong Prefecture, Zhao’an District.

In the rear courtyard of the Prince of Lu’s residence, outside the Hall of Remembrance in Phoenix Palace, several eunuchs dispatched by imperial order stood at the doorway, murmuring among themselves.

“Which did she choose—dagger, hemlock, or silk cord?”

“She chose hemlock.”

“That’s preferable. Later, we won’t have to climb up and cut her down from the rafters, nor deal with excessive blood—too troublesome. Besides, hemlock is easier to take; just drink it quietly, no need to hesitate. She shouldn’t require our assistance.”

“That’s not certain, but we ought to preserve some dignity for the Princess of Lu. Let’s wait an hour before going in to check. If she hasn’t drunk it by then, it falls to us to grant her dignity.”

“Let’s hope we need not intervene.”

…

By the time Ding Shui, through overwhelming resentment, formed a pact with the late Princess of Lu’s soul—pledging to avenge her and resolve her grievance—it was three hours later.

After ingesting hemlock, she endured nearly half an hour of agony before finally coughing blood, her face drained of color as she departed this world. Her corpse was placed in a prepared coffin, awaiting seven days of mourning before burial.

Ding Shui found himself within the coffin, at the locus of the spirit.

He began to sift through the Princess of Lu’s memories, unraveling the source of her hatred.

Her surname was Meng, given name Mingyu, the eldest legitimate daughter of the Duke of Shu. Five years ago, she was bestowed in marriage to Prince Lu, Zhu Qin. Four years ago, she followed him to his fief, settling in Zhao’an District of Qingzhou.

Her relations with Prince Lu were never harmonious. In fact, they deteriorated to the point of outright hostility, for Prince Lu was, in truth, a scoundrel.

While in the capital, his conduct was restrained under the emperor’s gaze. He would tinker with ordinary alchemy, never daring to overstep. But once relocated to his fief, beyond imperial scrutiny, he began indulging in wicked deeds without restraint. The petty evils need not be enumerated; his greatest atrocity was the crafting of human elixirs.

He sought immortality through such means.

Human elixir—a relatively popular but discreet practice among alchemists of this dynasty—entailed using parts of the human body in alchemical refinement.

It was based on the principle of “like cures like,” supplementing man with man.

The most restrained practitioners used only boy’s urine or the menstrual blood of prepubescent girls as catalysts for their potions.

These served merely as medicinal primers.

Those with less scruple, however, resorted to far more sinister methods: heart’s blood, or even special bodily organs, all could be used in crafting human elixirs.

This practice could be considered the progenitor of the tales of the Monks’ Country and the Children’s City.

Prince Lu’s alchemy involved materials with no moral boundary, causing the harm of many. At first, Mingyu was unaware of his actions, for she had no fondness for alchemy.

Two years ago, Prince Lu’s deeds were exposed by a censor, and he was summoned back to the capital.

As for punishment?

A mockery. The palace stewards and a host of officials were executed for failing to admonish and restrain Prince Lu. The Minister of Rites who had tutored him was dismissed for his inadequate instruction.

“Failure to teach is the teacher’s fault”—so went the rationale. Yet “failure to nurture is the father’s fault” was never mentioned.

Prince Lu, after three months of “self-reflection” in the capital, was released—and had half a year’s salary withheld.

Public outrage and criticism abounded in officialdom and among the people.

Yet nothing could alter Emperor Tianwu’s verdict.

If a prince commits a crime, he cannot be punished as a commoner. The so-called “love for the people” was mere propaganda; to believe it was to mistake the sharpness of the imperial blade, or to underestimate the vastness of imperial kin.

Upon his return, Prince Lu was docile for barely two months before reverting to his old habits, resuming the crafting of human elixirs. This time, he was more cautious, yet bolder. Compared to the immortality he sought, the paltry punishment he’d received meant nothing.

Three months of reflection in the capital? Insignificant.

Half a year’s salary? Irrelevant.

What prince truly relied on his salary for sustenance?

His “greater caution” meant more concealment; his “greater boldness” meant he began to suspect that using children’s hearts and livers was insufficient for immortality, perhaps because their innate qi dissipated after birth. He began to experiment with unborn infants in his alchemy.

Perhaps only thus could he achieve the principle of innate harmony with the primordial.

With innate qi, one could attain immortality.

Mingyu gradually became aware, and she tried to persuade Prince Lu several times, even rescuing some pregnant women and children. She then sent messengers to her natal family, hoping to leverage their influence to impeach Prince Lu and halt his atrocities.

But her earlier rescue efforts had already exposed her. When she tried to send her steward to the capital to lodge a complaint, she touched Prince Lu’s most sensitive nerve. While three months of confinement meant little, it was best avoided if possible. So Prince Lu decisively had her steward killed, followed by her personal maid and the entire retinue of loyal servants.

He personally beat Mingyu for three days and shut her away.

She needed half a year to recover enough to rise from bed.

After that, she remained imprisoned, unable even to leave her own courtyard, and thus powerless to act.

Local officials who noticed the situation and sought to impeach Prince Lu were mostly assassinated.

The rest, either out of fear or disillusionment after Emperor Tianwu’s prior actions, refused to intervene.

After all, what would impeachment achieve?

Another three months in confinement, more dead palace officials, and once Prince Lu was released, the threat of familial extermination.

The censor who impeached him, three months after Prince Lu’s return to his fief, perished with his entire family—seventeen in total—in a fire, officially ruled as an accident.

Who would believe it? Yet disbelief was futile.

Two years later—three months ago—a family whose pregnant woman or child had disappeared uncovered clues. With the help of some officials who knew but dared not act, they finally raised a public outcry. Thanks to the covert protection of a group of officials, braving the imperial decree, they went to the capital to lodge their complaint.

The so-called imperial decree was Emperor Tianwu’s compilation—a simplified lawbook issued under the banner of “loving the people as his own children.” If a citizen was wronged by an official, he could take this lawbook to the capital with a petition, and no one could obstruct him. Its reputation was considerable, and many officials detested it.

Those officials who protected the petitioners had their own motives—revenge, perhaps.

Why should their salaries be meager, and for petty corruption they risk being flayed, while the prince’s sons enjoy lavish salaries and commit atrocities with impunity?

Even knowing their actions would ultimately fail to bring Prince Lu to justice, they persisted, hoping at least to awaken the naive masses who believed in the emperor’s benevolence—and to tarnish Emperor Tianwu’s historical reputation.

And to make more officials realize:

The problem is not scarcity, but inequity; the emperor never intended to share rule with them, treating them as expendable retainers, so long as they did not starve.

Thus, they could unite in the future and demonstrate the principle:

When the sovereign treats his ministers as weeds, the ministers will regard the sovereign as a mortal enemy.