Chapter 61: Growing More Imperial by the Day

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To prove to the world that he could still be saved, Zhao Xu insisted on personally presiding over the suburban sacrifice.

The suburban sacrifice was the grand ritual in which the Son of Heaven worshipped Heaven and Earth, a symbol of imperial identity and a marker of legitimate rule.

Offering sacrifices to Heaven on the Winter Solstice was an activity all historical rulers valued deeply, a state ceremony of the highest importance.

The Song dynasty’s ritual for sacrificing to Heaven followed the “triply-annual personal suburban sacrifice” system: every three years, on the Winter Solstice in the eleventh month, the emperor personally presided over the offering to Haotian at the Round Altar south of Bianliang.

The ceremony was solemn and intricate, but the emperor merely needed to follow the ritual officials’ guidance and perform the well-rehearsed prescribed motions.

For a normal emperor, this was no difficult task.

But for Zhao Xu, gravely ill, it was an extraordinary challenge—every step felt like treading on knife blades, every breath accompanied by violent heaves of his chest.

Yet Zhao Xu stubbornly persisted.

In Zhao Xu’s eyes, this was devotion to his ancestors’ legacy, a demonstration of his strength to the world, and defiance against fate’s injustice.

Before countless eyes, Zhao Xu donned the elaborate sacrificial robes, crowned with the twelve-beaded miǎn, each step heavy yet resolute. His face, pale from illness, bore eyes that glowed with unyielding fire.

Ritual officials held long poles, guiding the banners symbolizing Heaven and Earth’s deities as they slowly ascended the altar.

Zhao Xu struggled to the summit of the altar and, per ancient rites, first offered jade bi and silk to Haotian Shangdi; then the ritual officials recited the sacrificial text, praying for national peace, prosperity, and bountiful harvests.

Though his body had reached its limit by the time he climbed the altar, he still endured the biting cold to complete the grand sacrifice.

Zhao Xu believed his performance had been perfect.

Yes.

For an emperor ravaged by illness, Zhao Xu’s conduct had been remarkable.

But anyone with eyes could see he was forcing himself—he was at his final breath.

Zhao Xu’s purpose in personally performing the suburban sacrifice was to convince the world he was merely suffering a minor illness; given time, he would recover, and no one needed to rush to choose a new emperor.

But fate defied his hopes.

Zhao Xu’s efforts failed to soothe the deep anxieties of court and realm.

On the contrary, after the sacrifice, though Zhao Xu dragged his failing body down the altar, striving to project the majestic bearing of an emperor, his irrepressible weakness and exhaustion resembled the last sliver of winter sunset—brilliant, yet unmistakably doomed to vanish.

Worse still, as dawn had not yet broken and officials gathered to offer congratulations, an owl perched atop the palace roof let out a chilling “laugh.”

Seeing this, whether imperial family or ministers, all exchanged uneasy glances, silently wondering what ill omen this bird might portend.

Censor-officials began exchanging worried glances.

Chancellor Zhang Dun and other senior ministers, though fearing the upheaval of a new reign and reluctant to lose Zhao Xu, could no longer avoid preparing for the worst.

In short, everyone except Zhao Xu believed appointing a crown prince was now urgent.

But how to persuade this emperor, so lacking in self-awareness, to agree to naming a crown prince? This question haunted every mind…

…

In this era, the Winter Solstice was a vital festival. On this day, people changed into new clothes, prepared feasts, and honored their ancestors. The government granted holidays, and celebrations flowed freely—much like the New Year.

After the sacrifice, all imperial family members came to Cide Palace to pay respects to Empress Dowager Xiang and celebrate the festival together.

In past years, even the emperor and empress would personally visit Empress Dowager Xiang.

Zhao Yu, who had not visited Cide Palace for some time, was no exception.

As he walked toward Cide Palace, Zhao Yu mourned Zhao Xu.

In Zhao Yu’s view, Zhao Xu was among the better emperors of the Song dynasty—not cowardly, and full of ambition.

Yet his conduct in the final phase of his life fell far short of expectations.

Though already mortally ill, he failed to plan for his succession or arrange matters properly, blinded by fog, ignoring the crises of Song’s declining power, court turmoil, and border unrest, drowning instead in personal sorrow and the despair of medicine’s helplessness.

Zhao Yu silently mused: “After ruling too long, perhaps one becomes burdened by the solitude and weight of supreme power, forgetting one’s original purpose, losing one’s edge. Zhao Xu once vowed to revive the Song, to sweep away its accumulated poverty and weakness, ensuring peace and prosperity for the people and security on the frontiers. Yet now, on his sickbed, instead of laying plans to ensure his reforms endured, he allowed conservative forces to regain ground, the court’s discipline crumbling—truly a great misfortune for the state.”

Zhao Yu had once hoped that this Zhao Xu, wiser than his historical counterpart, would use his remaining authority to settle his succession—appointing a prince most capable of inheriting his reformist vision and leading the Song toward revival as Prefect of Kaifeng.

—The Prefect or Governor of Kaifeng was not commonly appointed in the Song, because Emperor Taizong and Emperor Zhenzong had both held the post before ascending the throne.

For this reason, Zhao Yu had carefully cultivated his image before Zhao Xu for some time.

But the outcome proved that Zhao Xu, facing death, was no stronger than many ordinary men.

As Zhao Yu approached Cide Palace, still lost in thought, he failed to notice Zhao Bi, Zhao Shi, and Zhao Si waiting at the gate for eunuchs to announce them—he walked in as usual.

The gate guards, seeing Zhao Yu approach, did not stop him; instead, they beamed and ushered him in, while surrounding eunuchs, junior attendants, and palace maids gathered around him.

Just as Zhao Yu instinctively prepared to chat with the crowd gathering around him, Liang Shicheng whispered behind him: “Your Highness, Prince Shen, Prince Jian, and Prince Mu are here.”

Zhao Yu turned and saw Zhao Bi, Zhao Shi, and Zhao Si all watching him with eager eyes.

Zhao Yu slapped his forehead: “Look at me—so lost in thought, I forgot to have them announce me.”

As he spoke, Zhao Yu signaled to the gathering eunuchs, attendants, and maids to hold back, then walked over to stand with Zhao Bi and the other two, waiting for the announcement.

Those who speak well are no match for those who observe well.

Zhao Bi and the other two could not miss it: Zhao Yu treated Cide Palace like his own home, and the palace staff treated him as such—familiar, affectionate, unquestioning.

This alone proved Zhao Yu’s closeness to Empress Dowager Xiang far surpassed theirs—far from the rumors that he had fallen out with her, which explained his recent absence.

With Zhao Xu gravely ill and without sons, the imperial family could not allow the throne to pass to a distant clan member; they would surely keep the imperial line within the immediate bloodline.

Crucially, Zhao Xu himself had no intention of adopting a son.

Thus, if Zhao Xu’s condition did not improve, the next emperor would emerge from among these princes.

At present, the greatest voice in choosing the next emperor belonged to Zhao Xu, followed by Empress Dowager Xiang.

But Zhao Xu, clinging stubbornly to the hope of a medical miracle, was steadily losing his influence.

If this dragged on much longer, the choice of the next emperor might become Empress Dowager Xiang’s sole decision.

So who would become the next emperor?

Zhao Bi and the other three looked, without speaking, toward Zhao Yu—whose bearing was increasingly taking on the aura of an emperor…

…

(End of Chapter)