Chapter 74: A sapling won

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By the grace of Heaven, the Emperor issues this edict:

I, upon receiving Heaven’s mandate and ascending the throne, have risen early and retired late, ever mindful of state affairs, exhausting my mind and strength, solely hoping for revival. Yet now, I am afflicted by grave illness, my vigor waning, and I deeply feel the weight of governance must be entrusted to the worthy.

Among all my princely brothers, Prince Jian is the most benevolent, filial, broad-minded, and wise; since childhood, he has read deeply and thoroughly understood the ways of governing the state and securing peace. His virtue is renowned both within and beyond the court. I am certain he shall inherit the throne, continue my unfinished work, and usher in an era of revival and prosperity.

I hereby abdicate in favor of my thirteenth brother, Prince Jian Zhao Shi. May he, upon ascending the throne, revere Heaven and honor his ancestors, govern diligently and love his people, uphold the virtues of our forebears, and bless the myriad subjects. All ministers and officials shall unite in support, jointly advancing this great undertaking—none shall dare defy. Let this decree be proclaimed far and wide, so all may hear.

Fifth day of the Wu month, eleventh month, Yuanfu Second Year, Imperial Brush

After reading Zhao Xu’s final edict, Zhao Yu could only say: ability still could not overcome kinship.

‘Did Zhao Xu go mad in his final days?’

‘Or perhaps the pressure from Empress Xiang and the imperial clan drove Zhao Xu into rebellion—so he’d rather entrust his empire to the unpredictable Zhao Shi than to me, who could save the Zhao Song dynasty?’

As for what Zhao Xu truly thought, it vanished with his death, forever sinking into the depths of history, becoming an endless riddle for later scholars and literati to speculate upon.

Zhao Yu stood before the fire basin, holding the thin edict in his hand, his heart a tangle of emotions.

Given Zhao Xu’s final choice, Zhao Yu was grateful for his and Empress Xiang’s decisiveness—they had tightly controlled Zhao Xu in his final moments, ensuring he never had the chance to release this edict. Otherwise, trouble might have been immense, and the outcome uncertain.

After all, compared to Zhao Yu, Zhao Shi was timid and weak—far easier to control. Ministers would surely prefer such an emperor, then, through constant pressure and guidance, they might mold Zhao Shi into a second Song Renzong, endlessly surrendering imperial power and compromising with ministers, even achieving their ultimate goal: shared rule between chancellor and emperor.

Since the reign of Song Shenzong, the Zhao Song court had solidified into a system where all authority belonged to the emperor. Many ambitious ministers had long yearned to return to the golden age of Song Renzong.

Zhao Yu himself threw the edict into the fire basin, watching it turn to ash—the last threat left by Zhao Xu erased from this world.

At that moment, Zhao Yu turned to Zheng Xiansu, kneeling beside him, begging for punishment.

Some might wonder: Zheng Xiansu, so meticulous, had found Zhao Xu’s hidden succession edict and eliminated this major threat for Zhao Yu—why then was she begging for punishment?

Zheng Xiansu’s discovery of this edict was undoubtedly a great merit.

But her mistake lay in not destroying it immediately; instead, she took it upon herself to remove it and kept it preserved until now.

Imagine—if it had been exposed, the consequences would have been unimaginable.

Zheng Xiansu was intelligent enough to know the correct course—and the grave risks of her choice.

Yet she still chose this path.

Why?

Because even then, she had foreseen Zhao Yu would become emperor—and the awkward position she might face—so she kept this backup.

Had Zhao Yu not come to see her the moment she sought him out—if Zhao Yu had changed his mind, or worse, used her, taken her favors, then discarded her after success, leaving her a laughingstock of the Zhao Song dynasty with no future—would this edict have become a thorn in Zhao Yu’s side?

In that light, did Zheng Xiansu not act rightly by handing over the edict and immediately kneeling to beg punishment—offering herself to be beaten or punished without complaint?

Zhao Yu sat before Zheng Xiansu, face grim, and said: ‘Come here.’

Zheng Xiansu rose obediently and stood before him.

‘Kneel down,’ Zhao Yu said.

Though he did not specify where, Zheng Xiansu understood at once and lay across his thighs.

Whether Zhao Yu lifted her skirt or pulled down her trousers, Zheng Xiansu, though deeply ashamed, did not move a muscle, letting him strike her buttocks with sharp, repeated slaps.

Zheng Xiansu did not cry, nor did she feel wronged. On the contrary, Zhao Yu’s beating made her feel utterly at peace.

Zheng Xiansu knew well: she had erred. She had judged Zhao Yu’s noble heart with her own petty mind.

So, even if Zhao Yu had discarded her, she deserved it.

Fortunately, Zhao Yu still wished to punish her.

That meant he still wanted her.

Otherwise, a sovereign burdened with state affairs—why waste time on a useless woman? Was it truly because her buttocks were round and firm, and he sought to take advantage?

Let’s speak plainly: now that Zhao Yu was emperor, a single command would bring thousands of beauties willing to bare themselves for him. Did he need her?

Zheng Xiansu understood this perfectly.

In truth, only now did she fully confirm: Zhao Yu was utterly determined to marry her, to make her empress—even after her mistake, he had not abandoned her. She was truly the luckiest woman in the world, having met the finest man in it.

‘I shall spend my life atoning for this grave, grievous error.’

Zhao Yu was indeed angry.

‘I trust you with my heart—yet you play games with me?’

‘A sapling won’t grow straight without pruning; a wife won’t behave without discipline!’

‘Had you not chosen, at the last moment, to risk all consequences and hand me this last will—like a corrupt official willingly surrendering his own incriminating evidence, rather than quietly destroying it and pretending it never happened—do you think I’d have given you another chance?’

As a result, Zhao Yu whipped Zheng Xiansu’s buttocks until they were red and swollen, making her walk crookedly.

When Zhao Yu and Zheng Xiansu emerged from the chamber, Wang Yisu and Zhang Chun, waiting outside, assumed Zhao Yu had slept with Zheng Xiansu.

Wang Yisu felt no concern for Zheng Xiansu—in fact, she was delighted.

In her view, even if Zhao Yu had truly taken Zheng Xiansu’s virtue, it mattered little.

Not only were there only a few of them here, none would speak of it.

Even if word leaked—so what?

Did they still think this was the Song Renzong era, when ministers controlled the emperor’s concubines?

Thus, even if anyone learned Zhao Yu and Zheng Xiansu had been intimate before marriage, few would dare make trouble for themselves.

For Zheng Xiansu, even if Empress Xiang had failed to arrange the ‘day-for-month’ marriage, and Zhao Yu could not wed her quickly, she would no longer waste over two years of her youth.

More importantly, if Zhao Yu slept with Zheng Xiansu today, he might sleep with her tomorrow—so she, too, would not waste over two years of her youth.

In stark contrast to Wang Yisu’s joy, Zhang Chun was deeply displeased.

Zhang Chun had hoped to dominate the harem during Zheng Xiansu’s absence, bear Zhao Yu a son, and steal Zheng Xiansu’s empress title.

Instead, Zhao Yu had publicly promised Zheng Xiansu the empress title—and, impatiently, taken her virtue outright, leaving Zhang Chun with no advantage at all.

Zhang Chun watched Zheng Xiansu’s triumphant expression and thought: ‘My instinct was right—this woman is my greatest enemy in life!’

Li Lin and Yuan Qing Cheng, meanwhile, were more despondent. Unspoken, they both thought: ‘Zhao Yu won’t even wait for a woman to be formally wed—how can we, as his concubines, ever escape him?’

As for Ye Shi Yun, she still wore her usual detached expression—no one knew what she was thinking…

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(End of Chapter)