Chapter 23: The Mourning Contest

Jiang Mingyu led a twenty-man Longyang Army squad, galloping swiftly; after exiting the Left Guard Capital Guard, they headed west toward the Eastern Palace.

By law, any military unit moving rapidly within the capital must carry official documents from the Ministry of War, an imperial edict, or a tiger tally—otherwise, checkpoints would halt them.

But because Jiang Mingyu held the “Regent’s Command,” he passed through every checkpoint without obstruction.

When Jiang Mingyu returned to the Eastern Palace, the Crown Prince was no longer there.

The Crown Princess said that not long ago, the palace had sent a sixteen-man dragon palanquin escort to bring the Crown Prince inside.

“Your Excellency Jiang, hurry—take the Longyang Army into the palace…”

The Crown Princess spoke with anxious urgency: “The situation inside is unclear—I fear… the Crown Prince may be in danger.”

“What danger could the Crown Prince possibly face?”

Jiang Mingyu asked, baffled; in his mind, the Crown Prince stood second only to the Emperor—how could anyone in the Great Feng Dynasty dare harm him?

The Crown Princess knew Jiang Mingyu was not a palace insider and had held office too briefly to understand the depths of court intrigue—but she had no time to explain clearly right now.

“I have no time to explain…”

The Crown Princess pressed urgently: “Take the Longyang Army into the palace at once—but do not enter through the Vermilion Bird Gate…”

Before she finished, Jiang Mingyu asked again, his face full of confusion.

“Not through the Vermilion Bird Gate?” Because if he didn’t take that gate, he had no idea how to enter or exit the imperial palace.

The Crown Princess: “Yes… you must take the White Tiger Gate instead; enter through the White Tiger Gate, then find the Sea Prison—Eunuch Hai…”

Here, she turned to the desk behind her, took a half-foot-long dark blue goose feather and an envelope containing three thousand taels in silver notes, and handed them to Jiang Mingyu.

Then she added: “Give him these two items—he will guide you into the inner palace.”

The imperial palace was divided into two major zones: the Front Palace and the Inner Court.

The Front Palace was where the Emperor and his ministers held court and conducted state affairs; the Inner Court was where the empresses and concubines lived, and ordinary officials were forbidden to enter without permission.

The two zones were separated by two walls, bounded by the Qiyemo Gate and the Shangmu Gate, with strict access controls and heavy guard patrols.

After receiving the goose feather and the envelope, Jiang Mingyu asked hesitantly: “But… I’ve never used the White Tiger Gate—how do I get there?”

At this, the Crown Princess nearly fainted from exasperation.

She pressed her forehead, sighing helplessly: “The Longyang Army knows the way—follow them.”

Ah Wei, the imperial kitchen’s cook, had arrived that morning and immediately sensed something was wrong in the palace.

Outside, officials in colorful court robes—purple, red, blue, green—lined the grounds, and guards had doubled in number.

Had he not held the rank of Second-Class Assistant Cook, he too would have been barred from entering.

Today, Eunuch Hai’s expression was unusually grave; from the small palace gate to the south of the kitchen, eunuchs kept running out to whisper urgently with him, passing unknown messages.

Though curious, Ah Wei dared not ask; he simply carried out his daily duties without question.

Suddenly, a junior eunuch led a green-robed civil official, followed by a squad of Embroidered Uniform Guards bearing the Left Guard Capital Guard banner, to the imperial kitchen.

In his past life outside the palace, Ah Wei would have been terrified—so terrified he’d have wet his pants.

He’d have instinctively fled or hidden, avoiding trouble at all costs—but now, working in the kitchen with Eunuch Hai nearby, he stood unafraid, watching them.

Not only was he curious—he wanted to find out what was happening, so he could boast about it to his friends later.

He saw Eunuch Hai accept a feather and an envelope from the green-robed official, exchange a few brief words, then walk solemnly into the kitchen and dismiss all assistants, deputy cooks—including Ah Wei—telling them to go home.

He said no one should return until officially notified, leaving only a few veteran cooks on duty.

Confused but seeing Eunuch Hai’s rare gravity, Ah Wei dared not ask questions; he quickly packed his tools and hurried to leave with the others.

As he left, curious, Ah Wei glanced back. At that moment, Eunuch Hai, the green-robed official, and the squad of Embroidered Uniform Guards were blocked at the small palace gate—the scene was tense, like a standoff.

The two guards stationed at the small gate, seeing Eunuch Hai leading a group trying to force entry, immediately called for reinforcements; soon, another contingent of palace guards arrived.

Now, two forces gathered on either side of the small gate: the group outside desperate to enter, the group inside firmly blocking them.

Tu Kexiluo, who had just returned from duty outside the palace, happened to pass by the small gate; as Deputy Commander, he instinctively went to investigate.

He instantly recognized the green-robed official: Jiang Mingyu, the Crown Prince’s Reader, who had frequently entered and exited the palace over the past year.

“What’s going on? What’s all this shouting? This is the inner palace—do you think you can barge in like this? How many heads do you have to lose if you disturb His Majesty?”

A military man through and through, Tu Kexiluo scolded the two groups of guards in an authoritative tone.

At this point, he still had no idea what had happened inside.

“Oh! It’s Commander Tu Kexiluo!”

Eunuch Hai explained: “Quickly—order these gate guards to let us pass—we must rush in to protect His Highness!”

The keyword “protect His Highness” jolted Tu Kexiluo awake.

Still confused, he demanded: “What? Protect whom? What’s happening?”

Jiang Mingyu saw the soldiers before him were too slow to understand.

Knowing well that scholars couldn’t reason with soldiers, he pulled out the Regent’s Command again from his robe, raised it high, and shouted:

“By imperial decree—anyone who blocks the way shall be executed!”

All palace guards, including Tu Kexiluo, upon seeing the four characters “As if the Emperor Himself Were Present,”

instantly triggered muscle memory—like reflexes—they dropped to one knee, heads bowed, and chorused: “We bow to the Imperial Envoy!”

Jiang Mingyu, having tasted the power of this command several times on his journey, declared with pride: “Make way for me at once!”

Before Tu Kexiluo could issue an order, the palace guards spontaneously parted, clearing a path for Jiang Mingyu and his squad to pass through.

Though Tu Kexiluo knew Jiang Mingyu and his background, he wasn’t close enough to trust him fully; as Jiang Mingyu led his men through the small gate, Tu Kexiluo kept a watchful eye.

He took another squad and followed behind, under the pretext of assisting in the protection of His Highness.

The Emperor, after being desperately resuscitated by physicians all night, was declared dead at dawn; his body still lay in Lingxia Palace, unmoved.

The Crown Prince arrived at Lingxia Palace in a sixteen-man dragon palanquin, accompanied by the ceremonial procession; after dismounting, he crawled on his knees, weeping as he entered.

When he saw the Emperor’s body lying on the bed in the side hall, he rushed forward on his knees, wailing uncontrollably.

Seeing the Emperor’s corpse, the Crown Prince’s heart felt as if torn apart, unbearable in its agony.

He screamed with all his strength, his cries filled with despair, as if the heavens themselves were collapsing.

Tears streamed endlessly, soaking his robes.

He clung to the Emperor’s cold body beside him, weeping uncontrollably.

The Crown Prince could not bear to leave the Emperor’s side—as if only by holding him close could his heart find even a moment’s comfort.

Yet when he opened his eyes again, he still saw only the Emperor’s lifeless face.

His grief surged like a raging river, impossible to contain.

In Lingxia Palace, the Crown Prince’s weeping was the most heart-wrenching.

He was like a lost child, screaming “Father” with all his might—his voice hoarse, yet receiving no answer—only burying each cry of “Father” and every tear deep within the cold palace walls.

The Crown Prince’s sorrow nearly drowned him; he looked as if his very life had ended with the Emperor’s death.

He clutched the Emperor’s body tightly, as if trying to hold him back—or as if trying to merge their two lives into one.

But fate defied him—he could only lose himself in boundless grief, slowly drifting farther from the silent palace walls.

In Lingxia Palace, everyone wept uncontrollably, sobs rising and falling like waves.

Soon, Chancellor He arrived; like the Crown Prince, he crawled on his knees into the hall, wailing and sobbing with equal intensity—his grief no less profound. Now, beside the Emperor’s bed, the Crown Prince and Chancellor He wept side by side, as if competing to cry louder, more pitifully.

They were like two orphaned chicks, wailing helplessly before the imperial bed—yet receiving no response from the living.

Jiushanxiu temporarily left Lingxia Palace under the pretext of arranging ice and cold storage for the Emperor’s body.

As soon as he stepped outside, he saw Chancellor Mei, weeping bitterly from afar.

Crawling on his knees, bowing his head with each movement, calling out “Emperor!”—his expression as heartbroken as a child who had lost his parent, crawling toward him…