Chapter 24: Words of Flattery

Gong Shi continued, “After your father passes, if the court does not issue an edict of mercy, choose the few boys currently serving in his household for burial with him—they likely know they are to be sacrificed. Lately, they’ve grown increasingly arrogant and negligent; this is how people behave when death draws near. Find an opportunity to shelter them, and select more careful servants from the outer courtyards to attend him. These new servants need not be sacrificed.”

Sacrificial burial was not reserved solely for childless concubines and ladies; the founding emperor ensured his descendants would have attendants in the afterlife by ordering the execution of servants who regularly served the masters.

Those like Gong Shi who died as sacrifices at least had their names recorded, but these servants were treated like objects—merely noted on the funeral inventory: “vases: several, servants: so many…”

Gong Shi was too fearful and terrified to think about such matters.

But as the Prince of Zhou repeatedly petitioned the emperor to spare them from sacrifice, she began to worry about the lives of those around her.

Her own life was in the hands of those above her; she could do nothing. But the lives of those around her—she could still manipulate.

So she began deliberately releasing her people.

She had no authority over the servants destined to be buried with the Prince of Zhou.

Because she herself was a dying woman; the list of those to be sacrificed, the number—those decisions would rest with the next Prince of Zhou.

She did not believe she could offer advice to Zhu Youjue.

Now, however, the Prince of Zhou has formally acknowledged Zhu Zijin as his heir and is moving to solidify it. Even if there is an unexpected twist in the succession, Zhu Zijin, as the designated heir, will still hold some influence on the list of those to be buried with the Prince.

Zhu Zijin had missed over a decade of education, especially after being stripped of his title at fourteen—he had barely touched a book since. He nervously memorized everything the Princess taught him, confirming twice before agreeing.

Watching him leave, the Princess sighed.

Aunt Qin poured her another cup of tea and smiled, “Princess, don’t rush. There’s still time. You can teach the eldest Young Master later.”

The Princess was deeply troubled. “I fear things won’t go smoothly, Xin Niang. If I still must accompany the Prince in death, you and he must leave the mansion. Don’t meddle in anything—just help raise his children.”

Aunt Qin, heartbroken, knelt before the Princess. “If His Majesty has agreed to release the eldest Young Master , it means he still wishes the Prince to have a son to care for him in his old age. Re-registering him on the imperial genealogy is only proper. Once he’s on the genealogy, the Prince’s title must pass to the eldest Young Master .”

The Princess: “The problem is he has Zhu Youlan as his father. The Prince of Xiangfu may wish well, but even if he dares not touch Zhao Yuansong, he’ll obstruct in court.”

Aunt Qin seethed with resentment. “The Prince is too tyrannical. Look at his actions these past six months—all his talk of not wanting to part with his son was lies. He’s never wanted to give up the princely title; he’s long plotted for brother to succeed brother.”

The Princess of Zhou said nothing, her gaze deep as she stared outside.

Ever since Zhu Youjue rejected their proposal to adopt a child twice, she knew his intentions—and the Prince understood too.

Because of Zhu Youlan as a precedent, the Prince refused to force his brothers to give up their sons or nephews.

Since he was unwilling, let fate take its course. But she…

Gong Shi looked down at her hands. She bore no hatred toward the Prince, nor did she refuse to die with him—she was merely unwilling.

A stifling rage filled her chest, filling her with fury, always wanting to destroy something.

She was willing to die for the Prince—but only if it were her own choice. She could choose to die, or choose to live.

Not be forced to die.

Was it her fault that she bore no son?

The Prince of Zhou had eight women, none bore children—not even a pregnancy. Anyone with half a brain knew whose fault it was.

Why must they die for childlessness?

But the Prince was too good—she couldn’t even hate him.

So she could only hate the system, the court, the ancestors, and Zhu Youjue and others scheming for the Prince’s title.

The atmosphere in the Princess of Zhou’s quarters was poor; in the Prince’s quarters, it was not.

Perhaps Pan Yun’s affirmation gave the Prince more confidence, easing his mental affliction. Added to that, after drinking the second bowl of Tao Ji’s medicine, he felt his body much lighter.

His mouth was bitter; he craved something sweet.

So an old man and a child sat together eating sweet treasure porridge—simply rice cooked into colorful patterns with a touch of sugar.

The senior attendant was delighted. The Prince had barely eaten lately; even with the eldest Young Master coaxing him, he could only manage a few spoonfuls.

Seeing his appetite improve, the attendant’s demeanor toward Pan Yun softened considerably. After serving the porridge, he retreated discreetly to the side.

As the Prince ate slowly, he spoke to Pan Yun: “I have several children in my household. Zihou is simple and kind-hearted, but he keeps his thoughts to himself. I once suggested to my fourth brother that we adopt him, but he wouldn’t let him go.”

Pan Yun nodded. “He is the eldest son; reluctance is natural.”

The Prince nodded. “Later, I considered adopting Zidan. Zidan is intelligent, gentle yet steadfast, and like our late father, he loves medicine—he could inherit our father’s legacy. Compared to Zihou, I favored him more. But my fourth brother refused again.”

Pan Yun caught on. “He wants to be Prince of Zhou himself.”

The Prince smiled. “Among my many younger brothers, he is indeed the most suitable. Though born of a concubine, he has always gotten along well with me.”

“Though I have no biological son, I raised an adopted son. When Zijin was taken from me, I was heartbroken. I imagine other fathers feel the same.”

So when Zhu Youjue refused adoption, he understood. He truly believed Zhu Youjue simply could not bear to part with his child.

Until he called Zhu Zijin back to his side—then Zhu Youjue grew anxious.

Zhu Zijin had only been in Kaifeng five days when he vanished after going out to play. Rumors spread wildly. He suspected foul play, yet feared the rumors might be true.

But because of Zhu Zijin’s filial devotion, he pitied the boy and could not bear to send him away again.

Zhu Youjue, perhaps panicked, once carelessly mentioned he wished to adopt Zihou as his heir.

But he quickly retracted it, claiming he’d spoken nonsense while drunk, still unwilling to part with him. At that moment, the Prince knew: his belief in brotherly affection had been hollow.

He sighed, took a spoonful of porridge, and looked at Pan Yun. “Young friend, how is it that you, so young, became a female Daoist?”

Pan Yun was not yet a Daoist—but that didn’t prevent her from becoming one.

She said, “My mother died when I was six. My father and elder brother labored too hard to care for me. I had the natural aptitude for Daoist cultivation, so I became a Daoist.”

She embellished: “Don’t judge me by my youth—I’ve cultivated for eight years already.”

The Prince couldn’t help laughing. “Are you even eight years old?”

Pan Yun: “I was born with innate knowledge. I began cultivation the moment I left my mother’s womb.”

Though superstitious, the Prince was no fool—he retained basic judgment and was deeply skeptical.

“You don’t believe me~~” Pan Yun traced a talisman in the air with her finger. The Prince watched as white light gathered at her fingertip, forming a glyph that remained suspended, unbroken.

The Prince stared, dumbfounded, at the floating talisman. Pan Yun smiled gently, pushed her hand forward—the talisman shot toward him, zipping into his chest with a soft hiss.

The Prince felt his mind clear, his chest’s oppressive energy dissipating.

!

He stared at Pan Yun in astonishment.

Pan Yun boasted, “Though I lack my elder brother’s elixir skills, I can still draw talismans to bring good fortune and help people absorb healthful energy.”

In truth, it was simply embedding a talisman into a person’s body, allowing spiritual energy to slowly nourish them and dispel illness.

For minor ailments, the person might recover entirely. For someone like the Prince, it merely eased discomfort, cleared meridians, and slightly harmonized the energies.

For example, his stomach qi improved—he could eat more, digest better, absorb more energy.

Such talismans were typically used alongside medicine, accelerating recovery. They were auxiliary talismans.

It helped that the Prince had just taken his medicine; his body was actively processing its potency.

Once the talisman entered him, the medicine’s power flowed more smoothly through his limbs and organs. The Prince directly sensed the change.

His eyes brightened. He seized Pan Yun’s hand. “So you’re a little prodigy! Young friend, you’re remarkable!”

Pan Yun, proud, said, “I don’t just draw talismans—I can also read fate. Prince, would you like me to calculate yours?”

The Prince chuckled. “Didn’t you already do that?”

Pan Yun shook her head. “That was face reading—limited information. Far less precise than calculating from one’s birth hour and date.”

You’d already revealed so much—and it was still limited?

The Prince’s heart burned. He told her his birth hour and date.

Pan Yun took her brush and scribbled, arranging his Nine Palaces chart.

The Prince understood some of it—he was superstitious and had studied such things—but what could it possibly show?

Pan Yun counted on her fingers again and again, frowning slightly. Then she asked for the birth hours and dates of Zhu Zijin, Zihou, and Zidan.

These three had been raised under his care since childhood—he knew their birth details better than their own fathers.

Pan Yun calculated again, frowning deeper.

The Prince began doubting her abilities—and her motives.

He couldn’t help it. Lately, he trusted people one moment, distrusted them the next.

“Is someone cursing me?”

“No,” Pan Yun said. “All three benefit you. No mutual opposition.”

The Prince’s face lit up. He trusted her again.

“But it’s strange. Zhu Zijin is your heir, yet he was separated from you for years. Why is your bond so deep? Your birth charts suggest he should be your biological son.”

Pan Yun said, “It’s as if he was destined to be your son from birth—only he was born to another family.”

The Prince stared, bewildered.

Even after Pan Yun left, he remained dazed.

When the attendant entered, the Prince was staring at the four sheets of paper.

The attendant couldn’t help saying, “Prince, I think the young Daoist’s reading is correct. The eldest Young Master should be your son—he looks more like you than like the Second Prince.”

He didn’t look like him—he looked like his father. Both resembled the late Prince of Zhou.

But…

Why were only they two so much like their father? Wasn’t the second son also the father’s child? He didn’t resemble him at all. And Zijin didn’t resemble his own father either. Was it just coincidence?

Could the child’s words be more than flattery—could they be true?

The ten lucky numbers for this chapter are those ending in 1. Screenshot as proof. Find Mo Yan.

(End of chapter)