Chapter 59: The Storm Arrives, the Great Purge Begins

Seven days later, all funeral rites across court and realm were completed, followed by the grand encoffining and then the funeral procession.

Zhao Ti served as the Marshal of Ceremonial Procession among the Five Imperial Tomb Officials, overseeing all road and bridge security during the funeral.

The imperial tombs of Great Song lie on the northern foothills of Songshan, south of the Yi and Luo rivers, west of Dongjing, within Yong’an County—a newly established county from the former town of Gong, elevated to county status in the fourth year of Zhenzong’s Jingde era.

Along the route, ritual music wailed in mourning, onlookers stepped aside, and Zhao Ti remained grim, silent.

Just as they neared the northern foothills of Songshan, the official in charge of the coffin carriage approached: “Prince Yan, the Empress Dowager’s coffin exhibits unusual signs—please come and inspect.”

Zhao Ti rode forward, and the coffin guards reported: “Your Majesty, for reasons unknown, the Empress Dowager’s coffin radiates coldness, inconsistent with the season.”

Zhao Ti ordered the funeral procession to halt, then stepped forward and pressed his palm against the coffin—ice-cold seeped into his bones. He paused briefly: “No matter. Proceed. Do not delay the appointed hour.”

The procession resumed. Zhao Ti rode in thought, wondering: What did that hand gesture of my grandmother mean at the moment of her death?

Though he had suspected she too practiced the Illusion Yin Finger technique, he had no confirmation until he saw the shape of her fingers at her passing.

Yet though the gesture clearly bore the mark of Illusion Yin Finger, upon closer inspection, it differed slightly from the method he himself had learned.

It seemed more profound, more exquisite—each reflection revealed boundless subtlety, deepening with every thought.

The funeral procession arrived at the imperial tombs. According to ritual, she was buried. Zhao Ti guarded the site for three days, settled all arrangements, then returned to Dongjing.

At this time, Dongjing seemed shrouded in gloom. Empress Dowager Gao Taotao had ruled for nearly a decade; her sudden death left many in daze, especially the chancellors, ministers, and heads of departments, uncertain how the newly empowered Emperor Yuanyou would act, what upheavals he might unleash.

They knew little of Zhao Xu—and precisely because they knew so little, heavy stones pressed upon their hearts. For once an emperor assumed personal rule, he always installed his own men, and always lit three great fires.

But did Zhao Xu have his own men? Did he have loyal confidants? Zhao Xu had none.

The more unknown, the more unsettling. Court officials swiftly ordered their households: no trouble, no provocations, no boasting of “my father is…” after causing chaos outside.

Zhao Ti entered the palace to report, but did not see Zhao Xu. The eunuch relayed: “His Majesty is occupied with state affairs and is already aware.”

Zhao Ti stood on the palace road, his expression complex. Even to report the Empress Dowager’s peaceful burial, he could not meet him—how little joy did he feel for this grandmother? How utterly indifferent to her funeral rites, their propriety, their possible irregularities?

But this was only the beginning. Soon, Zhao Xu would issue an edict stripping Gao Taotao of her title as Empress Dowager, revoking all honors, reducing her to commoner status. Had ministers not desperately intervened, the decree would have been carried out.

Zhao Ti slowly turned. This reckoning must come. He himself was within its scope—and would surely be first in line.

To strike the imperial family first, then the ministers, is how credibility is forged. If he does not move this first-rank prince of the blood, whom else in the clan could he move?

He smiled, swept his sleeve, and left the palace with calm strides.

Back at the Prince’s Mansion, he changed into everyday robes. Zhou Dong arrived to report a letter from Dali.

When he left Dali, he had given Duan Zhengming and Duan Yu the address in Dongjing for correspondence, but to avoid trouble, the letters were to be received under Zhou Dong’s name.

Zhao Ti unfolded the letter—it was from Duan Yu. Two thousand characters filled the page. He began by saying that while Zhao Ti was in Dali, he had been tightly watched and could not reveal something urgent—its weight had tormented him, so now he wrote it down: his father had a secret lover, and he had suddenly gained two younger sisters.

He went on to say his uncle and father forced him to train in martial arts, to master the most formidable techniques of the Duan clan. Though he had no desire to learn, he could no longer refuse—the events at Tianlong Temple had been too perilous; as crown prince, he had no choice.

He ended by saying that once his martial skills were perfected, he would come to Great Song to travel—and hoped then to meet Zhao Ti and journey together.

Zhao Ti read the letter, then burned it. This letter must never be seen by anyone. Though Dali was not an enemy state, for a member of the imperial clan to correspond with court officials was a crime—let alone secret dealings with a foreign crown prince.

He sat in thought for a long while, then called Zheng Fu to prepare the memorial scroll and began drafting his petition.

The petition took hours to write—from daylight into the glow of lanterns. Each of the few hundred characters was weighed. When finished and dried, he summoned Tong Guan and ordered: “Prepare the carriage. Enter the palace.”

Outside, the night sky was heavy. Before he could step into the carriage, a flash of lightning split the heavens, followed by a deep thunderclap—and rain poured down in torrents.

Inside the carriage, Zhao Ti closed his eyes, his face expressionless. The rain beat upon Dongjing, as if washing away the past—yesterday’s days cannot be reclaimed…

Imperial City, Wende Hall.

The vast hall held only Zhao Xu, seated behind the dragon desk, personally composing an edict.

His expression was focused, revealing a rare depth of emotion. When he finished one edict, he set down his brush and murmured: “Since you cherished closeness, then guard the tomb for life. I… have been merciful.”

At that moment, a eunuch entered quietly, advancing with caution: “Your Majesty, Prince Yan has arrived.”

Zhao Xu’s gaze pierced through the hall’s doors—outside, rain lashed, lightning cracked. His voice was hollow and still: “What is it?”

The eunuch pulled a memorial scroll from his sleeve: “Your Majesty, Prince Yan has submitted a petition. I know this violates protocol, but he insists it bypass the Menxia and Zhongshu, and does not pass through the chancellors.”

“Oh?” Zhao Xu’s eyes fixed on the scroll. He fell silent for a moment: “Bring it to me.”

The eunuch stepped forward, offering the scroll with both hands. Zhao Xu took it gently, then opened it.

At the first line, his expression shifted slightly—his pale, jade-like fist clenched tightly.

“Subject Zhao Ti humbly petitions Your Majesty: abolish the old laws, restore the new laws!”

“Crack!” A thunderclap struck as if splitting the hall’s roof—the candles flickered violently.

Zhao Xu read the petition line by line. The few hundred characters, he read three times. Then he sat upon the dragon throne, silent.

Minutes passed. More than a full bell’s toll. Finally, he spoke slowly: “Summon Prince Yan.”

Moments later, Zhao Ti entered Wende Hall, drenched in rain, yet standing straight, his expression calm, his steps resolute.

He gazed upon Zhao Xu on the throne: eyes heavy with long-held ambition, filled with deep focus, radiating cold detachment, a solitary, forsaken figure.

He bowed: “Your Majesty.”

Zhao Xu looked at him: “What is the meaning of your petition, Prince Yan?”

Zhao Ti’s narrow eyes narrowed slightly: “I, your subject Zhao Ti, humbly petition Your Majesty: abolish the old laws, restore the new laws!”