Early Xu hour.
Candlelight flickered in the western wing; the last sliver of daylight bled through the window paper. Li Yi curled in the corner of his pallet, counting the fading patches of light.
Since his exam scroll had been taken, he hadn’t spoken a word. Instead, he dragged his nail again and again across his palm, carving the same character: zhen—“I,” the imperial self-reference.
Blood layered upon blood, a spiderweb binding his heart.
Deep in consciousness, Li Ke churned with helpless fury, like a beast trapped in a windowless cell.
He no longer blamed Li Yi for not snatching back the scroll. He’d realized it too late: tearing up an imperial document meant instant death by clubbing.
And Zhao Yan might have wanted him to grab it—to prove he was destroying evidence.
Now there was no energy left to wonder whether Zhao Yan would rethink his plan. The immediate danger loomed so large that even seeing tomorrow’s sunrise felt like a luxury.
He scoured memories of films, novels, history books—was there any precedent?
Play mad? But how do you explain the writing as madness?
Beg a patron for mercy? Who speaks for a fool? That Chou someone? But he’s in the Shence Army—only on duty every third day…
Ah! Feign illness! Claim delirium from lingering poison—say the errors were made in confusion!
A thread of hope flared. Yes—let the physicians find traces of aconite. Say I was addled!
Almost at the same instant, Li Yi reached the same conclusion.
His eyes sharpened. His finger moved faster, as if the plan alone could save him.
But within three breaths, his hand slowed—then stopped.
He bit his lower lip hard. The breath he’d drawn sank back into his chest like a stone.
If the imperial physicians examined him, they’d find a weak, stagnant pulse—clear signs of chronic poisoning. And then: Who poisoned him? Wu?
If he named her, Empress Dowager Guo would only sneer: “A wet nurse dares poison a prince? There’s a mastermind behind her.” Within hours, the palace would become a prison. Everyone would be suspect.
He didn’t care about the others.
But the court feared scandal more than poison—the whisper that servants could control imperial blood. To silence such talk, Wu would be executed, and he himself branded a disgrace who “invited calamity through moral failing,” locked away until death.
He remembered Wu’s whisper that morning: “Write poorly… be dumber. Only then will you be safe.”
She poisoned him to save her son. He played the fool to save himself. Both scheming, yet bound to the same rope.
Li Ke still argued: “It’s better than being convicted outright!”
Li Yi closed his eyes. His Adam’s apple bobbed. A sigh, soundless as dust, sank into his gut.
In this palace, some poisons couldn’t be tested. Some madness had to be worn to the bone—because those who stayed lucid never saw dawn.
At the third quarter of Xu hour, the courtyard gate creaked open. An eunuch stood expressionless. “Prince Guang. Her Majesty summons you.”
Li Yi grinned at him, eyes drifting past the wall toward Baoqing Temple. “Is Granny calling me to fly kites?”
The eunuch said nothing. He merely stepped aside.
Wu stood frozen, face pale as ash, watching Li Yi led away.
That morning, she’d warned him: “Write poorly… be dumber.” Not for his sake—for hers. If his answers were too neat, Palace Attendant Cui would know the poison failed, and her son would die.
But now… the Empress Dowager summoned him, rather than ordering his arrest.
Her mind spun. She took half a step forward, voice low: “Your Highness… did you write anything improper on the exam?”
Li Yi turned, eyes unfocused, then clapped and laughed: “Crows on the paper! Father’s riding a crow—he flew away!”
Wu’s heart leapt.
—No recitation of the Classic of Filial Piety. No coherent sentences. Just nonsense about crows…
So the poison had worked. He was still the fool.
Maybe… maybe Cui would believe it?
Then cold dread returned: if the Empress Dowager doubted him and ordered a sanity test, her son’s life would still hang by a thread.
“Woman, hold your tongue!” the eunuch snapped. “The Prince comes with me.”
In a side hall of Baoqing Temple, sandalwood smoke hung like mist.
Empress Dowager Guo sat before the Buddha niche, fingers idly turning a strand of aloeswood beads. On the table before her lay the exam scroll—two ink marks glinted like blades:
First, the character chun—which should have omitted its final stroke to avoid the late emperor’s personal name—was instead clumsily completed, crooked but unmistakably whole, matching Li Yi’s hand.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Second, eight new characters bloomed at the bottom, as if conjured from air:
“I think of this, and cannot sleep through the night.”
Zhao Yan knelt on the blue bricks, head bowed, silent.
“The Guang Prince has arrived,” announced the eunuch.
Li Yi stumbled in, gaze vacant, kicking at his own robe hem as he walked. When he saw the Empress Dowager, he lunged forward two steps and collapsed onto his knees, banging his forehead against the floor—thud, thud, thud—chanting mechanically: “May Your Majesty enjoy eternal peace…” Then, mid-sentence, his tone shifted: “Does Granny have candy?”
The transition was seamless—no trace of artifice. It spoke volumes about the year he’d spent perfecting this act.
The Empress Dowager didn’t raise her eyes. Her fingertip tapped the chun on the scroll. “You dare write the late emperor’s full name?”
Li Yi trembled.
He’d rehearsed several excuses—if all else failed, he’d claim he’d dreamt of Father. But he never expected the trap to spring here.
The question stunned Li Ke too. For a heartbeat, he froze—then frantically ransacked memory.
“Dare…” “Dare…”
Suddenly, he recalled his grandfather’s lesson: “When the sovereign asks ‘How dare you…?’ it’s not to convict, but to test the heart. If you panic and defend yourself, you prove guilt. If you’re truly witless, you may yet be spared.”
Yes! That’s it!
A voice split the silence like thunder:
“Don’t panic! She said ‘dare’—that’s your lifeline! Don’t explain!”
Li Yi stayed prostrate, throat tight, mind blank—on the verge of blurting a defense.
But Li Ke’s shout yanked him back. He almost knocked his head again—then, in a flash, forced himself still.
The Empress Dowager watched him hesitate, neither angry nor impatient. After a pause, she softened her voice, as if coaxing a child: “Was it… written in a dream?”
A trap. If he nodded, he admitted dreaming while aware—still proof of reason. If he shook his head, he confessed deliberate sacrilege.
Cold sweat stung his eyes.
At the breaking point, Li Ke roared: “Mention Father! Say ‘crow soldiers’!”
Li Yi jerked as if electrocuted. Staring at the scroll, he shrieked, clawing at his chest, tearing open his robe: “Bugs! Bugs crawling on the paper! Father said… crows are soldiers! Tomb-guarding soldiers!”
He rolled on the floor, knocking over the incense burner. Ash swirled like snow as he babbled the tune from that morning:
“Little moon, too dim to shine…
Call the crow to summon Father…
Father’s cold—crows keep him warm…”
Suddenly, he froze, eyes wide, voice piercing: “It wasn’t me! Bugs wrote it! Bugs!”
The Empress Dowager’s gaze turned glacial. She turned to Zhao Yan. “He speaks of ‘crow soldiers’—did you teach him that?”
Zhao Yan kowtowed, voice shaking: “Your servant wouldn’t dare! The Thirteenth Son—His Highness the Prince—is naturally clever… often practices imperial script in secret!”
“Oh?” The Empress Dowager’s laugh was ice. “A fool is ‘clever’ now?”
Her finger tapped the table, smile sharp as a blade: “Or is it that someone used his hand to write what they themselves dared not say?”
Zhao Yan went rigid.
Just then, the old monk from Baoqing Temple entered, hands clasped. “Your Majesty’s wisdom is clear. Days ago, the Guang Prince flew an ink-crow kite that landed in the scripture hall. This humble monk retrieved it, believing it a child’s offering to his father. We dared not touch it.”
He presented the tattered kite. The inked crow remained, its claws smudged over a faint, tear-like Li—the imperial surname.
The Empress Dowager took it, tracing the blurred black cloud with her thumb. After a long silence, she smiled. “A fool flying crows… cleaner than clever men.”
She set the kite down. Her voice turned arctic: “As for you—a commoner’s son, daring to question an imperial prince’s sanity? Drag him out. Club him to death.”
Zhao Yan collapsed like wet cloth, too terrified even to beg. As eunuchs hauled him away, he twisted his neck to stare at Li Yi—one last look, venomous as a dying snake’s bite.
The Empress Dowager didn’t glance back. She gazed into the candle flame, murmuring: “Crows… guarding the tomb…”
Her eyes held no anger. Only bottomless cold.
Dusk fell. Li Yi was returned to the western wing.
Wu rushed to meet him, hand outstretched—then pulled back, voice trembling: “…Is Your Highness well?”
Li Yi beamed, eyes fixed on the sky. “Granny gave candy! Crows carried me flying!”
Wu’s eyes filled. She bent to mend his torn robe—and her fingers brushed a stain on his sleeve: ash mixed with grime, shaped uncannily like an eye staring back.
She suddenly recalled Cui’s message last night: “If he doesn’t seem truly witless today, you won’t even find your son’s ashes.”
Yet here he was, babbling about crows, words tumbling like broken beads…
Had the poison truly worked?
The thought churned her stomach. Did she wish him clever enough to survive—or foolish enough to live?
Late that night, Li Yi sat alone by the window.
Abdominal pain returned. He curled into a ball, cold sweat soaking his back. Just as his mind began to fray, a voice drifted through like smoke:
“You won this round… but next time, they won’t believe the act.”
Li Yi didn’t ask who spoke.
He buried his face in his arms and thought, silently:
…At least now, there’s someone who’s “me.”
Outside, the last snow melted, dripping like a leaky clepsydra.
Spring in Chang’an was never warm.
And his madness—had only just become necessary.
Translator’s Note on Historical and Cultural Terms (Chapter Four Additions)
Time and Setting
- Xu hour (~7–9 p.m.): The evening double-hour, marking the transition from court activity to private reckoning. Summonses at this hour often signaled urgency—or judgment.
Ritual Language and Power Dynamics
- “How dare you…?” (敢…?): In Tang court discourse, this phrasing was not a direct accusation but a test of demeanor. A guilty person would panic and justify; a truly innocent—or genuinely witless—person would show no comprehension of the implied charge. The Empress Dowager’s use of “You dare write the late emperor’s full name?” is thus a psychological trap disguised as inquiry.
- Kowtowing and forehead-banging: Prostration with repeated head strikes (koutou) was the highest form of submission, reserved for addressing the emperor or empress dowager. Li Yi’s exaggerated performance—switching abruptly to “Does Granny have candy?”—mimics the erratic behavior expected of the mentally impaired, exploiting court expectations of madness.
Symbolism and Prophecy
- “Crow soldiers” / “Crows guarding the tomb”: While crows were generally omens of death, in folk belief they could also serve as spirit guardians for the dead—especially if sent by a filial child. Li Yi’s invented “crow soldiers” reframes the seditious image as an act of devotion, turning treason into piety. The Empress Dowager’s final murmur—“Crows… guarding the tomb…”—suggests she sees through the ruse but chooses to accept the narrative for political reasons.
- The ink-crow kite as evidence: By retrieving the kite from temple grounds, the monk provides “neutral” corroboration that the crow imagery predates the exam—framing it as childish obsession, not sedition. This mirrors real Tang legal practice: context could override content if moral intent appeared pure.
Punishment and Social Order
- Clubbing to death (杖斃, zhàngbì): Execution by beating with heavy wooden staves, typically carried out in palace courtyards. Reserved for servants, low-status offenders, or those accused of crimes against the imperial house. Zhao Yan’s sentence underscores his fatal miscalculation: as a commoner, he had no right to question a prince’s sanity—doing so inverted the natural order.
- “You won’t even find your son’s ashes”: A chilling reference to post-execution erasure. In extreme cases, bodies of traitors were denied burial or cremated without return of remains—a fate worse than death in Confucian cosmology, where ancestral rites ensured spiritual continuity.
Psychological and Political Nuance
- Feigned delirium vs. chronic poisoning: Li Yi’s dilemma reflects a real tension in Tang medicine: symptoms of zhangdu (chronic poisoning) overlapped with dianzheng (mania). Physicians could detect toxins—but doing so would expose the wet nurse’s crime, triggering a purge to “protect imperial dignity.” Thus, silence becomes the only diagnosis that saves lives.
- “Spring in Chang’an was never warm”: A metaphor rooted in climate and politics. Though spring arrived calendrically, the capital remained socially frozen—especially for marginalized princes. The line echoes Tang poetry’s use of seasonal dissonance to signal emotional or political desolation.