Chapter One: The Golden Record of King Xiang

Chapter One: The Golden Register of the Prince of Xiang

Heavy breaths echoed beside Zhu Qizhen’s ears, and for a moment, he forgot how long he had slept. Was it a night? A year? Or a lifetime? Everything before his eyes was strangely familiar and yet foreign, countless fragments in his mind both alien and intimate, giving him the sense that only today did he truly recognize himself. It took a long while to recover his previous memories; his eyelids quivered and tears spilled uncontrollably.

Though in his recollection that person was but a distant emperor in history—Emperor Xuanzong—every cell in his body now cried out, “Father.” The father who always cherished him in his palms, whom he watched depart with open eyes, until grief forced him into unconsciousness. Now, as he remembered that searing, soul-wrenching pain, the tears of a child surged forth, soaking his pillow in moments.

He wondered if he had been dreaming for over twenty years, or if he had pierced the mystery of the womb and awakened memories of a past life. A second self, with experiences of schooling, growing up, marriage, and an untimely death, brought a flood of information overwhelming him. The memories of both selves fused together.

Was he truly Zhu Qizhen, or the modern man of the later age? Yet, at this moment, none of that mattered. The agony of losing his father consumed all thought.

Emperor Xuanzong of Ming—his father—passed away on the third day of the first month, ninth year of the Xuande era, at thirty-eight years of age. Others might comment on Xuanzong’s merits and faults, but to Zhu Qizhen now, his father’s identity was singular: he was his parent.

“Young master, you’re awake.” A eunuch, his steps as light as if treading on cotton, entered and spoke.

“Master Wang, what day is it now?” Zhu Qizhen asked, lightly supporting his forehead.

Master Wang was Wang Zhen. Though dressed as a eunuch, Wang Zhen had the bearing of a scholar, refined and gentle, appearing every bit a learned man. He entered the palace in the Yongle era, but then he was merely a minor functionary, of little importance. During the Xuande reign, with imperial control over eunuchs relaxed, Wang Zhen’s erudition earned him Xuanzong’s favor, and he became Zhu Qizhen’s tutor.

Though Emperor Xuanzong cared deeply for Zhu Qizhen, his duties kept him busy, and it was Wang Zhen who truly accompanied him. Their bond was thus unique.

As for the Tumubao incident, Zhu Qizhen’s gaze lingered on Wang Zhen.

...

Wang Zhen replied, “It is already the fourth day of the month. After the young master fainted, I escorted you back to the palace to rest.”

A sigh escaped Zhu Qizhen's heart. "A day has passed," he thought. How he wished time could linger in yesterday. The thought that he would never see his father again reddened his eyes, and again he felt tears threatening.

Seeing this, Wang Zhen knelt by the bedside. “Young master, your filial piety is pure. Even in heaven, the late emperor would be comforted. Yet now is not the time for sorrow; there is a grave matter I must report.”

“What is it?” Zhu Qizhen asked, his voice thick with grief.

Wang Zhen shuffled closer, whispering by his ear, “The Empress Dowager took the golden register of the Prince of Xiang from the Imperial Clan Office.”

Zhu Qizhen’s expression froze, his pupils slowly contracting, his breathing growing still. His voice trembled, “When did this happen?”

“Just last night,” Wang Zhen answered.

What was the golden register?

The golden register and jade record served as proof of princely identity, the genealogy of the House of Zhu. Upon the birth of a royal child, their name was inscribed on these documents and stored in the Imperial Clan Office. Without them, one was considered illegitimate.

What truly terrified Zhu Qizhen was not some fault in the registers themselves, but their crucial use: to ascend the throne, one must possess them. In ordinary times, their loss might be trivial, but now, with the throne vacant, the disappearance of the Prince of Xiang’s golden register was an uncanny coincidence—too uncanny to ignore.

How could Zhu Qizhen remain calm?

Had he been nine years old still, he might not have grasped the gravity of the situation. Yet now, his emotions connected with those of the historical Zhu Qizhen, while modern memories lent him the insight of an adult.

The lines blurred—who had influenced whom—but he immediately understood the crux.

“Is the Empress Dowager planning to install the Prince of Xiang?” Zhu Qizhen asked, his gaze fixed on Wang Zhen.

Wang Zhen was taken aback. After years at Zhu Qizhen’s side, he considered himself one of the two who knew him best—the other being his wet nurse, Madam Li. For the first time, Zhu Qizhen’s look felt unfamiliar.

Yet Wang Zhen did not dwell on it; he merely thought the young master had grown up overnight after his father’s death. He had witnessed such transformations before: with parents present, a child is sheltered; with the father gone, they must rely on themselves, and the change is profound.

“I do not know, young master,” Wang Zhen replied.

Zhu Qizhen pondered, then shook his head slowly. “The Empress Dowager would not. The ancestral laws are clear.”

The succession system established by Zhu Yuanzhang dictated inheritance by legitimate sons, and Zhu Qizhen had long since been made crown prince—rightful and proper. His memories confirmed that historically, he had ascended the throne smoothly. The Empress Dowager, his grandmother, was the consort of the Ming Renzong, daughter-in-law to Emperor Yongle, and had assisted in the struggle for succession between Emperor Renzong and the Prince of Han, and presided over the transfer of the throne after Renzong’s death. She was certainly a wise woman—not one to act foolishly.

Wang Zhen grew anxious. “Young master, you must not be careless. The two palaces have been at odds for a long time. In the matter of Empress Hu’s deposition, the Empress went directly against the Dowager’s wishes. Prince Xiang is her own son—if anything happens, it could be a catastrophe.”

Zhu Qizhen shivered, cold sweat breaking out.

He suddenly sat up in bed, his white inner garments exposed.

He remembered the tale of Empress Hu’s deposition, which he had heard from palace elders. His mother, Empress Sun, had been sent into the crown prince’s palace by the Dowager’s mother, the Lady of Pengcheng, and raised from childhood to be the prince’s consort.

Emperor Xuanzong and Lady Sun were devoted to each other, but when Xuanzong married, Emperor Yongle appointed another consort: Empress Hu. The Dowager pleaded with Emperor Wen to change this, but he insisted the decree had already been announced, and imperial matters could not be reversed. Thus, Lady Sun remained a concubine.

Nevertheless, Emperor Xuanzong favored Lady Sun greatly. Previously, concubines did not have ceremonial registers, but Xuanzong granted her this honor. The Dowager, feeling regret, agreed as well. Yet Xuanzong and Lady Sun sought to depose Empress Hu. Since entering the palace, Empress Hu had been virtuous and respected by Emperor Renzong, the Dowager, and all the palace. She had never erred—how could she be deposed so easily?

So, upon Zhu Qizhen’s birth, Xuanzong made him crown prince and sought to elevate Lady Sun to Empress.

This caused a great uproar. Xuanzong tried every means to persuade the cabinet, but failed. He resorted to a fait accompli, telling the cabinet, “The Dowager has agreed.” Since the matter was family business, and the Dowager had supposedly consented, the cabinet relented. But Xuanzong then told the Dowager that the cabinet had approved.

The Dowager was no fool—Xuanzong could deceive for a time, but not forever. Yet, what could she do once the matter was settled? Depose the Empress a second time? Thus, the Dowager’s opinion of Lady Sun soured, blaming her for the palace’s disorder.

Though Lady Sun became Empress, she never enjoyed the Dowager’s favor.