Chapter One: The Imperial Throne

Feng Yewu’s eyes snapped open. The murky darkness before her suddenly dissipated, revealing the familiar luxurious bed curtains, their subtle patterns shifting in the light. The golden threads embroidered into the image of a phoenix still seemed poised to take flight. This was the sight she had grown accustomed to, lying upon the bed in the emperor’s private chambers within the palace—a scene she had seen day and night.

But for Feng Yewu, who had just been forced by the ministers to abdicate the throne, this was an anomaly.

Just yesterday, in the grand hall, she had sparred with those rebellious officials over the old grievance that “a woman should not rule as emperor.” The verbal battle had raged, with her retorts leaving the stodgy old men fuming with anger. Then, unexpectedly, countless imperial guards had surged in from outside and surrounded her throne, encircling the phoenix seat upon which Feng Yewu sat.

In that moment of shock, Feng Yewu had understood—the ministers and regional lords had long since conspired together, meticulously preparing for this moment. All they had needed was the right opportunity to raise their troops, force her hand, and demand her abdication.

Realizing the tide could not be reversed, Feng Yewu refused to be dragged away in disgrace. Under the watchful eyes of the entire court, she stepped down from the phoenix throne, wrote her edict of abdication, and then walked to the Cold Palace of her own accord. Her departing figure was proud and cold, the aura of a ruler still surrounding her. The civil and military officials were left in stunned silence.

Abdication was only a temporary setback. At least she was alive, and Feng Yewu believed she would find a way to reclaim her power, though it might take time.

As she sat on the dilapidated bed of the Cold Palace, calculating how much strength she still had to make a comeback, a sudden dizziness overcame her, plunging her consciousness into darkness. When she opened her eyes again, she found herself back in the emperor’s bedchamber.

Was this a dream, or had the forced abdication been merely a dream?

Cautiously, Feng Yewu sat up. At that moment, a palace maid hurried to her side and bowed deeply. “Your Majesty, it is time to rise and prepare for the morning court.”

This maid was called Hanyue—one of Feng Yewu’s personal attendants, who had served her loyally since her ascension.

Feng Yewu watched her impassively for a long while. Only when she saw a bead of cold sweat slide down the maid’s nose as her head lowered did she speak in a cool tone, “Hanyue, how long have you been attending to me?”

Hanyue’s nervousness deepened, fearing she had committed a grave mistake. She struggled to keep her voice steady. “Three… three months, Your Majesty…”

Three months…

Feng Yewu’s brows furrowed slightly. So, she had only just ascended the throne three months ago? Had the five years she remembered ruling been nothing but a dream?

But perhaps this was Heaven granting her a chance to begin again.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile curved Feng Yewu’s lips. Even fate itself seemed to be on her side—such fortune was reserved for emperors born under the celestial star. This time, she would not repeat her past mistakes.

Lost in thought, she failed to notice Hanyue’s face had gone pale as ash before the maid’s legs gave out and she knelt with a thud.

“Your servant deserves death…” Hanyue stammered, trembling. Feng Yewu looked at her in puzzlement before realizing that she had simply frightened the young maid.

Hanyue was loyal—to the point that, even after Feng Yewu’s forced abdication, she had willingly followed her into exile to continue her service. Feng Yewu trusted her completely.

“Rise. You have done nothing wrong,” she said coolly. “Go and inform the others that I am unwell and will not be attending court today.”

Hanyue quickly obeyed. Though she found it odd, she was wise enough not to question the order and left immediately to deliver the message.

The reason for this decree was clear: three months after her ascension was precisely the time when the regional lords would come to the capital to pay tribute and report on their duties. It was also when they would seize the opportunity in court to aggressively attack Feng Yewu’s legitimacy as a female emperor.

Unlike in the past, Feng Yewu was no longer naïve. She could easily silence the ministers with a few sharp words, but she had more pressing matters to attend to.

This unexpected second chance demanded careful planning. Once Hanyue returned, Feng Yewu ordered her to summon the other maids for her morning toilette, then led Hanyue to stroll through the imperial gardens.

It was the season when peach blossoms bloomed in the capital. As Feng Yewu walked upon a carpet of fallen petals in the tranquil imperial garden, her mind raced with thoughts.

But she had not walked long before a commotion arose nearby, voices growing loud and discordant. Feng Yewu’s brows knit in displeasure.

Hanyue, noticing her expression, offered quickly, “Your Majesty, I shall go quiet them down!”

With a wave of her hand, Feng Yewu chose to investigate herself.

After several turns, the voices became clearer. Insults could be heard—“coward,” “kept man”—ringing out distinctly.

The imperial garden was dense with foliage, perfect for concealing oneself. Feng Yewu stopped beside a thick bamboo grove and looked ahead.

Not far away stood three men. One of them she recognized at a glance—Zhou Yangfeng, heir to the Prince of Huainan, and one of the regional lords. He was the one shouting abuse.

Behind Zhou Yangfeng stood a large, powerfully built man in traveling garb, likely his attendant.

Opposite them was another figure—tall, straight-backed, with his hair bound and crowned. Even from behind, his bearing stood out, noble and extraordinary.

Feng Yewu raised an eyebrow. When had such a remarkable person appeared in the palace?

He wore a white robe adorned with green bamboo patterns, and Feng Yewu’s gaze lingered on it. She remembered well—her father had favored such bamboo-patterned robes. Thinking of her departed father, her expression softened, albeit tinged with melancholy.