"Qianluo loved the wild all her life and disliked rules and constraints the most!"

Back when we were defending the Northern Barbarians, we even pitched our military tents on the most open slopes, and at night we would lie on felt blankets and look at the starry sky.

They said, "This is how I feel at ease, without being confined by palace walls or having to listen to those nagging rules and regulations!"

The imperial tomb is too heavy, weighed down by blue bricks and glazed tiles, and the stele is inscribed with empty titles such as "Regent" and "King of a Different Surname".

She'll frown when she hears this, feel suffocated, and even curse you in her dreams for not understanding her!

With tears welling in my eyes, I argued with her, my hand gripping the vermilion brush so tightly that some of the red lacquer on the brush was worn away, revealing the wood underneath.

Her voice was choked with sobs she herself didn't even realize, and she spoke haltingly.

"Old Prime Minister, I know she loves the wild... but I want... to be able to rest in peace by her side after my death."

That way, it would be as if she were still with me, just like in the Imperial Study before, when she would sit on the left reading military books and I would sit on the right reviewing memorials, and we would sit there all night long.

The tea on the stove would get cold and then hot again, but she never rushed me. Only when I was rubbing my temples would she take a piece of Xinjiang milk pastry from her sleeve and hand it to me.

Saying things like, "Your Highness, have something to eat, don't ruin your health,"... I want to stay with her forever, even in the afterlife, even if I can only watch over her through the coffin.

These words may have touched a nerve with her.

She looked at me, the stubbornness in her eyes softening like sugar soaked in warm water, and the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes filled with tenderness. After a long while, she sighed.

The tip of the jade staff touched the gold brick, leaving a shallow mark. The voice was so soft that it sounded like speaking to the regent, or like convincing oneself.

"Very well, since Your Majesty has this intention, then so be it. Just don't inscribe those empty titles on the monument, just inscribe the words 'Regent Prince Qin Qianluo'."

I let out a long sigh of relief, as if a huge burden had been lifted off my shoulders. Even my back was covered in a thin layer of sweat, and the trembling in my fingertips slowly stopped.

The best outcome would be to be able to satisfy this long-hidden selfish desire without the pressure of imperial power.

I know in my heart that if Su Jinyun hadn't softened her heart in the end, remembering my unwavering devotion and the lifelong bond she shared with Qianluo, "sharing weal and woe, guarding the country together," it would have been a different story.

Even if I were to use my imperial power to forcefully order Qianluo to be buried in the imperial mausoleum, she would probably still kneel outside the mausoleum, leaning on her jade cane, and argue her case.

Even if she were punished for "disobeying imperial orders"—she understood the Regent's temperament too well, just as I understand my own unspoken yet ever-present longing.

On the day the mausoleum was completed, I went to the imperial mausoleum in person, carrying the map of the Western Regions in my arms and holding a box of Northern Xinjiang milk crisps in my hands.

As the stone door of the underground palace slowly closed, it made a dull sound, as if a door in my heart had also been slammed shut, making my chest ache.

I stood outside the door, gazing at the white marble stele inscribed with "Regent Prince Qin Qianluo," which gleamed in the sunlight.

The characters still bear the fine lines carved by the stonemason, like the strokes of her pen when she wrote military strategies, strong and neat, without any hesitation.

The wind swept across the surface of the monument, carrying the chill of the mountains. I reached out and touched the three characters "Qin Qianluo". The coolness I felt was even greater than that of the ivory plaque in the Imperial Study.

Suddenly, I felt a void in my heart, like the military strategy scroll she always kept on my desk was gone, like the figure turning pages of a book was missing by the fireplace.

Knowing that she truly "lives" here, that she will never again push open the door to the Imperial Study, never again take out a milk pastry from her sleeve and hand it to me, never again flick my forehead and laugh at me for being distracted while reviewing documents.

But then it filled up again, like a drifting boat finally reaching the shore, finally giving her a place to return to, and also giving herself a place to settle her thoughts.

No longer do I have to look back at that vermilion gate when I'm reviewing memorials at night, as I used to.

I hope the wind will rustle it gently, and I hope that figure in a blue robe will come in carrying a memorial and say, "Your Highness, I have something to report."

Later, every time I went to the imperial mausoleum to pay my respects, I would always stand in front of that cenotaph for a while, from sunrise to midday, as the sunlight stretched the shadow of the stone tablet from long to short.

It wasn't until the eunuch reminded him for the third time in a low voice, "Your Majesty, the sun is getting strong, it's time to go back," that he finally moved.

There are always two things on the stone table: a piece of Xinjiang milk crisp and a pot of Qimen black tea.

The milk crisp was stored by Haoyue in the system space. No matter how long it was stored, it still had the sweet aroma of freshly baked milk crisp when broken open, with crumbs falling onto the stone table.

The black tea was brewed in the silver pot she used when she was alive, and poured into the white porcelain cup. The rim of the cup still bore the faint marks left by the calluses from years of holding a pen.

The aroma of tea wafted among the pines and cypresses in front of the mausoleum, swirling around the stone tablet, just as the warm fragrance swirled around the three of us when she brewed tea in the imperial study back then.

I always talked to her about trivial matters of the court, speaking very softly, afraid of disturbing her, as if afraid of shattering a dream bathed in warm sunlight.

"Your grandniece, Qin Mianshu, entered the academy of Chongwen and won first place in her first policy essay."

In his essay "Equal Field Policy," he wrote that "fertile land should support the common people, not the aristocratic families," a style reminiscent of the young Duke Qin.

Even the old censor slammed his fist on the table and praised her, saying, "She has integrity and dares to speak her mind, just like the Duke of Qin back then."

A few days ago, she came to the Imperial Study to express her gratitude. When she saw the map of the Western Regions that you had drawn on the desk, she leaned over and asked, "Your Majesty, did my great-aunt draw this?"

I unfolded the map for her, and she touched the worn edges, her eyes shining brightly.

He said, "We should be like my great-aunt, making the roads in western Xinjiang wider so that more people can eat the grain from Zhaoning."

The Western embassy sent back new news: the tribesmen had not only learned to grow cotton, but also to spin and weave cloth, which was even softer than that of the Central Plains.

他们派了使者来，捧着两匹雪白雪白的布。

说‘这是用昭宁的种子种的棉，织了布送陛下，给陛下做件暖衣，冬天就不冷了’。

小主，这个章节后面还有哦，请点击下一页继续阅读，后面更精彩！