In conclusion, the text mentions King Zhao's words: "Your Majesty has been hoping all these years that the princess would grow up, hoping that you would dare to speak the truth and express your innermost thoughts."
My voice trembled like a string snapped by the wind, and even the little gun embroidery on my clothes trembled along with my fingertips. Tears almost fell from my eyes.
"Father, I did not presume to discuss state affairs. I simply felt... I felt that I was capable of doing things, of protecting people, and of..."
"They can also shoulder the responsibilities they should bear, right?"
Before he could finish speaking, the emperor suddenly slammed down his vermilion brush, leaving a small red stain on the memorial, like blood dripping onto rice paper.
He strode over, his dragon boots landing on the gold bricks with a sound that sent shivers down people's spines.
Those were the footsteps I was most familiar with since I was a child. When he carried me to see the lights when I was little, he walked with the same steady steps.
Before I could curtsy, he pulled me into his arms.
His embrace was filled with the scent of ink from years of reviewing memorials, mixed with the sandalwood burning on the desk, and a faint hint of ambergris.
It was as warm as a brocade quilt that had been basking in the warm sun of winter, yet strong enough to hold all my swaying and unease.
The choking sensation that had been stuck in my throat for years suddenly burst forth, like a river that had been blocked by a sluice gate for too long.
Tears fell onto his dragon robe, spreading a small wet patch that darkened the embroidered sun and moon patterns.
I clutched his collar, trembling with sobs like I had when I was a child and had been wronged: "Father... that heretic Shouzhuo said I was wrong..."
“My daughter is right.” My father gently patted my back, the warmth of his palm seeping through my clothes.
The fingertips brushed against the fabric of my back, revealing calluses from the torment of official documents.
His voice was warmer than candlelight, like ginger soup infused with honey: "These years, it is Father Emperor who has wronged you."
I feel wronged that you pretend not to understand, wronged that you hide your talents, wronged that you even have to practice shooting in secret.
At that moment, the boulder that had been weighing on my heart crashed to the ground and shattered into dust, along with the poisonous vines that had been entangled in my heart, which were also severed from their roots.
It turns out that my father knew even when I secretly practiced martial arts for half an hour in the training ground and listened to the palace servants talking about everyday matters in the Imperial Garden.
It turns out that he never thought women's participation in politics was wrong, and never regarded Shou Zhuo's fallacies as shackles that bound me.
It turns out that when King Zhao said he "hoped I would grow up," it wasn't just to comfort me; it was the truth. It was the light that my father, through King Zhao, was passing to me.
Shouzhuo's threats that "father will be disappointed" were nothing more than his fear that I would hinder his path to power; they were nothing more than lies he made up to deceive me.
That night we talked until dawn, and the morning star outside the palace was so bright it was dazzling, like the tip of a spear in a martial arts training ground.
After two sets of candles burned out, the little eunuch tiptoed in and replaced them with a third set. The candle wax had accumulated in the copper dish in a thick layer, like solidified amber.
My father said he always watched me practice spear fighting from the corner tower of the training ground—my straight back when I did my horse stance, the light in my eyes when I gripped the spear, and the wind I created when I drew the spear.
She looked more like his daughter than when she sat in front of the embroidery frame, frowning as she embroidered.
“The children of the Ning family should have a spirit, just like your mother.”
"This world has never been a man's world, but a world of the people."
Whoever ensures the people have food and clothing, whoever protects the land from being trampled by horses, should shoulder this responsibility—regardless of gender, only of one's conscience.
Finally, he climbed the nanmu ladder and took down a sandalwood box from the top shelf of the bookshelf—that ladder was the one I pestered him to make when I was a child, saying I wanted to reach the storybooks on the shelf.
The patina on the brass lock was so shiny it looked black, and the keyhole still bore the marks of years of inserting and removing keys, worn down by the Emperor's fingertips.
When opened, a copy of "Imperial Ancestral Instructions of the Ming Dynasty" lay inside, its blue cloth cover worn smooth, the edges frayed, and even the pages yellowed with age.
The title page still bears the handwriting of the emperor in his youth, with vigorous strokes, and reads the five characters "Ning Chenyi's Collection".
"This is what I used when I was the crown prince," he said, handing the book to me. His fingertips touched the thin calluses on my palm from practicing with a spear. He paused, his voice deepening but warm.
"Starting tomorrow, you will accompany me to the morning court at 3 AM, and after the court session, you will learn to review memorials with me. It doesn't matter if you can't learn it, your father will teach you, just like you learned to hold a gun when you were a child."
Holding that heavy book, I ran my fingertips along the worn cover and suddenly understood why my father always talked to Chief Eunuch Li in the Imperial Garden about "wanting to become the Retired Emperor".
To attend the morning court, one had to get up at the hour of Yin (3-5 AM), and before dawn, one would make their way to the Hall of Supreme Harmony in the dark. The frost on the steps could seep into the soles of one's boots, making one's toes numb with cold.
After court, he would review memorials. The memorials on his desk were piled higher than me, and each one required annotations and markings.
He wore out one cinnabar brush after another, his wrist ached so much he could barely lift it, and he didn't even have time to drink tea.
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