Extra seven: "Xinei Wutong·Xiao Jingche"
The leaves of the sycamore trees in Shangyang Palace turn yellow and then green, then green and then yellow, over and over again, without anyone noticing the passage of time.
Xiao Jingche reclined on a soft couch by the window, covered in a half-worn, bright yellow quilt. Beyond the window, a small courtyard, a few sycamore trees, and a dry well—that was his entire world. Sunlight filtered through the dense branches and leaves, casting dappled, flickering shadows on his pale, almost transparent face.
He looked much older than his actual age. His temples were already completely white and his eye sockets were sunken. His eyes, which were once as sharp as an eagle, were now just a cloudy void. Occasionally, a vague light flashed by, so fast that it was impossible to catch it.
An old eunuch with white hair and beard, silent as a stone, approached silently with a bowl of warm medicine.
"Your Majesty, it's time to take the medicine." The old eunuch's voice was dry and without any ups and downs.
Xiao Jingche's eyes slowly moved, his gaze landing on the dark medicinal juice, and the corners of his mouth twitched nervously. "Poison... is it poison?" He said in a hoarse voice, with a childlike uncertainty, "Is it her... is it her who asked you to come?"
The old eunuch had a blank expression, as if he was already accustomed to such questions: "Your Majesty, this is the tranquilizing soup prescribed by the Imperial Medical Bureau."
Xiao Jingche stared at the bowl of medicine for a long time before he seemed to have exhausted all his strength. He closed his eyes dejectedly and opened his mouth slightly. The old eunuch skillfully fed him the medicine spoonful by spoonful.
The medicine was bitter, but he seemed unable to taste it.
After feeding the medicine, the old eunuch quietly retreated, like a lifeless shadow, disappearing in the shadow of the palace pillars.
The palace fell into dead silence again. Only the rustling of the sycamore leaves in the wind, occasionally punctuated by the faint chimes of distant bells from beyond the palace walls, reminded him that the empire he once ruled was still run by another.
He often sat like this for a whole day, and sometimes he would mutter to himself facing the empty temple.
"Traitors... all of them are traitors... Prince Jing... deserves to die... Lin... stupid woman..." His voice was sometimes angry and sometimes resentful.
But more often than not, he would fall into a deeper, unsettling silence, his eyes blank, as if he had penetrated the wall and returned to a long, long time ago.
He recalled playing chess under the lamp in the study of the Qiandi residence. That woman's clear eyes and radiant expression, her moves swift and deliberate, her insights often pointed to the heart of the matter as she discussed the affairs of state. Back then, they were true allies, each other's most trusted partners. He had truly believed that marrying her was a blessing from heaven.
"Qinglan..." The name rolled silently on his cracked lips, carrying with it a trembling feeling that even he himself could not understand, a mixture of great pain and endless regret.
When did he begin to fear her? Was it her increasingly astonishing political prowess that won the hearts and minds of the courtiers? Was it the power she secretly cultivated that gradually made him uneasy? Or was it the slanderous words that constantly reminded him that "the queen's power might not be good for the country"?
He couldn't remember clearly. He only remembered that when the Queen Mother and the royal family hinted at their intention to attack the Queen, he felt a dark, even unwilling to admit...acquiescence, and even...a hint of relief.
He thought that by getting rid of her, he could regain his supreme, unshareable power. He believed that this was how the authority of an emperor should be.
But what is the result?
He lost his most capable assistant, the only confidant who could possibly understand his grand ambitions, and he personally pushed the sharpest knife against himself. He acquiesced to a cup of poison, but in the end, what he drank was the bitter fruit of his own kingdom.
"Hehe... Hehe..." He chuckled softly, his laughter echoing in the empty hall, more unpleasant than crying. "I... am the Son of Heaven... The world... should belong to me alone..."
But the world of this "one man" is now reduced to this square courtyard and a prisoner who is emaciated and abandoned by his friends and relatives.
A violent coughing fit suddenly struck him, and he curled up, coughing heart-wrenchingly, his pale face flushed abnormally. The old eunuch reappeared at some point and silently handed him a cup of warm water.
He pushed aside his teacup, panting, his gaze fixed on the tallest sycamore tree outside the window. The autumn wind blew, and a withered yellow leaf swirled and slowly drifted down.
It’s just like... just like that year, in the courtyard of Kunning Palace, when she turned around and left, with the corner of her clothes fluttering in despair.
He suddenly became quiet, all the excitement and resentment faded from his face, leaving only an endless fatigue and emptiness that penetrated deep into his bones.
He slowly raised his skinny hand and stretched it towards the void, as if trying to grab something, but in the end it just dropped down weakly.
He no longer spoke, nor did he have any expression. He just leaned quietly on the couch, his cloudy eyes staring at the unchanging, narrow sky outside the window.
The leaves of the sycamore tree are still falling.
One piece after another.
It covered up the glory of the past and buried all the love, hate and unwillingness.
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