At the men's seating area, apart from Prince Ding, there were only two other imperial princes: Prince Zhou Fu Xiuan and Prince Jing Fu Xiuxuan. The Crown Prince was in poor health and would not attend such occasions. Both Prince Zhou and Prince Jing were born to Consort Xu, and both were exceptionally talented. Prince Zhou was more outwardly arrogant and brash, while Prince Jing was reserved yet shrewd. Both harbored ambitions for the throne—everyone knew the Crown Prince's frail health meant the Emperor would eventually replace him. Consort Xu was deeply favored by the Emperor, while Prince Ding's mother, Consort Dong, was far more low-key. Had Prince Ding not been somewhat outstanding, Consort Dong might not have even secured her position among the four consorts.
In her past life, Prince Zhou and Prince Jing had been embroiled in the struggle for succession, yet they underestimated Prince Ding. Firstly, Fu Xiuyi was on good terms with the Crown Prince, always accompanying him and personally seeking rare medicinal herbs for him, earning the Empress's approval. Thus, others saw Prince Ding as merely the Crown Prince's follower. Secondly, Fu Xiuyi carried himself with an air of aloofness, disdaining involvement in court affairs. Combined with Consort Dong's cautious and devout nature—spending her days chanting sutras and cultivating Buddhist practices—and lacking strong familial backing, everyone assumed Prince Ding posed no threat.
Yet in the end, it was precisely this seemingly unthreatening Fu Xiuyi who ascended the throne.
Shen Miao picked up a leaf card to fiddle with, much like how Fu Xiuyi's hand had been dealt poorly from birth. Everyone assumed he was out of the game from the start, unaware that he had never intended to play with the cards in his own hand. His cards were in others' hands, and his goal was simply to seize them.
"Why aren't you reacting at all?" Feng Anning found it odd that Shen Miao remained silent, her gaze devoid of any infatuation toward Fu Xiuyi. "Don't you like him?"
Shen Miao lifted her head to glance at her.
Feng Anning shuddered—the sharpness in that look sent an involuntary chill down her spine, as if she might kneel on impulse. She couldn't explain the feeling, only that she instinctively knew her words had displeased Shen Miao. After a pause, she added, "Actually, I don’t like him much either. How can anyone be so perfect? It feels unreal."
This time, Shen Miao actually took a proper look at Feng Anning. She hadn’t expected this spoiled young lady to see through that layer. Countless were infatuated with Fu Xiuyi's charm—had he wished it, every young maiden present would have been smitten. Yet here was an exception?
Slowly, she remarked, "Seems you have someone else in mind."
"W-what nonsense!" Feng Anning's face flushed crimson. "Don’t slander me."
Shen Miao didn’t press further. She had no interest in prying into a young girl's heart.
She had her own matters to attend to.
As the comings and goings settled, the invitations for the Chrysanthemum Banquet had mostly been collected, and the guests were all present.
Beneath the Chrysanthemum Pavilion of Yanbei Hall, a grand stage had been erected. Though resembling a theatrical setup, it didn’t feel vulgar—after all, the late Emperor had once performed rituals here. This was a stage touched by the aura of the true dragon. Flags flanked either side, and ceremonial soldiers in formal attire, their heads wrapped in red scarves, beat drums thunderously.
The drumming roared into the heavens, accompanied by the plucking of zither strings—a rendition of The Song of the Virtuous , symbolizing the imperial family's thirst for talent. Today’s Verification was to select the finest for Ming Qi’s future, the true pillars of the nation.
The music and drums resonated with stirring grandeur, stirring an involuntary surge of passion. Most present were young men, brimming with fervor, nearly swept away by the melody—eager to showcase their talents, to carve a glorious path for themselves in Ming Qi, to leave their mark in imperial history.
Even the young women couldn’t suppress their excitement. Though they couldn’t serve as officials like the men, their fathers and brothers were the nation’s backbone. Their families stood tall, and basking in imperial favor, their hearts swelled with gratitude.
Amidst the fervor of imperial grandeur, one gaze remained icy, utterly unmoved.
Shen Miao’s eyes settled on the zither player at the center. The Ming Qi royalty loved this—igniting young men’s patriotism, exploiting them to prop up the decaying court. Yet once the realm stabilized, few of these men who had shed blood for the nation met good ends.
When the cunning hare is dead, the hound is boiled. Each new emperor purged the old guard, especially those who had witnessed the dark machinations of succession—the court’s dirty deals and bloodshed. How could the royals let them rise unchecked?
These stirring melodies would one day become funeral dirges. The youths now lost in patriotic fervor would later perish in the court’s ruthless power struggles, mere collateral.
She couldn’t save the world, but she could save her own.
With a light flick of her sleeve, Shen Miao sent a cup of clear tea toppling to the ground. The crisp clink should have been inaudible, but against the rhythmic music, it was like yanking a single thread from a neatly woven tapestry—throwing the rest into disarray.
The abrupt disruption shattered the melody’s spell.
As if waking from a dream, Feng Anning snapped back to reality, only to see Shen Miao gracefully pick up the cup with a faint smile. "My apologies. A slip of the hand."
The musicians onstage, however, felt as though their heads might split open.
This music, borrowed from a Westerner, carried a subtle hypnotic effect—stirring emotions, amplifying loyalty and battle fervor. Played to completion, devotion could turn into blind allegiance. Shen Miao had only learned of its dangers after becoming Empress. The Ming Qi court used it to bewitch the young, sending them to their deaths. When the Huns invaded, the court had the Imperial Guards defend the capital while recruiting fresh troops for the borders—these musicians played, and waves of youths, some not yet of age, marched off without hesitation.
Shen Miao’s interruption sapped the musicians’ momentum. The final notes lacked their earlier fervor, reduced to mere playing. The spellbinding passion in the crowd gradually dissipated, restoring calm.
Yet her action hadn’t gone unnoticed. From the men’s seating area, Fu Xiuyi and Pei Lang both turned to look.
Author’s Note:
First recommendation passed! Dear readers, please don’t just bookmark—following updates will speed up the release schedule~
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