Volume I: Ashes of Innocence
Chapter 1: The First Scars
The air in the birthing chamber of the Empress's palace was thick with the scent of fear and something metallic, a coppery tang that Min Yulin, barely eight and a half years old, would forever associate with his mother's agony. He huddled by the ornate, lacquered screen, his small frame trembling, the cacophony of muffled screams and desperate pleas from behind it clawing at his nascent understanding of the world. "Please! Just a little more! My lady, you must push!" a midwife's voice, strained and hoarse, cut through the sounds of struggle, followed by a grunt of pain that tore through Yulin's heart.
His mother, Empress Sen Qingyao, had been in labor for hours, long, agonizing hours that stretched into an eternity. He remembered her bright, vibrant smile just that morning, her hand gently brushing his hair as she promised to read him tales of ancient heroes. Now, her voice was raw, breaking, each gasping a jagged tear in the fabric of his childhood. He had been sent away earlier, told to play, to not worry, but he couldn't. He had crept back, drawn by an invisible thread of dread, to crouch outside her chambers, listening. The sounds intensified, growing more desperate, more primal.
He knew what was happening. A little brother or sister was on the way. His mother had spoken of it with joyful anticipation, despite the underlying fragility of her health. But this was different. The palace usually buzzed with eager anticipation during a royal birth, a flurry of activity, anxious whispers, and hopeful prayers. Today, there was a chilling stillness, an unnatural quiet that pressed down on Yulin like a heavy stone.
He had tried. Oh, how he had tried. Hours ago, when his mother's cries first became truly alarming, he had scurried out from his hiding place, his little legs pumping, his heart pounding like a war drum against his ribs. He had pleaded with the palace guards, stern-faced men in polished armor, their expressions unyielding as granite. "My mother! She needs help! She is in pain!" he had cried, his voice high-pitched and trembling. They had simply stared ahead, their stances rigid, like statues. "The Empress's chambers are secure, Your Highness. No one may enter without explicit command." Explicit command. From whom? The Emperor was absent, as he often was, disappearing into the lavish pavilions of Lady Han, his favored concubine.
He had then run to the servants' quarters, begging, imploring. A few maids had looked at him with pity, their eyes darting nervously towards the main palace, but none dared to move. "The Empress's personal attendants are within, Your Highness. We are not permitted to interfere." Their words were polite, but their inaction screamed complicity. He saw the cold fear in their eyes, the calculated distance in their demeanor. No one would help. No one dared to help.
Even the Royal Physicians, usually bustling with importance, were conspicuously absent. A junior physician, pale and trembling, had muttered something about the Empress's condition being "stable" despite her harrowing cries, and that the head physician was "unavoidably detained." Yulin, even at his young age, sensed the lie, the carefully constructed facade designed to maintain distance. The 'unavoidably detained' physician was likely enjoying a cup of tea in a quiet corner, paid handsomely to ignore the screams of a dying Empress.
He remembered seeing Lady Han Zhenlan's personal attendants earlier, flitting around the edges of the palace, their faces smug, their eyes glittering with an unholy anticipation. He had even tried to appeal to one of them, a gaunt woman with sharp features and a cruel twist to her lips. "Lady Han, please! My mother is dying! Tell Lady Han to send help!" The woman had merely looked down at him, her gaze contemptuous, before turning away with a dismissive flick of her wrist. "The Empress is attended to. You worry too much, Your Highness." It was then that a cold dread began to set in, a realization that something far more sinister than mere negligence was at play. This was not a mistake; this was a deliberate act.
He returned to his post outside the birthing chamber, the screams growing weaker, interspersed with ragged gasps. Fifteen hours. He counted every second, every agonizing breath. He imagined his mother, alone, in excruciating pain, her beautiful face contorted, her strength draining away. He felt her helplessness, her terror, as if it were his own. The palace, once a place of comfort and warmth, now felt like a gilded cage, a tomb.
Then, a new sound. A feeble, thin wail. A baby's cry. Hope, frail and desperate, surged through Yulin. His brother! His mother had done it! Relief, so profound it nearly buckled his knees, washed over him. He pressed his ear closer, a tiny, watery smile breaking through his tears.
But the silence that followed the baby's cry was ominous. The midwives' voices, once urgent, were now hushed, somber. "It's a boy," one whispered, a tremor in her voice. "He's beautiful." Then, another voice, mournful and low, "The Empress... she's gone."
The words hit Yulin like a physical blow. Gone. His mother. Dead. The fragile hope he had just felt shattered, replaced by a cold, burning emptiness. No. It couldn't be. Not after all that. Not after so much struggle.
The door creaked open, and a midwife emerged, her face streaked with tears, clutching a tiny bundle wrapped in silk. She saw Yulin, knelt down, her eyes full of sorrow. "Your Highness... your brother. Your mother... She wished he was named Haotian."
Yulin, numb with shock, reached out. The small, soft bundle was placed in his arms. He looked down at the tiny, wrinkled face, the closed eyes, the miniature fists. This was his brother. The last gift from his mother. He pressed the baby close, the warmth of the tiny body a stark contrast to the icy grip of despair in his own heart. He remembered his mother's faint words, how she wanted to name him Haotian, a name that meant 'vast heavens', a symbol of hope and boundless possibilities. Now, it felt like a cruel irony.
He lifted his gaze from his brother, slowly, deliberately. His eyes swept across the faces of the palace staff gathered in the corridor – the midwives, the maids, the eunuchs, even a few minor officials who had finally deemed it safe to appear. He saw their feigned sorrow, their lowered gazes, the quick, furtive glances they exchanged. He saw the ones who had refused him help, the ones who had stood by and watched his mother suffer. He saw the pretenders, their hands clasped in false grief. He carved each face into his memory, a silent ledger of complicity. He counted every second of his mother's pain, every moment of her pleading, every breath she struggled for. And in that moment, clutching his newborn brother, Min Yulin swore an oath. He would return it to each and every one of them, tenfold.
A commotion at the far end of the corridor. Footsteps, lighter and more numerous. The air suddenly shifted, charged with a false gaiety. The Emperor. And with him, Lady Han Zhenlan. They walked hand-in-hand, their faces flushed, their laughter echoing slightly. They had come from her pleasure pavilion, a place of indulgence and indifference, while his mother lay dying.
Emperor Min Tianyou, his eyes still clouded with the haze of wine and desire, paused at the sight of the somber crowd. His gaze fell upon Yulin, holding the small, crying bundle. Confusion, then a flicker of concern, crossed his features. "What is this?" he asked, his voice still too loud, too unburdened.
Lady Han, her elegant robes rustling, her smile faltered only slightly. Her eyes, however, darted quickly to the midwives, a silent, imperious demand for information. One of them, trembling, stepped forward. "Your Majesty... The Empress... she has passed. She gave birth to a healthy prince."
A stunned silence fell. Emperor Min's face went slack, then a shadow of genuine grief passed over it. But it was fleeting. Too fleeting. He released Lady Han's hand, took a step forward, then hesitated. Yulin watched him, watched the man who was supposed to be his father, who had abandoned his mother in her hour of need.
Yulin, his small voice surprisingly clear amidst the stillness, spoke. "Father," the word tasted like ash in his mouth, "I went to you. I pleaded with you. I begged you to come. My mother... she was dying. And you were with her." He pointed a trembling finger at Lady Han, who flinched, her carefully constructed composure cracking for a moment.
The Emperor's face hardened, his grief replaced by annoyance, then anger. "Yulin! Do not speak such nonsense! Your mother was attended to! Lady Han has nothing to do with this!" His voice boomed, attempting to assert authority, to silence the inconvenient truth.
But Yulin didn't flinch. The last bit of fragile blood connection he felt for this man, this Emperor, snapped. He stared at his father, his eyes cold and ancient, far beyond his eight and a half years. He was no longer the Crown Prince, the innocent child. He was the son of a wronged Empress, a protector of a helpless infant, and an avenger. The world had turned upside down, and the rules he once knew had dissolved into smoke. His father's denial, Lady Han's feigned innocence – it was all a lie, a betrayal that cut deeper than any physical wound. He swore, silently, that one day, he would ensure they understood the full cost of their complacency.
As Yulin whispers Haotian's name again, the tiny baby nestled in his arms stirs, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor running through the ancient stones of the palace, signaling another distant disaster just beginning to unfold.