CHAPTER 151 — A TRUTH TOO LONG BURIED
When the Empress had timidly suggested to the Emperor that she give birth outside the palace, she had expected resistance. Instead, he had agreed without hesitation. Aware that her sister had gone beyond the city wall, she resolved to follow, wishing for companionship.
Perhaps fate had arranged matters with a cruel sort of precision. The Emperor accompanied her personally, but scarcely had they arrived when urgent news summoned him back to the palace. He settled her in a quiet residence, left Imperial Physician Liu to attend her, and departed at once.
That very night, her labour began.
Fortunately, Ning Cai'er—who had accompanied her from the palace—had anticipated the possibility and arranged for a midwife in advance. But on that same night, the Prime Minister's wife also went into labour, and though she still had a month before her due date, no one had been overly concerned.
Yet fate struck twice.
Both women went into labour simultaneously, and chaos followed. The Empress, in her pain, had ordered the Prime Minister's wife to be brought into the same room so they could be attended together.
But the Prime Minister's wife suffered terribly. Her agony was so great she nearly begged for death. The midwife declared that even if she survived, she would never again be able to bear a child.
The Empress, meanwhile, delivered a daughter.
And in that moment—exhausted, frightened, and painfully clear‑headed—she made a decision that would shape the next nineteen years of her life.
She sent everyone away.
She could not allow her daughter to return to the palace. The child was not the Emperor's. She could not bear the thought of her daughter calling another man "Father." And after a year in the palace—isolated, watched, threatened—she knew she had no power to protect a child there.
The Prime Minister's Estate, however, was safe.
So she offered her newborn daughter to the Prime Minister's wife to raise.
The Prime Minister's wife, though confused, agreed. She had lost her own child in childbirth, and the Empress's daughter arrived like a fragile blessing in the midst of tragedy.
No one had seen the dead infant. The Prime Minister had only just returned to the capital, and his wife had lost so much blood that the household was in a panic. Imperial Physician Liu had stabilised her, but the shock of the night left everyone disoriented. No one noticed that the children had been switched.
The Empress dismissed all attendants, even Ning Cai'er, claiming that both she and the Prime Minister's wife needed rest. Only one trusted girl from the Prime Minister's household remained, and she arrived too late to witness anything.
The Empress arranged everything with the midwife, then prepared to report to the Emperor that her child had been stillborn.
But before she could do so, the midwife returned—carrying a baby boy.
She claimed she had found him abandoned on the roadside and could not bear to leave him. She asked if she might raise him.
The Prime Minister's household had already taken the Prime Minister's wife away. The Empress looked at the child—small, helpless, pitiful—and could not bring herself to refuse. She knew the midwife did not intend to keep him, so she agreed.
That boy was Ye Lanchen.
The midwife later buried the Empress's stillborn child.
The Empress's daughter, meanwhile, was safely placed in the Prime Minister's household—where she grew up as Tang Kexin.
Nineteen years had passed since that night. The secret had remained buried, known only to the Empress and the midwife. Not even the Emperor knew.
So how did that masked man know?
The Empress's heart tightened painfully.
When she had been forced to marry the Emperor, she had felt nothing but despair. But for her daughter's sake, she had endured. She had told herself she must live—must survive—so that her child might live too.
She had long accepted that she and the man she loved could never be together. She was the Emperor's wife now. That alone made their reunion impossible.
She had believed she would never see him again.
But now… she had no choice.
He had been in the capital many times over the years. She knew that if she sent word, he would come.
So she had sent word.
And tonight, he might arrive.
The thought made her tremble. Nineteen years had passed. She did not know what kind of man he had become, nor how he would receive her.
Her heart beat erratically—too fast, then too slow. She could not tell whether it was fear, longing, or something far more complicated.
But none of that mattered.
Her daughter's safety was all that mattered now.
As night deepened, the Empress left the palace alone and made her way to the appointed place. She knew he would come. He always came when she called.
---
In the Emperor's Study
The Emperor was reviewing memorials when a sudden movement stirred the air.
"Who is it?" he barked, rising instantly.
A masked figure appeared before him—silent, swift, impossibly close.
"Your Majesty need not be alarmed," the man said calmly, seating himself in a chair as though he were a guest rather than an intruder. "I am here only to tell the Emperor one thing."
The Emperor's eyes narrowed.
"How did you enter? Who are you?"
The palace was heavily guarded. No one should have been able to slip past unnoticed. And yet this man had not only entered—he had reached the Emperor's private study.
If he had wished to kill him, the Emperor realised grimly, he would already be dead.
"Who I am is unimportant," the man replied. "What I have to say, however, will interest the Emperor greatly."
"You expect me to believe a man who hides his face?" the Emperor sneered.
"This matter concerns the Empress."
The Emperor's expression darkened.
"How dare a masked thief speak of my Empress?"
The man laughed—low, hoarse, unsettling.
"What are you laughing at?" the Emperor demanded, killing intent rising.
"Your Majesty speaks as though you know the Empress well," the man said softly. "Tell me—did you know she has a daughter?"
The Emperor froze.
His eyes narrowed to slits.
"What nonsense is this? Do you dare slander the Empress?"
"Slander?" The man's voice was cold. "I believe the Emperor can guess who the Empress's daughter is."
"Insolent cur!" The Emperor lunged, drawing a sword and striking with lethal force.
But the masked man merely shifted—chair and all—sliding out of reach with effortless grace. The Emperor had not even seen him move.
"Your Majesty should not waste time on me," the man said, still seated. "Perhaps you should go and see where the Empress has gone. You may find yourself… pleasantly surprised."
With that, he vanished.
The Emperor stood rigid, sword in hand, heart pounding.
This man's martial skill was terrifying. None of the guards had sensed him. None could stop him.
And his words—
The Emperor's expression shifted.
He strode out of the study and headed toward Kunning Palace.
CHAPTER 152 — NINETEEN YEARS TOO LATE
The Empress stood alone in the secluded courtyard, the night deepening around her. Time slipped by in slow, heavy breaths, yet the man she had summoned did not appear. Her fingers tightened around her sleeves as she exhaled softly.
Perhaps he had not received her message.
Or perhaps he had received it—and chosen not to come.
If not for the danger looming over her daughter, she would never have sought him out. Their paths should have diverged forever the moment she entered the palace. Their story should have ended nineteen years ago.
If he did not come, she would simply find another way.
She turned to leave.
But before she could take a step, a figure materialised before her—silent, sudden, impossibly close.
Her heart lurched violently.
She lifted her gaze, and there he was—the face she had not seen in nineteen years, yet had never once forgotten. For a moment, she could not breathe.
The moon was faint, the night dim, yet she saw him with startling clarity. Every line of his face, every shadow, every memory she had buried came rushing back.
"You were looking for me?" he asked.
His voice was calm—too calm. His expression unreadable.
"Yes," she managed, forcing her voice into steadiness.
"What is it?" he asked again, his tone distant, almost absent-minded. His eyes rested on her, but without warmth, without recognition, without the slightest ripple of emotion.
The Empress faltered.
She had imagined this moment countless times—how she would feel, what she would say, how he might react. But she had never imagined this coldness. This indifference.
As though she were nothing more than a stranger.
A sharp, tearing pain spread through her chest. His aloofness made her want to retreat, to swallow her words, to flee.
If he looked at her like this…
Would he believe her?
Would he help her?
"Why," he said suddenly, the faintest curl at the corner of his lips, "did the Empress of the Great Yuan Empire summon me so late at night?"
There was mockery in his voice. A quiet, cutting ridicule.
Her body stiffened. It felt as though all the blood in her veins had frozen.
His words sliced into her like a blade.
She drew a breath—shallow, trembling—and forced herself to speak.
"Xin'er is your daughter."
The words fell between them like a stone dropped into still water.
She had no choice but to tell him. Nothing else mattered now—not pride, not shame, not the past. Only her daughter's safety.
But would he believe her?
Xin'er had been born a month late. Even she had doubted herself at first. But she had confirmed her pregnancy before entering the palace. And as Xin'er grew, the resemblance became undeniable—especially the eyes.
And now, seeing his daughter… the similarities were unmistakable.
He stared at her, eyes narrowing slightly, lips pressed into a thin line. His gaze was sharp enough to make her flinch.
"I am not lying," she whispered. "Xin'er truly is your daughter. Before I entered the palace, I was already with child. The physician confirmed it. I do not know why she was born so late."
Silence.
A suffocating silence.
Then—
"Eighteen years," he said quietly. "And you choose to tell me now? Is it not too late?"
Her breath caught.
She understood the accusation beneath his calm tone. He blamed her—not only for marrying the Emperor, but for hiding their daughter from him for nearly two decades.
And he was right.
She had known his identity for years. She could have sent word. She could have told him.
But she had been afraid.
Afraid he would take her daughter away. Afraid she would lose even the chance to watch her child grow from afar.
So she had remained silent.
"Someone wishes to harm Xin'er," she said softly. "I fear she will be hurt."
She had protected her daughter for eighteen years. But now, the danger was too great, too deliberate. She could no longer shield her alone.
"It is because of this," she said, "that I came to you."
He laughed—cold, bitter.
"Is that so? When you exchanged her for your position as Empress, did you consider her safety then?"
His words struck her like a physical blow.
Her knees weakened. She nearly collapsed.
He thought she had traded her daughter for power.
He thought she had chosen the throne over him.
He thought she had abandoned their child willingly.
Her heart cracked open.
She had believed—naively—that he would understand her. That he would see her suffering. That he would know she had never had a choice.
But even this hope had been too much.
"If I could live my life again," she whispered, voice trembling, "I would hope never to meet you."
The words were soft, but they carried the weight of nineteen years of pain.
He stiffened.
"Again?" he said, stepping toward her, fury simmering beneath his calm. "You think you would have that chance?"
His eyes were cold enough to freeze the night air.
She gave a small, broken laugh.
"When has Heaven ever given me a choice?"
She had been barely seventeen—frightened, pregnant, alone. She had tried to run, but fate had dragged her back. She had never been given a path to choose.
"Yes," she said quietly. "There was never a chance."
He clenched his fists beneath his sleeves, veins standing out. He did not want to see her like this. He wanted to pull her into his arms.
But he could not.
"I have said what I needed to say," she whispered. "I will return now."
She turned, her body trembling. She would not collapse before him. She would not let him see her break.
He said nothing.
But the moment she disappeared from his sight, his body swayed—and he coughed a mouthful of blood onto the ground.
Pain?
His pain was no less than hers.
When he vanished from sight, she found she could not move. Her legs gave way, and she sank to the ground.
She had not cried in years. The palace had taught her to swallow every tear.
But tonight, tears streamed down her face.
She did not know how long she remained there. Eventually, her tears dried, and her heart felt hollow.
But she had done what she needed to do.
He knew the truth now.
And despite his coldness, she knew he would protect their daughter.
That alone gave her strength.
She rose, composed herself, and returned to Kunning Palace.
When she entered, she froze.
The lamps were lit.
She had extinguished them before leaving.
There was only one explanation.
The Emperor was here.
Her heart tightened. She forced her expression into calm, pushed open the door—
And saw him standing by the window.
"You're back?" he said, turning slowly. "Where did you go so late at night?"