Chapter Two: The Scapegoat Princess Is Sentenced to Death (2)

Thus, the final outcome was that those who lodged complaints to the throne, under the secret protection of various officials, entered the capital without hindrance. No matter how furious Emperor Tianwu became, he could do nothing but accept the case and send for Prince Lu to be escorted to the capital for investigation.

At the same time, a thorough inquiry into the actual events was ordered.

Though Emperor Tianwu might not have uncovered every detail, he quickly ascertained the general truth: the accusations made by those complainants were well-founded, and it was only with the covert aid of officials that they managed to reach the capital safely to present their case. Otherwise, those commoners would have been quietly murdered by Prince Lu’s men long before.

Emperor Tianwu, unsurprisingly, had little desire to punish his own son. After all, a son is cherished by his father; no matter how outrageous his behavior, he was still of imperial blood. How could the death of a few lowly commoners justify the punishment—let alone the execution—of a prince?

The involvement of so many officials in the investigation only strengthened this conviction.

For if he truly punished his own son, would that not be playing directly into the hands of these officials? Most crucially, if Prince Lu were convicted, it would set a precedent: even princes could be judged and sentenced according to the law. This would become a means for officials to restrain imperial power.

How, then, could the supremacy of the royal family be maintained? In the future, impeachments against the princes would become commonplace—against the guilty, and even the innocent could be slandered and accused. The royal family’s reputation would be utterly ruined.

This was a line that could never be crossed.

Thus, the affair of Prince Lu’s abduction of pregnant women and the rumored forging of elixirs from unborn infants was indefinitely postponed under the pretext of requiring further investigation. Meanwhile, all officials discovered to have aided the complainants—ensuring their safe passage to the capital—were charged by Emperor Tianwu with corruption or branded as remnants of the rebel Prime Minister Jiang’s faction from a decade prior. Some were summarily executed; others were seized, beaten, and had their entire clans wiped out.

The purge left officials across the realm trembling in terror and seething with helpless resentment.

Yet none dared make a move.

Only after this bloody reckoning—eliminating those who had supported or orchestrated the complaints—did Emperor Tianwu turn to the matter of his son, Prince Lu. Undoubtedly, someone would have to take the blame. Yet the post of Chief Steward, whose previous holder had shouldered such blame before, remained vacant, for no official dared accept the appointment.

Thus, the post had stood empty for years.

Those of lesser rank lacked the status to bear such a burden.

In the end, the emperor’s gaze—or rather, his scheme—fell upon Prince Lu’s wife, who had been married to his son for years without bearing him a single child.

Therefore, the official verdict in the complaints case declared that Prince Lu, Zhu Qin, had been incited and misled by his wife, Lady Meng, and that she was the true culprit. All the pregnant women had, in fact, been abducted and brought to the prince’s residence at her command, and the men she sent to carry out these crimes had all committed suicide out of guilt.

Yes, the truth had been so thoroughly inverted.

In reality, she had rescued several of the pregnant women, secretly smuggling them out of the prince’s residence to safety—but now it was said she had them abducted and brought in.

Her loyal followers, slain by Prince Lu, were named as those who had supposedly taken their own lives out of shame.

But this was the emperor’s decree, and after so many officials had been executed for less, who would dare speak out or challenge it now?

Not even officials with no stake in the matter.

Even her own father, the Duke of Shu, dared not utter a word of protest. Instead, he hurriedly submitted a memorial, begging the emperor’s forgiveness for having failed to instruct his daughter, and expressing regret that she had implicated Prince Lu.

The outcome was the death sentence for the prince’s wife, named as the chief culprit.

Prince Lu was sent back to his residence to reflect in seclusion for a year.

To show imperial “grace”—or so Emperor Tianwu fancied it—he issued a special decree: the Duke of Shu’s legitimate third daughter would be given in marriage as the new wife of Prince Lu.

In his view, since he had executed one Lady Lu, he was now magnanimously granting the Meng family another.

Regardless of what the Duke of Shu might feel inwardly, he had no choice but to express gratitude for the emperor’s boundless favor.

Thus, the emperor dispatched eunuchs to send his son back to Prince Lu’s residence for seclusion, and at the same time, to carry out the execution of the prince’s wife, providing an answer to the world.

As for the matter of the new marriage, that would wait until Prince Lu’s period of reflection was over.

Meanwhile, the Duke of Shu hastily sent a trusted retainer with a letter to his daughter, and the third sister, now aware she was to be Prince Lu’s new wife, also sent a letter.

Both letters were sent by express courier, arriving before the eunuchs brought the decree of execution.

These two letters revealed her impending death sentence to her in advance, plunging her into deeper despair.

For neither letter offered hope of saving her life by faking her death, nor any words of comfort. Her father’s letter was filled with the doctrine of absolute loyalty—if the sovereign demands the minister’s death, the minister must die. The family had cared for her for years; now it was her turn to repay them. The message was clear: accept your fate.

When the decree arrives, you must show no resentment, no dissatisfaction, and certainly must not question or speak recklessly.

Furthermore, she was to express thanks for the emperor’s grace.

Clearly, the Duke of Shu knew well that his daughter was not the villain the emperor’s decree painted her to be. But this burden, once imposed by the emperor, could not be refused. To refuse would be to doom not just his daughter, but the entire clan. The charge of being a remnant of Prime Minister Jiang’s faction was a convenient pretext, one the emperor had exploited for a decade and would not hesitate to use again.

The demand that she refrain from protest or wild words was born of fear: that his daughter, unable to bear the humiliation and the ignominy that would follow her death, might cry out the truth in a final outburst. Even if the attending eunuchs would never spread such words, if they reported her defiance to the emperor and he turned his wrath on the family, all previous sacrifices would be for nothing.

How could she not despair after reading such a letter?

Her sister’s letter was even worse: it contained no words of solace, only blame, resentment, and dissatisfaction. If not for her, the writer complained, she would not be condemned to die, and her sister would not be forced into this unwanted marriage, torn from the man she loved.

She had already met the second son of Marquis Qin’an, and both families were preparing to discuss an engagement. She had been most satisfied with the match.

But now the emperor’s decree had ruined it all.

Her sister dared not hate the emperor, nor blame their parents for not refusing the marriage, nor the Qin’an family for dropping the matter so quickly, acting as if the previous discussions and exchanged birth charts had never happened. All she could do was pour her anger and frustration into a letter to her doomed sister.

The protagonist could understand the resentment. What she could not accept was that her sister actually believed those false accusations. How could that be? If even her own sister believed, what would outsiders think?

In that moment, she wanted to die, but feared it would be called a suicide out of guilt, so she waited until the decree arrived.

Then, she drank the fatal poison.