AN LING QI (安泠岐)

  Day 8, 4th Month of the Lunar Calendar, 6000th Year of the Yun Dynasty, Taishan Province, Tian’an Sect

  When the imperial decree arrived, I considered discarding it. I owed them nothing. Their politics were irrelevant to me. But curiosity has a habit of prying doors open, and the subtext was clear: refusal would only delay the inevitable. I could either walk into the palace on my own feet or be dragged there with them broken.

  My palm sweat dampened the grain of the wooden box in my hands. Saline secretion, likely from prolonged grip tension. I adjusted my hold to prevent it slipping. It was an old thing—plain, worn smooth by years of use. But it was functional and had preserved life in dozens of patients before.

  Whether it could do so again was uncertain.

  I could feel their eyes on me the moment I stepped into the hall. Dozens of gazes, some sharp with curiosity, but most thick with barely concealed desire. I kept my gait steady, moving through polished marble and air laced with ceremonial perfume. I settled amidst the hall of lacquered masks and layered silk.

  I bowed briefly. “Physician An, at Your Majesty’s service.”

  Silence followed. Every heartbeat in the room felt synchronised with the Crown Prince’s failing one.

  “Come here,” the Emperor commanded. “Save him.”

  I approached. The guards opened a gap. Then I knelt.

  The Crown Prince lay slumped, his jaw slack, and limbs loose. I touched the side of his neck with two fingers. His pulse was present, but it was irregular and feeble. His skin had cooled. Cyanosis evident at the lips and along the mandibular vein. A dark blue line marked the trajectory of something vascular, possibly spreading.

  Without further inspection, I removed a needle from the box and inserted it at the base of his ear. A reflexive spasm jolted his torso. Blood surged from his mouth, coating the stone tiles in a radial arc. The scent was metallic, tinged with something bitter.

  The Empress gripped her son’s hand until hers turned white. “What is his condition?”

  I turned to respond. She seized my arms. “Is he okay?”

  “Your Majesty, I have slowed the poison,” I said.

  The Emperor exhaled, his hand briefly pressed to his sternum as if regulating his own rhythm. But the Empress did not pause.

  She stormed past me.

  “Who dares poison my son?” Her voice shattered the stillness. “Guards!”

  Two prisoners were hauled forward. Ze Lujin and Princess Changping. Both were forced to kneel. Ze Lujin’s spine bent at a harsh angle under the boot of a soldier. Her arms were bound behind her in a posture that would fracture the shoulders if sustained. I noted the tension in her breathing. No sound, but her jaw clenched repeatedly. An unconscious pain response.

  I turned back to the Crown Prince.

  His face had lost further colour. His position had shifted; his legs tangled beneath the chair, his head at an unnatural tilt. The poisoned line along his jugular was becoming more distinct, more concentrated. If the pattern continued, it would reach the cerebrum within the hour. Time was not in our favour.

  I looked around. A silver teacup remained on the table, unmoved. Elegant. Unbothered. A queen amid corpses. If this was indeed poisoning, that was the likely source.

  “Did the Crown Prince consume anything prior to the incident?” I asked.

  The attending maidservant bowed. “No, Blossom Deity.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  A high-pitched voice cut across the room. “That’s a lie. He drank wine during the toast.”

  The servant's face drained of colour. She dropped to her knees. “I—I didn’t do it, Your Majesty!”

  I examined the discolouration along the prince’s neck. “Then why did you lie?”

  “I—was afraid. I… I didn’t think—I mean—I would never… I wouldn’t dare! Please, have mercy—!”

  The Empress’s footsteps began. Each strike of her heel measured like a pendulum.

  “Drag her down.”

  The guards seized the maid and pulled her forward. The Empress advanced, her steps growing louder as she approached. With a single jerk, she forced the girl’s head up by the chin.

  “Wretch. Where is the wine now?”

  The servant pointed. “There. On the table.”

  I followed her gesture. The silver cup sat near the prince’s elbow, its surface undisturbed.

  The Empress slapped the servant. “Teach her a lesson.”

  The first lash split the air with an audible crack. The girl screamed, sharp and animal. Strikes followed, tearing cloth and skin alike. The sound was repetitive and mildly unpleasant. I focused on the needle in my hand instead.

  Another one for my clinic. Assuming she survives.

  I dipped the needle into the cup. It emerged clean. No tarnish, no residue.

  “The wine isn’t poisoned,” announced the imperial apothecary with misplaced certainty.

  I rotated the needle beneath the light. It gleamed without blemish. That proved little. Certain poisons were designed to evade such detection.

  “Stop whipping her!” someone called distantly.

  The Empress didn’t hesitate. “Whip her too. Whip them all.”

  “Your Majesty,” I said.

  She turned. Her eyes—currant-red, unblinking—fixed on me with open hostility. Her makeup was flawless, except for the sweat at her temples and the red smudges at the corners of her mouth, bright as the blood spattered across the tiles.

  I had wanted to stop the Empress. But it was too late. The young servant’s body already lay crumpled in a pool of blood.

  I addressed the apothecary instead. “Why are you confident the wine is clean?”

  He smiled. “Physician An, you're a woman. Of course, you wouldn't know.”

  He lifted the same needle I had just used. “The silver didn’t turn black. But this one”—he picked up a bent, discarded needle—“this one did. The box was poisoned. That’s how the man died.”

  He gestured toward the corpse. I nodded once. “Understood.”

  He appeared pleased. Excessively so. A man unfamiliar with diagnostics, posturing as an expert. Apothecary Yue was not trained for deductive medicine. His field was powders and roots.

  “Your Majesty,” I said, turning to the Emperor. “Do I permission to examine the deceased?”

  He nodded.

  I knelt beside the covered corpse and pulled back the cloth. The man’s mouth was stained with vomit. His eyes remained open, pupils dilated and uneven. Classic presentation of a victim of a poison.

  I replaced the cloth.

  “There’s no need to check him,” the apothecary interjected. “Clearly, he was poisoned.”

  He enjoyed hearing himself speak. So I ignored him, just as one ignored a barking dog.

  “The Crown Prince,” I said, still addressing the Emperor, “is not exhibiting the same symptoms.”

  I kept my tone flat. There was no need to escalate.

  “Your Majesty, one final question: before this man died, did his muscles twitch or jerk?”

  “Yes, they did,” the apothecary answered too quickly.

  What credit he thought he’d gain by overriding me, I couldn’t say. Perhaps he believed enthusiasm could compensate for lack of insight. But if he gave me one more sultry glance, I planned to embed a needle into his neck—strictly for educational purposes.

  I inclined my head slightly. “Then, with Your Majesty’s leave, I will provide a report.”

  The Emperor gave no objection.

  I gestured to the body.

  “This man vomited. His pupils dilated. He experienced muscular convulsions before death. These symptoms are consistent with aconitine poisoning—commonly extracted from monkshood.”

  I paused.

  “The Crown Prince is not presenting similar signs. Therefore, the methods of poisoning were not identical.”

  Muffled gasps rippled through the throne hall. The Empress tilted her head with predatory calm, one brow arched in delight.

  “Continue, Physician An,” the Emperor said.

  I gave a shallow nod. “Your Majesty, the Crown Prince exhibits none of the symptoms observed in the servant. Instead, there is a singular blue line tracing his neck.”

  The Emperor shifted to a crouch beside his son, eyes narrowing. “Are you suggesting they were poisoned by different hands?”

  I inclined my head without meeting his gaze.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Ze Lujin’s voice pierced the silence. “Your Majesty, please—you see I’m innocent. Even if I touched the box, I couldn’t have poisoned His Highness.”

  The Empress struck without hesitation. Her jewelled finger guard pressed into the hollow beneath Ze Lujin’s jaw, drawing a hair-thin line of blood. A calculated wound, more symbolic than fatal.

  Lady Ze’s throat bobbed.

  The Empress’s voice curled into the room, low and poisonous. “You think this absolves you? Perhaps you used two poisons. Perhaps you made up this whole situation to trick us.”

  Lady Ze’s composure broke and tears welled.

  The Empress wiped the blood along her thumb, smearing it with visible relish before signalling the guards. The whips resumed. Louder this time and more deliberate. She returned to her throne and trailed her fingers along its armrest, the idle gesture of a queen rearranging her collection of tragedies.

  Ze Zhiwei moved instinctively, positioning himself between his mother and the guards. His face trembled at the edges, though he tried to steady her with a hand that could not quite hide the shake. Princess Changping wept openly now. With each strike, she crumpled further. They were not being punished.

  They were being broken. Methodically, publicly, and intimately. A spectacle disguised as justice.

  I closed my eyes. Sentiment had no place here. My mother had warned me of that. Emotion was neither a shield nor a tool, it was a liability.

  I placed my hands on the Crown Prince and released a tendril of magic. It curled through his bloodstream, reading the cadence of his collapse. His pulse suggested he was deteriorating rapidly.

  I was losing him.

  My magic swept through his blood. Monkshood? No. Cyanide? Absent. Hemlock? Unlikely. Those usual toxins left clearer traces.

  My magic recoiled at a pattern I recognised. It was familiar in a dangerous way. The signature of bīnghuǒdú.

  No, not quite…it was some amateur work masquerading as it. Sloppy in its elegance, but dangerous, nonetheless. Worse still, laced into floral-infused wine which would amplify its potency.

  “Bring me water,” I said.

  The Empress’s eyes fixed on me, daring resistance. Her glare sliced like a paper cut—sharp, but ultimately superficial.

  I held her gaze. Her power was performative. Mine was necessary. Still, something flickered in her gaze as she looked upon her son. A thread of real fear, a shred of the last human thing left in her, left for one person other than herself.

  I turned away. I had no desire to meet those currant eyes.

  “Stop beating Princess Changping,” the Emperor commanded with a finality that even the Empress didn’t object.

  The girl lifted her head with difficulty. Her eyes—blank, dazed—searched toward the throne before her body gave out. She collapsed with the sound of cloth and bone hitting stone.

  She required immediate medical attention. I took a step forward.

  Steel rang through the hall as a blade unsheathed before me. The Imperial Guard barred me from moving to the princess.

  “I am a physician,” I said. “Princess Changping is severely injured.”

  The Empress hissed. “Take one step toward her and I will kill you. Save my son first.”

  A eunuch appeared at my side, trembling. He shoved a bowl of water into my hands. His fingers were stiff with fear.

  I extracted it from his grip without comment.

  From my case, I drew a thin needle and pricked my finger. The pain was inconsequential. A single drop of blood slipped into the water and bloomed like ink in rice paper. I stirred the mixture with a thin strand of magic until the surface calmed.

  “Lift his head,” I instructed.

  Silence.

  Of course. No one would dare touch the Crown Prince.

  I adjusted his posture myself, tipping his head gently before administering the mixture.

  I sensed that the Empress grew restless. Like a caged predator deprived of bloodsport, she itched for something: drama, submission, a scapegoat. She found none.

  As I poured the liquid down Yun Rongxian’s throat, she erupted. Orders flew from her mouth like scraps tossed to hungry dogs. The guards moved accordingly, eager to perform. I disliked palace theatrics, but even I found the spectacle mildly entertaining.

  Those remaining after the Empress previous whipping—the Ze family—were dragged to the centre of the hall and forced to kneel.

  Ze Lujin kowtowed without pause, her palms red and raw. Yijun, ever inscrutable, sat upright on his heels, unbothered and resigned.

  But Zhiwei…he was not himself.

  “We are innocent!” he shouted. “There’s no way we could have poisoned his drink—we weren’t even near him!”

  He bowed over and over, his forehead bruising from the stone floor. It would’ve been pitiful if it hadn’t been so deliberate. But his desperation was orchestrated. He knew the court was watching. And I suspected that he hoped His Majesty would too.

  The Emperor didn’t spare him a glance. His attention remained fixed on the Crown Prince, gently blotting sweat from His Highness’ temple. It was an act of affection, quiet and precise. For Ze Zhiwei, there was no such gesture. No acknowledgment, no reprimand, not even a look.

  That was telling.

  Ze Zhiwei had the Emperor’s blood. The resemblance was more than skin-deep—military brilliance and even the same precision in speech when it suited him. But blood was not enough. Legitimacy, it seemed, was a matter of selection, not inheritance.

  And Zhiwei was not the chosen one.

  The man’s composure cracked under the weight of that truth. This was not the Zhiwei who once refused to bow to the Empress on threat of death. Now he collapsed before her, brow bloodied, voice raw from the farce of pleading.

  Acts and performances. This was the reality for those with royal blood. He surely knew that.

  Then why now? Why target the Crown Prince when the succession had already been sealed?

  The faint blue mark along the Crown Prince’s jaw began to fade. Colour bloomed across his cheeks. His pallor warmed, the tan of his skin reasserting itself like ink returning to damp paper.

  The Emperor’s wrinkled forehead eased. “It’s disappearing…” he murmured. “He will be well?”

  I bowed. I would not comfort him with lies.

  My blood could suppress poison. Temporarily. Removal was another matter entirely.

  “His Majesty asked you a question!” barked Eunuch Sun.

  I answered without raising my voice. “The poison is suppressed. But without the antidote, he will die.”

  The Emperor’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of his son, then brushed a thumb across his cheek in near-reverence.

  The Empress seized my shoulder, her clawed hand digging into flesh. Her voice trembled beneath its fury. “Where is the antidote?”

  “I don’t have it,” I said evenly.

  Her scream scraped the air raw. “The antidote!”

  There was something almost satisfying about the crack in her mask. A terrible thought, perhaps, but not unearned.

  Yun Rongxian did not deserve this.

  She, however, did.

  I turned aside. “Only báilián (白莲) can solve this.”

  báilián. The White Lotus Flower.

  A hush fell, sharp as the crackle of a spark catching oil. The weighed heavy in the silence. Few dared to even speak of it. báilián was more than rare—it was an extinct, ancient technique. Once used by cultivators of the highest tier, its purification properties had been unmatched. It required an impossibly deep spiritual well to conjure, the kind cultivated over centuries.

  Unless that cultivator inherited the Lotus Heritage of Liantai Sect. Then it wasn’t a question of if, but when.

  In theory, Ze Lujin might have summoned it. Her power once brushed the edge of legend. But after she tried to assassinate Emperor Tai Quan, the court sanctioned punishment and her magic well was forcibly stopped up. A fate worse than death for any cultivator who had once touched greatness.

  Yet, even if someone else could conjure it, none would dare. Not here, not before Her Majesty. Performing such a feat would draw too much attention, and attention was rarely a blessing in this court.

  Still…there was that person.

  “Your Majesty,” I said, keeping my voice level. The Emperor inclined his head, eyes narrowing with curiosity. “I believe I can formulate an alternative antidote. But to do so, I must return to Huadu Sect.” I offered a manufactured smile with my lie.

  The Empress’s gaze swept over me, cold and appraising. Her lip curled faintly. Then, she gave me a dismissive flick of her hand.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” I said, and dipped my head.

  I retrieved my box, then walked straight through the ring of guards without pausing. I wasn’t sure what they were guarding the Crown Prince from. Another assassination? At this point, ceremonial presence was all they had left. Their weapons could not stop poison, nor history, nor Fate.

  I scanned the crowd. There was one girl that was unlike the rest. Her hair was chestnut brown and her eyes now a careful shade lighter. And I needed her now.

  I moved through the shifting mass of guests. The crowd parted instinctively as they guessed my direction. Normally, I’d appreciate that they tried to get out of the way. Today, it meant our covers were about to be compromised. I couldn’t risk the Empress seeing me with her. I seized Su Tang’s wrist and pulled her toward the exit.

  “Wait—hold on,” she said, clutching her side as she stumbled.

  I adjusted the cuffs of my sleeve. “We weren’t even running.”

  She raised one brow and squinted her eyes. “You and I have very different definitions of running.”

  “Sorry.”

  She sighed. I expected her to be confused. I had yanked her from her position of quiet anonymity in the banquet hall, disrupted her role, and offered no explanation.

  “Can you grow báilián?” I said.

  She recoiled. “Why—? I’m not growing that.”

  I met her eyes.

  Su Tang crossed her arms, lifting her chin as she said, “Blossom Chief Ju forbade it.” She stared at the ground. “She’s never hit me before,” she said quietly. “But she did. After I conjured that thing.”

  Of course she had. báilián wasn’t just a flower. It was a symbol, a provocation. Growing it publicly, as she had done during the Blossom Cultivation Ceremony, suggested she had the power to purify death itself. It unsettled people, especially those who derived their power from earthly made titles.

  Su Tang never forgot a humiliation. And Ju Ying had made sure the punishment left a bruise. Not out of discipline, but fear.

  That did not change the facts.

  Someone was dying. Not just anyone, but the Crown Prince: the jewel at the centre of the court’s succession wars. If he died now, right here, the pretty fa?ade of politics would inevitably collapse. And beneath that wreckage, who knew what ugliness would be unleashed? The status quo was neither elegant nor just.

  But it was predictable.

  Su Tang remained one of the few still untainted by the poison of the court. If she conjured báilián now, that innocence would change. If she didn’t, the outcome was uncertain, but rarely did uncertainty favour the weak.

  I gave her a measured look.

  I won’t plead her. This needed to be her decision.

  A beat passed. Her eyes drifted to the ceiling, calculating.

  Another beat passed.

  “Fine,” she said. “For you.”

  Su Tang raised her hands, and her magic responded with ease. Light gathered at her fingertips, coalescing into a narrow stream. She pushed her palms forward, and the stream bent into a sphere, which consumed the magic greedily. Thin, translucent tendrils curled outward, trailing in delicate spirals. I shielded my eyes from the glare but parted my fingers slightly to watch.

  At the centre, a flower began to take form. With each pulse of her energy, the glow shifted, growing in clarity and structure. She twisted her wrists once more, and the magic tapered off.

  The flower hovered midair, as light as mist. Its petals undulated with the breeze, its glow dimming, then brightening again, like breath drawn in silence.

  “Thank you,” I said. There was no need for smiles or gratitude. She understood without the performance.

  “You owe me big time,” she said flatly.

  I gathered the flower. “Yes,” I said. “I know.”

  She gave a small smile. It reached her eyes.

  I rotated my hand above the bloom, murmuring the activation. The petals peeled open in obedient spirals, revealing a single white pellet nestled at the centre. I caught it before it touched the air for too long, wrapping it carefully in flax. That was the heart. The purest part of the báilián. Concentrated essence. Clean enough to purify anything. The flower withered in response, its once-luminous petals crumbling into brown husks and scattering to the ground.

  “It’s always prettier alive,” Su Tang said softly.

  I didn’t look at her. “It’s for a good cause.”

  She didn’t answer. But I knew she was watching the wilted remains. Attachment was a liability.

  ***

  Fine white dust slipped from my fingers into the bowl, settling like ash. I stirred it in silence, watching it thicken into a slow, viscous molasses. Without ceremony, I tilted the Crown Prince’s head back and raised the bowl to his lips, letting the liquid trickle into his mouth.

  He coughed, reflexively and weakly. His eyelids fluttered like shutters failing to open. One hand twitched at his side, attempting movement, but lacking strength.

  The Emperor leaned in, brushing his son’s forehead with reverent care. “Hui’er.”

  The Crown Prince swallowed. His lips barely moved.