Far from the suffocating air of the imperial court, the Ninth Prince, Lan Cheng, reveled in the pleasures of the night. The Ruyi Pavilion, the most famed brothel in the capital, shimmered with golden lanterns and the sound of soft laughter. Perfumed smoke curled through the air as silk-clad dancers swayed before him, their movements fluid as ripples upon wine.
Lan Cheng lounged against a crimson couch, a cup of wine in hand, his lips curved in lazy amusement. Once, he had been the very image of refinement—composed, dignified, a prince whose calm demeanor inspired both admiration and envy. But that man seemed to have vanished. Now, the Ninth Prince was a creature of excess, drowning his past in wine and desire.
As the music swelled, he laughed—a sound bright and hollow. Outside these walls, the court seethed with accusations and unrest, but he paid it no mind. The emperor who once scrutinized his every step now shielded him from all reproach. This sudden, inexplicable favor had become the talk of every minister in Great Lan—an enigma they could neither question nor accept.
The Ninth Prince, Lan Cheng, was born of the emperor and his first consort, Ruo Meng — daughter of the powerful Ruo clan.
When Lan Yuhang first seized the Dragon Throne, the empire was in turmoil. The land was scarred by the rebellion of his own brother, and both the court and the country teetered on the brink of collapse. In those desperate times, only the Ruo clan stood firmly at his side. Their armies, their gold, their influence in the bureaucracy — all were indispensable to his rise.
And so, when victory was finally his, the price of his crown was named. The Ruo family demanded that he wed their eldest daughter, Ruo Meng.
Ruo Meng's reputation preceded her — proud, sharp-tongued, and unyielding. She was a woman who never bowed, not even before the emperor himself. But Lan Yuhang had no choice. He married her under the watchful eyes of the court, the ink on his imperial seal barely dry, the taste of compromise bitter on his tongue.
For his heart, however, belonged elsewhere.
Before the throne, before the rebellion, there had been Wei Suyi — the daughter of his late tutor. Gentle, refined, and full of quiet grace, she had been the calm to his storm. She was the woman he truly loved, the one he had vowed to make his empress. But fate, as it often did in the imperial court, demanded otherwise.
So, he took Ruo Meng as his first wife — a union of power, not affection — and later, when the throne was secure, he made Wei Suyi his second consort.
It was a decision that shaped the fate of the palace for decades to come.
Fate, as if mocking the emperor's heart, dealt its next hand swiftly.
Both Ruo Meng and Wei Suyi became pregnant within the same month. The court buzzed with speculation, and the empire held its breath. Whichever woman bore the emperor a son would decide the future of the throne.
When the time came, it was Ruo Meng who gave birth first — to a healthy boy, Lan Cheng, the Ninth Prince. The Ruo clan rejoiced, and their influence swelled like a rising tide. Their banners fluttered over the capital, and their envoys filled the court with petitions, urging the emperor to name Ruo Meng as the empress.
Lan Yuhang's heart, however, rebelled. He had promised himself that Wei Suyi — gentle, virtuous Wei Suyi — would be the one to wear the phoenix crown. But the Ruo clan's power was too great. They commanded the empire's largest private army and held half the ministers in their debt. To defy them would mean to invite ruin upon his still-fragile reign.
So he hesitated, trapped between love and necessity, between the woman he adored and the family that had bought him his throne.
Then tragedy struck.
Wei Suyi miscarried. Her child — the emperor's unborn hope — was lost before it ever drew breath. Grief consumed her, and in her anguish she accused Ruo Meng of foul play. She swore that Ruo Meng had plotted against her, that jealousy had driven her to cruelty.
The accusation struck the emperor like lightning.
Blinded by sorrow and rage, he believed her. Without investigation, without trial, he gave the cruelest order a husband and ruler could — Ruo Meng and her newborn son, the Ninth Prince, were to be banished to the Cold Palace.
And so, the woman who had once stood at the emperor's side was left to wither in the shadows of the palace — her son, a prince by blood, growing up amidst silence and frost.
The emperor's wrath did not end with banishment.
To punish Ruo Meng, he turned his fury upon her family. He summoned the elders of the Ruo clan to the court and demanded that they surrender half their army to the throne — a demand disguised as "atonement."
The clan, desperate to prove their loyalty and clear their daughter's name, obeyed without protest. Their banners, once symbols of imperial might, were absorbed into the emperor's command. The Ruo clan's power began to fade, its influence dissolving like ink in water.
Yet the heavens seemed unsatisfied with the emperor's vengeance. Not long after the miscarriage, Wei Suyi — his beloved — fell gravely ill. Her death came swiftly and mysteriously, leaving behind only whispers of poison and retribution. The emperor was inconsolable. Grief twisted into suspicion, suspicion into coldness, and soon after, he raised his third consort, Du Yiran of the Yi family, to the position of empress.
Within the walls of the Cold Palace, forgotten and forsaken, Ruo Meng's light dimmed. Deprived of warmth, medicine, and dignity, she withered in silence. When news of her death reached the emperor, he said nothing. The court mourned her briefly — not out of affection, but out of obligation — and then her name vanished from the palace records, as if she had never lived.
Her son, Lan Cheng, was released from the Cold Palace after her passing. But freedom meant little.
The emperor, haunted by guilt he refused to name, saw in Lan Cheng not his son — but the living shadow of the woman he had wronged. No matter what the boy did, it was never enough. Every success was dismissed, every effort ridiculed. Where others saw talent, the emperor saw defiance. Where others saw loyalty, he saw deceit.
And so the Ninth Prince grew up beneath the weight of his father's hatred — a prince in name, an outcast in truth. He wore a calm mask for years, burying the scars left by neglect and scorn. But resentment, once planted, does not die easily.