"Do you still remember the chieftain of the Song Tribe—the one you killed back then?"
A sharp pain pulsed through Minister Zheng's crooked back at the mention of that name.
It was a name he could never forget.
"There are persistent rumors," Mu Ying continued, "that recently, trade caravans traveling to Shenyang have begun to vanish without a trace. The goods that go missing are mostly furs, fuel, and food supplies. To this day, no one knows what became of the merchants involved—whether they are dead or alive."
"Are you suggesting... that the disappearances were the work of the Song Tribe?" Minister Zheng asked, his expression skeptical.
"Impossible, Mu Ying. I killed their leader myself. Without him, they're nothing but a small, harmless tribe. Leaderless, they're like children—clumsy and confused. If caravans are vanishing, I'd wager it's the work of common bandits in the forests, nothing more."
"If it were mere forest bandits, as you say, that would be a relief," Consort Hua said, casting a meaningful glance toward Minister Zheng. "But I fear… it may not be as simple as that."
"What are you trying to tell me, Mu Ying?"
"Typical bandits are unruly by nature," she explained. "They act without order, without plan. They often kill their victims and leave traces behind. But do you know what the investigators from the capital found when they went to look into the missing caravans? Nothing. No bodies. No signs. It was as if the attackers had deliberately hidden all evidence— as if they didn't want anyone to know what had happened."
Minister Zheng fell silent, caught between doubt and belief, his mind weighing the implications.
"But there's still no proof it was the Song Tribe," he said cautiously.
Consort Hua observed his hesitation, then reached into her sleeve and withdrew something.
"There is something," she said softly, "that I want you to see."
She placed it gently into Minister Zheng's hand— a withered, dried flower.
"What is this supposed to mean, Mu Ying?" he asked, frowning.
"This is the only trace left behind after the caravan was raided," Consort Hua said calmly as she returned to her seat and poured tea into her cup with unhurried grace. "Fortunately, it rained on the day of the ambush. Some petals—trampled by the horses—were embedded into the muddy ground. The dried flower in your hand is called Yelü Blossom. Tell me, Minister Zheng… do you know where this flower comes from?"
Zheng Shihwei's face flushed red with fury. He crushed the brittle remains of the Yelü Blossom into dust in his palm.
Consort Hua allowed herself a hidden smile. Her plan was proceeding perfectly.
"The Yelü Blossom is the only flower that can survive extreme cold. It blooms only in the most frigid of lands— and that land is Mountains of Shichua. Do you remember that name, Minister Zheng?"
He remembered it well.
Back during the war with the Song Tribe, after he had slain their chieftain,
the surviving warriors had fled— retreating into the harsh terrain of the Mountains of Shichua.
He had wanted to chase them down, but his injuries from battle had been too severe.
He had never managed to wipe them out completely. And now, the consequences returned to haunt him.
"Those damned Song savages..." Zheng growled through clenched teeth.
"Judging from the supplies they've stolen—furs, fuel, and food—it's clear they're fortifying themselves somewhere deep in the frozen wilderness," Consort Hua said coldly. "They're gathering strength, waiting for the right moment to strike and seize the throne. I'm certain news of the Emperor's death has already reached their ears."
Minister Zheng stood frozen in place, unsure of what to do. Confusion clouded his mind.
"Are you truly going to wait," she continued, "for the Empress's child—whose gender we don't even know—to be born, just to determine whether you or that unborn heir will sit on the throne?" She shook her head with weary disdain. "By the time that happens, the throne may very well belong to the Song."
"I won't let them take it!" Zheng roared, fury igniting in his eyes.
Consort Hua pressed further, "Then tell me—what will you do?"
Zheng lowered his head, deep in thought. The vow he had once made—not to seize the throne—now weighed on him like iron chains. To keep his word would risk letting the Song take control, plunging the realm into ruin. But if he chose to act… to take the throne… would he not be seen as a traitor? Would he not become the very tyrant he once fought to destroy?
Consort Hua watched him closely, silently pleased by his torment. The time had come to begin the next phase of her plan— one that would twist his sense of morality to serve her purpose.
"There is a way," she said softly, "to place you on the throne—without having to wait for the Empress's child to be born."
Zheng slowly looked up, eyes narrowed. "What way are you speaking of… Mu Ying?"