Chapter 1: How Much Time Do I Have Left?

Chapter 1: Just Tell Me How Much Time Is Left

In the late ninth month of the fifth year of Emperor Zhaowu’s reign, relentless heavy rains lashed the middle reaches of the Wei River for days, causing the embankment to breach. Torrents swept downstream, with Bingzhou suffering the most severe damage. To make matters worse, local officials, fearing accountability from the imperial court, dared to delay reporting the disaster, exacerbating the famine in Bingzhou and sending refugees scattering in all directions.

The capital had also endured a fortnight of rain, with particularly heavy downpours at night. Yellowed leaves, battered by the rain, lay strewn across the palace pathways. At the first light of dawn, court officials, clad in their formal robes, had already passed through Qinghua Gate and gathered in their duty rooms, awaiting summons.

Since July, Emperor Zhaowu had been unwell, leading to the suspension of grand court assemblies. State affairs were now first drafted by the Zhongshu Sheng in consultation with the Six Ministries before being presented to the emperor. At this moment, discussions in the duty room revolved around the Bingzhou disaster. Soon, hurried footsteps echoed from outside the hall—it was Zhang Chunlai, the apprentice of Chief Eunuch Zhang Fu. His sharp, thin voice rang out:

"By His Majesty’s decree, the Zhongshu Ling, along with the Ministers and Vice Ministers of the Ministry of Revenue, Ministry of Works, and Ministry of War, are to attend an audience at Zichen Hall. All others shall remain in the duty room to await further orders."

Upon receiving the decree, Zhongshu Ling Zhao Mengxian looked up and exchanged glances with the other officials nearby, their expressions turning solemn.

Normally, the emperor summoned officials to the Imperial Study. Zichen Hall, however, was the emperor’s bedchamber. The summoned officials felt a sense of unease, knowing the emperor’s temperament well. Unless he was gravely ill and unable to rise, he would never receive courtiers in his private chambers.

Outside Zichen Hall, young eunuchs had been quietly clearing fallen leaves from the courtyard, their movements gentle and cautious, careful not to make noise with their brooms for fear of disturbing the ailing emperor inside.

Zhang Chunlai led the officials to the outer hall, where they removed their damp cloaks and warmed themselves before being announced.

The main hall of Zichen Hall had been heated early, with layers of curtains drawn shut. The soothing scent of sandalwood rose from a white-glazed incense burner, mingling with the lingering odor of medicine. Behind the curtains, a gaunt figure sat propped up on the couch, his coughs growing heavier and more labored.

"Your servants pay respects to Your Majesty."

From behind two layers of curtains, a weak, weary voice responded:

"Rise. Be seated. Bingzhou is flooded. Have you drafted a proposal yet?"

Emperor Zhaowu had always disliked unnecessary talk from his officials, preferring to get straight to the point, even during morning audiences.

Minister of Revenue Shen Yu spoke first:

"Your Majesty, the current grain reserves in Bingzhou are utterly insufficient to address the immediate crisis. The priority is to dispatch grain and resettle the refugees. However, Bingzhou is surrounded by mountains on three sides. Even transferring grain from neighboring prefectures will take some time. The waterways are too treacherous for cargo ships to navigate safely due to the flooding. The only viable routes for rapid grain transport are through Yongzhou in the western frontier or the military granary of the Northern Border Army."

He paused briefly, trying to gauge the emperor’s reaction, but the curtains completely obscured his view. Under normal circumstances, he would have spoken more freely, but Yongzhou was where the Marquis of Jingbian was stationed. Because of the marquis’s presence, matters related to Yongzhou had always been treated with extra caution in the court. After all, the marquis had defied three imperial decrees and still remained unscathed—a testament to his unyielding resilience, unmatched anywhere in Great Zhou.

The bedchamber fell into silence. Shen Yu quickly continued:

"Your Majesty, I propose temporarily transferring military rations from the Northern Border Army to Bingzhou."

No sooner had he spoken than Minister of War Cheng Zhong objected:

"Impossible! Late autumn is when the Northern Di are most likely to invade. We cannot risk moving military provisions."

As Shen Yu prepared to argue, Zhang Fu hurried in:

"Your Majesty, a memorial from the Marquis of Jingbian has arrived."

An unwritten rule in the palace dictated that any memorial from the Marquis of Jingbian must be delivered to the emperor immediately, regardless of the hour—even late at night or during Emperor Zhaowu's illness.

The figure behind the curtains, who had been listening with closed eyes, lifted his eyelids. Zhang Fu promptly presented the memorial.

"Your Majesty."

The hand that took the memorial was emaciated, with blue veins visible beneath thin skin. Emperor Zhaowu unfolded the document, his eyes tracing the familiar handwriting. It seemed the young man had spent all these years playing in the western sands, with no improvement in his penmanship. Steadying himself, he fought off dizziness and read the contents carefully.

"Take a look at the Marquis of Jingbian’s memorial."

Shen Yu received the document and read it with the other officials. His eyes lit up as he finished. The Marquis of Jingbian, Ling Yehan, had written that he had already dispatched troops to escort grain to Bingzhou and sent two thousand soldiers to assist the Governor of Bingzhou in resettling refugees.

Although frontier commanders were forbidden to mobilize troops without imperial orders, the Marquis of Jingbian was an exception. Over the years, he had operated independently of the Ministry of War, engaging in countless battles with the Western Barbarians and Northern Di—few of which were authorized by the ministry. Whether he acted on secret imperial orders was something no one dared to ask.

Emperor Zhaowu covered his mouth as he coughed, his pale face flushing with a sickly red hue:

"Take inventory of the provisions. Once the disaster is resolved, return the grain to the Marquis of Jingbian."

Shen Yu replied, "Yes..."

His tone carried a hint of reluctance. As the treasurer of Great Zhou, Shen Yu was known for his frugality, always calculating every expense. He saw no reason to return the grain. After all, the Marquis of Jingbian had expanded Bingzhou’s territory threefold over the past three years by reclaiming land from the sand barbarians. Surely, he was wealthy enough—shouldn’t the court be entitled to some of his grain? Why return it?

Exhausted, Emperor Zhaowu finalized the list of officials to oversee disaster relief in Bingzhou:

"Zhao Mengxian, draft the remaining matters and report back to me. You may leave."

Zhao Mengxian, who had remained mostly silent, gazed at the shadow behind the curtains, his brow furrowed:

"Your Majesty, please take care of your health."

No further sound came from behind the curtains.

As the officials exited, they saw the imperial physicians waiting outside, each carrying a medical kit, ready to examine the emperor. Their expressions were unreadable as they bowed to the departing officials.

The court officials walked in silence along the palace pathway, especially Zhao Mengxian, who walked with his head down, lost in thought. Finally, Cheng Zhong, the military man, broke the silence:

"I... I thought His Majesty seemed even weaker than before. I wonder if those physicians are up to the task. Should I summon the former military doctors?"

Zhao Mengxian shot him a glance:

"Matters concerning the emperor’s health are not to be discussed lightly."

Cheng Zhong fell silent, and the others dared not speak.

Shen Yu, still preoccupied with the grain issue, couldn’t shake his reluctance. He glanced surreptitiously at Zhao Mengxian, who shared a camaraderie with the emperor from their military days. Perhaps Zhao Mengxian could voice what Shen Yu dared not.

Sensing the gaze, Zhao Mengxian fell behind with Shen Yu and asked:

"Minister Shen, still thinking about the relief grain?"

"This humble official simply cannot understand. Bingzhou is part of Great Zhou. Why does Your Majesty insist on settling accounts so meticulously with the Marquis of Jingbian?"

Shen Yu had not followed Emperor Zhaowu in his campaigns to unify the empire and could not comprehend the relationship between the emperor and the Marquis of Jingbian. Three years ago, when the marquis left the capital without permission to fight the Western Barbarians in Bingzhou, the emperor issued three golden edicts summoning him back. The court expected the marquis to be arrested for defying imperial orders—a grave crime.

Yet, after pleas from veteran generals, the emperor pardoned Ling Yehan, allowing him to retain his title and guard the northwestern frontier. Since then, Ling Yehan had been like a tiger returned to the wild, battling Western Barbarians and Northern Di alternately. The two tribes that had long harassed the previous dynasty became his punching bags, and Bingzhou’s territory expanded significantly. Court officials grew anxious, fearing Ling Yehan might eventually harbor rebellious intentions.

But the emperor merely glanced at such memorials before setting them aside. Not only that, he appointed Ling Yehan as the Governor of Bingzhou, consolidating military and administrative power in his hands—a move that kept many senior officials awake at night.

Thus, the relationship between the court and Bingzhou remained delicate. Yet, over the years, the Marquis of Jingbian had not overstepped. Every territory he captured was reported to the court with a request for officials to take over. Tribute, seized warhorses, and even prisoners were meticulously recorded and sent to the capital for the Ministry of War to assign as laborers.

In every aspect except for initiating battles without notifying the Ministry of War, he remained the most respectful frontier general.

Moreover, whenever disasters struck, he contributed funds, manpower, and grain. Yet, the emperor always returned what the marquis provided. Still, the next time disaster struck, the marquis would eagerly offer assistance again. It was as if they were at odds—but could a ruler and his subject truly have such a relationship?

Zhao Mengxian fell silent, recalling their military days:

"Do you know what Ling Yehan used to call His Majesty in the army?"

"My lord? Or perhaps 'Great King'?"

Shen Yu had not followed Emperor Zhaowu in his campaigns, but such titles were common.

"He called him 'brother.' Even after His Majesty established Great Zhou and ascended the throne, he never corrected him. Among the four marquises of our dynasty, Ling Yehan is the youngest. His strategies and tactics were all taught to him by His Majesty personally."

Shen Yu... So it really is just a sibling spat?

"But, after all, there's a divide between ruler and subject."

In the imperial family, even brothers as close as flesh and blood have often turned against each other—how many cases of fratricide have there been?

Zhao Mengxian didn’t speak further and remained silent as he left the palace gate.

In Zichen Hall, after the court officials had withdrawn, the strength Xiao Chen had mustered began to fade. He was wracked by bouts of hacking coughs, a sharp, burning pain piercing his chest. The familiar taste of blood rose in his throat. Holding a handkerchief to his mouth, it took a long while for the coughing to subside. The white brocade handkerchief was blood-spattered.

Zhang Fu immediately summoned the imperial physician.

The emperor's slender wrist rested on the bolster, the exposed fingertips pale and completely bloodless. The person inside the bed curtain was propped up against the bolster, eyes lightly closed, his dark hair simply tied up. Beneath the black casual robe embroidered with subtle dragon patterns, his body appeared increasingly gaunt.

The physician taking his pulse grew more and more uneasy. The pulse beneath his fingers was faint, weak, and deep—barely detectable with light pressure and disappearing entirely with heavier pressure, almost impossible to grasp. These were all signs of severely failing vital organs. Sweat soaked his back as he carefully chose his words to respond:

"Your Majesty may have pushed yourself too hard these past few days, leading to a deep, sluggish, and obstructed pulse..."

The person behind the curtain, having recovered from the coughing fit, opened his eyes. Though his face was pallid and sickly, his gaze remained sharp and penetrating. He glanced at the physician kneeling before the bed, raised his wrist, and spoke in a weak, deliberate tone:

"Just tell me how much time I have left."

The physician’s face turned even paler than the emperor’s, and he immediately knelt down, followed by a wave of servants in the hall dropping to their knees.

This physician had served in the palace for many years and understood the emperor’s temperament somewhat. Clenching his fingers and closing his eyes briefly, he spoke:

"Using all my knowledge, I can keep Your Majesty stable for about a month."

After saying this, he kowtowed deeply. Everyone in the room held their breath, frozen in fear. But the person behind the curtain showed no surprise or terror. He gently closed his eyes and waved his hand:

"Understood. Dismissed."