Did the Emperor's rage conceal a desperate plan to protect his children? In the grand hall of the palace, the air turned to ice. The Crown Prince, Feng Suige (风随歌), had openly defied his father, the Son of Heaven, for the sake of an assassin. In his defiance, he uttered a name long forbidden within the palace walls: the late Empress. A chilling fury emanated from the throne, but beneath the surface of imperial wrath lay something far more raw—the shock and fear of an old wound being violently torn open. This was not merely about challenged authority; it was about a past the Emperor had tried desperately to bury, a secret that held the key to his family's survival and the truth about an Empress who might not be dead at all.
The Forbidden Name
The death of the late Empress was a case shrouded in mystery, hastily closed with accusations of treason. An imperial decree silenced all discussion, sealing the memory deep within the forbidden palace. On the surface, this was to protect the dignity of the royal family. In reality, it was a cold, hard barrier the Emperor erected to shield his young children, Feng Suige and his sister, from the unseen forces that had claimed their mother. As an old saying goes, "If you love your children, you plan deeply for their future." In a court teeming with hidden knives, the truth was a luxury they could not afford. The Emperor knew the conspirators who took his beloved wife would not stop until his bloodline was erased. His only recourse was to use his own perceived ruthless as a shield for their survival.
His subsequent actions seemed inexplicable. He swiftly installed a new Empress, elevating the Zhuang Family (庄家) to a position of great power, and even placed his own children under her care. This apparent betrayal was, in fact, a dangerous gambit—a deliberate move to place his most precious assets directly under the watchful eye of his most likely enemies. By making the children the formal wards of the new Empress, any harm that came to them would immediately fall under suspicion. It was a father's profound, if brutal, logic: their safety was now inextricably linked to their apparent enemy's reputation.
Feng Suige, of course, could not understand this. All he saw was a new Empress occupying his mother's place before her body was cold. All he felt was the constant threat of assassination from the very people now called his family. At fourteen, he staged his own death and fled the palace, remaking himself in the blood and fire of the military camp. He became the feared God of War, a transformation born of survival and a silent rebellion against the cold, calculating world of his father.
A Performance of Conflict
The recent assassination attempt was a grim echo of the past. The current Empress's fear of the woman named Yixiao (一笑) originated from the same source as the poison that felled the late Empress. The Emperor, aware of the new Empress's scheming, chose to side with her. This was not blindness, but a carefully staged performance for the entire court. His severe punishment of Feng Suige, including stripping him of his ceremonial duties, was a calculated move. It allowed the second prince, Feng Chengyang (凤承阳), to step into the spotlight, all to lull the Zhuang Family into a false sense of security.
Every public clash between father and son, every seeming act of disownment, added another layer of protective camouflage for Feng Suige. The more they appeared to be at odds, the more the prince seemed to be falling from power and favor in the eyes of their enemies. In the deadly theater of the court, this perceived weakness was his greatest strength. The Emperor played the part of a disappointed, angry father perfectly, using his own reputation to divert attention from his true heir.
Perhaps Feng Suige himself began to unconsciously mirror his father's methods. His plan to fake the death of his ally, Ning Fei (宁非), to remove him from the political crossfire, was a smaller-scale version of the same desperate strategy. It suggests a dawning understanding that in their world, apparent sacrifice could be the ultimate form of protection. The Emperor's harshness was a shield, and the prince's rebellion was a sword, both necessary for navigating the labyrinth of palace intrigue.
The Truth in the Silence
What if the ultimate secret is that the late Empress never died? The most compelling theory is that the Emperor, in his most desperate and loving act, staged her death. He might have used that tragic, public accusation of treason as a brutal but effective smokescreen to spirit her away from the gilded cage of the palace. Sent to a remote, unknown sanctuary, she could have found true freedom and a new life, far from the conspiracies that sought her destruction. The imperial decree forbidding her name was not meant to erase a scandal, but to protect a secret of monumental importance.
The heart of an emperor is as deep as the ocean. He has borne the pain of losing his wife and the bitter hatred of his son, walking the razor's edge of power entirely alone. His famous outbursts of anger were not just displays of power; they were expressions of terror for his son's reckless actions and a profound, unspeakable grief for a past he could never reclaim. He is both the master of the long game and its loneliest piece, sacrificing his relationship with his son for the chance to one day secure his safety and reveal the truth.
The final move in this long-standing game is yet to be played. The Emperor waits for the perfect moment, a confluence of events that will allow him to tear out the corrupt influences by their roots. When that day comes, the forbidden name will no longer be a secret, and the father's love, hidden for so long behind a mask of ruthless, will finally be understood. The truth behind the late Empress's disappearance is the key that will unlock the future of the entire empire.
