Chapter 101: Extra Five

The Empress successfully gave birth to a son, bringing great joy to the entire court.  

At Zhaoyun Palace, Ning Yin’s lips were pale as he mechanically glanced at the wrinkled little life swaddled in blankets before handing him over to the wet nurses and nannies.  

His gaze returned to Yu Lingxi’s face. Taking a bowl of minced chicken congee from a palace maid, he stirred it absently and said in a hoarse voice, “There. I’ve seen him now.”  

Yu Lingxi knew Ning Yin had wanted a daughter. If given the choice, he would have eagerly erased his own bloodline from the child, replacing it entirely with hers.  

But this time, fate had given them a son.  

“Who does he look like?”  

She took a sip of the congee from Ning Yin’s hand and turned to look at the red-faced newborn in the wet nurse’s arms. “His brows and features resemble yours, but his lips look just like mine.”  

Ning Yin’s lips were naturally thin, giving him an aloof, unapproachable air when he wasn’t smiling.  

At her words, Ning Yin finally spared his son another glance. The baby had a small, pronounced cupid’s bow—indeed, much like hers.  

In truth, newborns’ features were still undeveloped, and it was impossible to say for certain whom he would resemble. Yu Lingxi deliberately emphasized the resemblance, hoping to soften Ning Yin’s heart toward his son.  

*A son is just as good.*  

Having lived two lifetimes, she had never had the chance to accompany Ning Yin through the darkness of his childhood. Now, a child who shared his features could help fill that void. Watching him grow up safe and healthy would be its own kind of blessing.  

“Will you give him a name?”  

Exhausted, Yu Lingxi’s voice grew faint as her eyelids fluttered. “I need to rest first…”  

Ning Yin set the congee bowl aside, supporting her shoulders with one hand while gently removing the pillow behind her back with the other, then tucked her in.  

As the infant whimpered nearby, he wrung out a warm cloth from the golden basin and said softly, “Take him out.”  

The wet nurses and nannies didn’t dare disobey, carrying the newborn to the side chamber that had been prepared in advance.  

Ning Yin lowered his gaze, meticulously wiping the sweat from Yu Lingxi’s body before tossing the cloth aside and picking up a brush.  

—  

When Yu Lingxi awoke, Ning Yin had already left for court.  

On the desk lay a sheet of gold-flecked red paper, bearing over a dozen names written in bold, forceful strokes—clearly Ning Yin’s handiwork.  

“His Majesty came up with all these names last night while you were asleep,” Hutao said as she helped Yu Lingxi sit up and wrapped a robe around her. “He remembers everything you say.”  

From Hutao, Yu Lingxi also learned that her labor had lasted the entire night—and so had Ning Yin’s vigil outside the chamber.  

She had forbidden him from attending the birth, and he had obeyed, resisting the urge to enter.  

“Did he… hurt himself?” Yu Lingxi asked.  

Given the difficulty of her labor, she feared the madman might have carved into his own flesh to “share her pain.”  

She knew he was fully capable of it.  

“No, His Majesty just stood there.”  

Hutao explained that every time the door opened for the midwives to fetch water, she would see the emperor’s dark eyes flicker with urgency, fixed on the swaying curtains inside.  

Cloaked in the chill of autumn night, he remained rooted in place—yet his body leaned forward slightly, as if fighting an invisible restraint to rush to his wife’s side.  

Hutao had always feared Ning Yin, for his heart seemed too hard, too cold, as though nothing in this world could break him. But that night, she realized even the most ruthless emperor had his weakness.  

Listening to Hutao’s chatter, Yu Lingxi smiled softly. All her exhaustion and pain felt worthwhile in this moment.  

She dipped a brush in ink and circled one character among the many. 

“Oh? Why this one, Your Majesty?” Hutao asked.  

“The sea embraces all rivers; tolerance leads to greatness. I hope our son grows with a broad heart.”  

After a pause, Yu Lingxi added another character beside it. “And this will be his name.”  

—  

At court, the officials were more jubilant than if they’d fathered heirs themselves, proposing grand ceremonies and amnesties.  

Ning Yin, finding them insufferably noisy, abruptly ended the session and returned to Zhaoyun Palace.  

Yu Lingxi was resting on the daybed with the infant in her arms, her loosely draped hair cascading to her waist—a picture of serene beauty.  

Seeing Ning Yin enter, she looked up with a smile. “You’re back? Xiao An just fell asleep.”  

“Xiao An?”  

Ning Yin’s brow arched as he glanced at the little “monster” whose eyes were now slits of sleep.  

“The name I gave him. *An* for peace, and for *‘Sui sui chang ning’an’*—‘May every year bring tranquility.’”  

As she spoke, a faint smile touched her lips.  

Ning Yin lowered his gaze.  

When he first saw this tiny creature enter the world, he had felt nothing.  

He still couldn’t love this child. His blood ran too cold, his heart too narrow to accommodate a third life between him and Sui Sui. But since this “little monster” was born from her body, he would try to understand. And then, perhaps, accept.  

Now, Yu Lingxi had woven their sweetest memories into the child’s name, giving the abstract concept of “family” a faint, tangible shape.  

“‘Little monster’ is more fitting.”  

He scoffed, poking the baby’s soft cheek impassively. “So ugly.”  

Yu Lingxi laughed. “He’s just been born! Give him time—he’ll be handsome soon enough.”  

She had every confidence. With her and Ning Yin as parents, no matter how their features blended, the child could hardly turn out poorly.  

—  

Yu Lingxi began suffering from engorgement, the pain keeping her awake at night.  

Ning Yin, ever a light sleeper, stirred the moment she moved.  

Meeting his dark eyes, Yu Lingxi murmured apologetically, “Go back to sleep. I’ll call the midwife for a massage.”  

Ning Yin pressed a hand to her waist, stopping her.  

“Tell me what to do,” he said.  

Understanding his meaning, Yu Lingxi froze momentarily before whispering, “How could I ask this of you? You have court in just an hour…”  

But Ning Yin wasn’t listening. Reaching through the bed curtains, he grabbed his discarded outer robe and draped it over her shoulders.  

Yu Lingxi knew better than to argue. Relenting, she let him stay.

Ning Yin massaged her with meticulous care, his half-lowered lashes casting shadows over his eyes, revealing no emotion. Despite his gentleness, fine beads of sweat still formed on Yu Lingxi’s brow, her fingers clutching the bedding beneath her.  

After a while, Ning Yin set aside the jade bowl and applied a cool, damp cloth to soothe her. Then, bowing his head, he pressed a feather-light kiss to the tender area.  

The candlelight flickered, casting two hazy silhouettes against the bed curtains.  

—  

By the time Ning Rong turned one, he could already call out “Father” and “Mother.” Yu Lingxi’s daily joy became coaxing her son to speak, as if teaching a little parrot.  

Ning Yin, when he occasionally finished court matters early, would visit—but never lasted more than fifteen minutes before impatiently scooping their son up and depositing him outside, shutting the door behind him. Then he’d pull Yu Lingxi into his arms.  

Tickled by his breath against her neck, she laughed. “If you have time, why not help look after Xiao An?”  

She knew Ning Yin still struggled to accept how much of her attention Ning Rong demanded—even if the boy was his own flesh and blood.  

Perhaps this was her chance to foster some father-son bonding.  

The next day, after court adjourned, Ning Yin dutifully took Ning Rong to the Palace.  

Yu Lingxi exhaled in relief, watching them disappear beyond Zhaoyun Gate before instructing a nursemaid, “Follow them. Keep an eye out.”  

—  

In the Palace, memorials piled like mountains.  

Ning Yin carried Ning Rong in one arm, depositing him onto the imperial desk.  

Father and son stared at each other—two near-identical faces, one large, one small. Ning Yin frowned, scanning the room until his gaze landed on a wide-mouthed porcelain jar about knee-height.  

Perfect for holding a child.  

He unceremoniously dumped the scrolls inside onto the floor and plopped his son into the jar, draping an outer robe over it for warmth, then settled in to review documents.  

Ning Rong, finding himself ignored, wobbled upright and stretched a chubby hand toward the memorials on the desk.  

His efforts sent the jar rocking—until, with a decisive *clunk*, it toppled over.  

The eunuchs watched in horror, torn between intervening and fearing the emperor’s wrath, their hearts in their throats.  

Ning Yin, propping his temple on one hand, didn’t even glance up as his son rolled smoothly across the floor inside the jar.  

When the Minister of Revenue arrived to report, he was greeted by the surreal sight of the young prince happily spinning inside a ceramic vessel.  

Unable to bear it, the minister discreetly righted the jar during his bow.  

*Thud.*  

The jar stabilized, and so did everyone’s nerves.  

But the boy, restless, soon latched onto the minister’s sleeve, tugging playfully.  

By the time official business concluded, the little prince still hadn’t let go. The minister shot a pleading look at the emperor. “Your Majesty, this—”  

Ning Yin finally looked up. With a flick of his paper knife, he sliced the sleeve clean off.  

The minister, now one sleeve lighter, fled in relief.  

—  

Back at Zhaoyun Palace, Yu Lingxi enjoyed a peaceful nap.  

She was leisurely dressing to fetch her son when a flustered nursemaid rushed in. “Your Majesty, you must see the young prince!”  

“What happened?” Yu Lingxi rose, calm. “His Majesty has his limits. He wouldn’t do anything too—”  

Her words died as Ning Yin strode through the courtyard at sunset, clad in crimson imperial robes—holding their son by the back of his collar like a stray kitten.  

“… extreme,” she finished weakly, pressing a hand to her forehead.  

—  

Three years later, Ning Rong turned four.  

Precociously brilliant, he’d memorized primers by the age most children played in mud, mastering everything with eerie ease.  

Yet one thing stood out: he kept his distance from Ning Yin.  

The realization struck Yu Lingxi one day when she found him methodically plucking the wings and legs off a grasshopper, then watching it struggle.  

“It can’t hug its children without limbs. How sad,” she said, kneeling beside him without reproach. “What if someone took Mother’s arms? How would Xiao An feel?”  

“Then… glue them back,” he mumbled, trying to reattach the torn legs with childish determination.  

When it failed, panic flickered in his eyes.  

Yu Lingxi ruffled his hair. “Living things aren’t clothes. Some hurts can’t be mended.”  

Ning Rong hung his head. “I understand.”  

“Wash your hands,” she said softly. “Let’s go find Father.”  

He dug a small grave for the grasshopper. “No.”  

“Why not?”  

“Father doesn’t like me.”  

The childish words landed like stones in her chest.  

—  

That night, curled against Ning Yin, Yu Lingxi recounted the incident.  

“If you could speak to your younger self,” she asked, “what would you say?”  

Ning Yin was far too sharp to miss her meaning.  

He couldn’t change his own past—but he could shape Ning Rong’s.  

Yet articulating it was another matter. Every shred of tenderness in him belonged to her; what he felt for their son was merely an extension of that love.  

“Sleep,” he deflected, kneading the nape of her neck.  

—  

At dawn, rustling sounds drew Yu Lingxi to the courtyard.  

There, beneath crimson maple leaves, Ning Yin and Ning Rong sat cross-legged, each whittling bamboo strips with daggers.  

Glue, fishing line, and half-assembled kite frames littered the stone table between them.

The two figures—one large, one small—moved in perfect unison, their mirrored motions a sight to behold.  

When Yu Lingxi stepped outside, Ning Rong’s eyes lit up with childish delight. “Mother! Look!” He proudly held up his lopsided bamboo creation.  

Suppressing a smile, Yu Lingxi approached, her gold-woven skirts shimmering in the sunlight. “Be careful not to hurt yourself—”  

“If he cuts his fingers, he’ll learn,” Ning Yin interjected, his tone softer than usual. He tapped the space beside him. “Sit.”  

So she did, resting her chin in her hands as she watched father and son work.  

Ning Yin was teaching Xiao An how to make a blue-feathered kite—the same kind he’d once flown with Yu Lingxi, the same kind Consort Li had crushed underfoot in his childhood. It carried the weight of his journey from darkness to light.  

Now, he was passing it on.  

The kites wobbled into the sky—one exquisitely crafted, the other charmingly clumsy.  

“Father! Mine’s flying higher!” The boy beamed, his dark eyes alight, yesterday’s melancholy forgotten.  

Ning Yin gave his string a lazy tug. “Yours is shoddy. It’ll crash soon.”  

Undeterred, Ning Rong took off running, his short legs pumping as a swarm of attendants scrambled after him.  

He ran freely—no shadows, no walls, nothing to chain his steps.  

Yu Lingxi laughed into Ning Yin’s chest, her arms tight around his waist.  

*Ning Rong has everything. But Ning Yin only has me.*  

As if sensing her thoughts, Ning Yin reeled her closer with one arm while managing the kite with the other.  

“My kindness has motives,” he murmured, sunlight gliding over his sharp features. “Once the little monster’s occupied, Sui Sui is mine alone.”  

With that, he released the string. The spool spun wildly as the kite soared—  

—just as Yu Lingxi found herself swept off her feet. She clung to his neck. “What are you—?”  

“Unclogging ducts.”  

“…” She glared. “He’s four! He weaned three years ago!”  

“Then I’ll unclog something else.”  

When she stomped her foot in protest, Ning Yin’s shoulders shook with silent laughter.  

The palace doors shut, scattering maple leaves. The blue kite dwindled to a speck in the azure sky.  

—  

**Year 9 of Sui’an Era**  

At seven, Ning Rong was crowned Crown Prince—an unprecedented move for an emperor in his prime. A few fretful ministers sighed about “the late emperor’s lack of heirs causing turmoil,” their hints transparent: *Have more sons. Keep your options open.*  

But as Ning Rong grew, their concerns faded. The boy was simply too exceptional. He’d inherited his father’s brilliance and decisiveness, yet none of his ruthlessness. By fifteen, he grasped court politics with startling acuity—a born ruler.  

**Year 19 of Sui’an Era**  

The emperor abdicated. The new sovereign ascended, while Ning Yin and Yu Lingxi retired to a lakeside palace.  

On their departure day, six youths stood shoulder-to-shoulder atop the crimson walls:  

“Will Auntie come back?” Yu Yu asked, amber eyes glinting.  

“She will,” Yu Jin assured.  

Ning Jie slapped Ning Rong’s back with a tiger-toothed grin. “Don’t worry. We’ve got your back, Your Majesty.”  

The younger two—Zhou Chi and Yu Li—watched in wide-eyed awe as their elders clasped hands beneath the spring sun.  

*Scholars and generals, they’d mold the land itself into an era of peace.*  

—  

At the retreat, cranes skimmed the mirrored lake.  

Pear blossoms snowed over the pavilion where Ning Yin lounged, wine cup in hand.  

“Let’s go elsewhere,” Yu Lingxi brushed petals from his shoulders. “Pretty, but annoying.”  

He caught her wrist. “Come here. I’ll clean you properly.”  

That smirk meant trouble. She dodged—too late. His arm hooked her waist as his lips traced every stray petal on her skin.  

Wind stirred the blossoms. White petals drifted into their wine cups, rippling the surface like the slow, sweet passage of time.  

Previous

Next