Chapter 41: Terminal Lovesickness? Beyond Saving, Awaiting the End 10

And then, as fate would have it, matters unfolded just so.

Although Qin Ming had ascended as Crown Prince, his origins were an ever-present issue—one that no one dared broach openly, thanks only to the Emperor’s formidable authority. In private, however, the muttering was endless.

Qin Ming, growing wearied of such talk, was also acutely aware of how Qin Ye had treated him. Yet, the ministers who owed their status to him now urged caution—warning him to be wary of Qin Yun.

Qin Yun was, after all, the trueborn son of Qin Ye, his imperial uncle. Out of respect for Qin Ye, Qin Ming would never move against Qin Yun unless the latter openly rebelled. Yet, while Qin Ye still lived, the officials dared to encourage him to guard against Qin Yun.

Qin Ming was so infuriated he could have torn them apart, but they persisted under the guise of loyal concern, leaving him no avenue for open anger.

At last, Qin Ming resolved to visit Qin Yun more frequently to quash any sinister speculation.

When he arrived in person, the gatekeeper stammered: the Prince of Chu had gone out hunting, he said. Qin Ming, affable as ever, asked where he had gone, saying he too wished for some recreation and might join the prince in the hunt.

The gatekeeper’s shifting gaze betrayed him; his evasiveness only deepened. Qin Ming’s eyes narrowed—he realized instantly that something was amiss.

As the heir of the Moon King, whose father had lived in constant fear, Qin Ming could scarcely have imagined anyone acting so brazenly—daring, with the Emperor’s power at its zenith, to commit a crime punishable by death.

Was it because he was the Emperor’s son, immune to execution, that he felt he could do as he pleased so long as he didn’t raise troops and march on his own father? Shouldn’t he, at least, show some restraint—especially since, despite his elevation, the Emperor was only his uncle, who still had a son of his own?

Had it occurred to anyone how it might be perceived if the Prince of Chu disappeared so suddenly? Would people suspect he resented losing the throne that was almost his, and in anger, fled An Capital to raise the banner of rebellion? Or perhaps, that the remnants of Yun Kingdom had kidnapped him and planned to pin the blame on Qin Ming?

Qin Ming was nearly paralyzed with anxiety, his hands and feet icy cold. The more he brushed against the machinery of imperial power, the more he understood its terrifying weight—and his own ambitions burned all the brighter.

He could not, at this critical moment, allow anyone to deal him a fatal blow.

Thus, Qin Ming’s response was resolute; he signaled to his attendant, who slipped away and swiftly returned at the head of the palace guards, encircling the Prince of Chu’s residence in complete secrecy.

Once Qin Ming had confirmed that the Prince of Chu was safe and had vanished of his own accord, he was once again overcome with dread—yet he had no choice but to rush to the palace to consult with Qin Ye.

Yang Lao and Qin Ming received the news almost simultaneously.

Upon hearing, Yang Lao was devastated and hurried to inform Qin Ye. He had always thought serving the Emperor was like serving a tiger, but now he understood: suffering the unpredictable consequences of the Emperor’s cub’s actions was a far more frightening and unjust fate.

As for Qin Ye, he let out a long and weary sigh.

He truly had tried to guide this adopted son, truly he had.

Qin Ye had personally arranged for all manner of remarkable women—ladies of talent and wit—to cross paths with Qin Yun. Even those who did not fit the mold of prodigies found themselves, by design, in the prince’s orbit.

Yet the Prince of Chu, ever gentle and proper, never allowed himself to grow close to any of them. Instead, several of the women Qin Ye sent fell for him and refused to continue their missions.

Qin Yun possessed a singular charm.

Despite his indecisiveness and inability to remain calm under pressure, not to mention his gullibility—Qin Ye had already explained the Xie family’s situation, yet he would rather approach Xie Fangzhi than confess his feelings to Xie Fanghua.

Perhaps, in Qin Yun’s eyes, sisters shared a bond that could never be truly broken; a quarrel may last a day, but never beyond. He thought of his own sister—how, as children, they had once fallen out and stopped speaking, yet when a stern minister’s lesson left him troubled, his sister, without hesitation, had fetched a whip to confront the minister, caring little for their father’s ensuing scolding.

As the only one close to him, Qin Yun even envied Xie Fanghua her many siblings, wishing he too had brothers and sisters.

Thus, even after learning of Xie Fanghua’s plight, he could not believe any family feud could run so deep.

In the end, Xie Fanghua faked her death to escape.

Qin Yun, unaware it was a ruse, believed her truly gone, and was plunged into despair.

In truth, Qin Yun was as much a romantic as Huayang, and had he gone to the Empress to plead for a marriage decree, Qin Ye would not have refused. But instead, he sought only to guard Xie Fanghua from afar, hoping to win her heart through his own merit.

If Yun Loutai knew what Qin Yun aspired to, he would have gladly traded places, letting Qin Yun endure all he had suffered in the palace of Yun Kingdom. Then, perhaps, Qin Yun would not long for siblings so much.

While Qin Ye sighed, Qin Ming, resplendent in his princely garb, entered, led by the Emperor’s closest attendants.

“Your Majesty, I—”

“No need to speak. I already know,” Qin Ye interrupted.

Qin Ming had come to confess his error. He had acted so decisively, detaining the Prince of Chu’s retainers, because he truly thought the prince had been kidnapped and the blame would fall on him.

Never did he imagine the Prince of Chu had simply run away from home.

A prince, whose royal father was alive and well, running away—it was as if the former crown prince cousin had no idea what he was doing.

The prince wasn’t kidnapped; he had orchestrated this himself, but Qin Ming had uncovered the truth.

Nervousness gnawed at Qin Ming. His reason assured him that the Emperor, wise and just, would not hold a grudge. Yet emotionally, he was terrified, scouring his mind for escape routes.

After all, he had exposed the Prince of Chu’s secret departure from the capital.

Had the Emperor and others remained unaware, the prince could have slipped out and returned unnoticed. Even if someone discovered his absence, who would dare report to the Emperor that his only son had gone missing, suggesting he was planning rebellion?

The imperial system was thus: princes with their own fiefs could not leave without summons, nor freely visit the capital. Any violation was tantamount to rebellion, punishable by loss of title, exile, or worse—the execution of the entire lineage.

Even if the Emperor wished to be lenient, he would be forced by his ministers’ demands.

All for fear of unrest and the threat to the dynasty’s stability.

After all, in theory, a prince was also a legitimate descendant of the founding emperor, and wholly eligible to inherit the throne.

Those who had not yet taken up their fiefs—because their fathers still reigned—might remain in the capital out of imperial affection, but for the security of the realm, they could not depart without imperial leave.

Imagine a young prince, already invested with a domain, whose father was still emperor, sneaking out of the capital—what could that mean, except rebellion?

No emperor could tolerate it.

Qin Ye might, but he had no intention of ruling forever.

It was time to step down, to complete his task. Did anyone really expect him to be a model emperor, laboring at the throne for a lifetime? Unless he could become some decrepit old sovereign at the end, he had no wish to reign so long.

He could tolerate it; his successor could not.

Even if Qin Ming was compassionate enough to pardon Qin Yun for his sake, the ministers of a new reign would never allow it.

Qin Yun’s very existence was a threat.

Were he astute enough to keep a low profile, perhaps it would be manageable—but he was not such a man.

When the Moon King realized the throne was lost to him, he immediately became cautious.

Qin Yun, even if advised to be prudent and not to draw attention, would likely disregard all advice. Worse, he would feel that Qin Ming owed him the throne, that it was his by right—and so, no matter what he did, his cousin should indulge him, or else suffer the infamy of betrayal.

Had the Moon King behaved thus, even the tolerant Emperor Yong’an would not have endured it once Qin Ye took the throne.

Try that nonsense, and your life would swiftly end.

Now, with matters at this impasse, Qin Ye waved his hand. “Yang Lao, draft an edict: 'The Prince of Chu, endowed with virtue and talent, yet taken by untimely illness before reaching manhood, is mourned by me deeply…'”

Qin Ming listened in silence, but could not contain himself and looked up sharply. “Your Majesty—”

“No more. My heart is heavy—so heavy. Enough. Qin Ming, you stay. The rest, leave.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Yang Lao, the one tasked with drafting the edict, found his hand trembling.

He dared not argue, for Qin Ye was an emperor with a mind of his own. When he wished for counsel, he would ask; if not, he decided alone.

Clearly, this was the latter case.

With this decree, the Prince of Chu was, for all intents and purposes, declared dead to the world.

Qin Yun still lived, but to the empire, he was gone.