Chapter Five: Reflections on a Cold Night

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Night had grown deep. The snow continued to fall, and the wind howled fiercely, a biting northern gale that never ceased. The cold was so intense that, even with two large braziers burning brightly in the room, the pervasive chill could not be wholly driven away. Though he lay beneath two thick brocade quilts, Li Xian’s frail, slender body was curled into a tight ball, much like a kitten. At a glance, he appeared to be sound asleep, yet the constant quiver of his eyelids betrayed the truth.

Scenes—one after another—danced and flickered in his mind, interwoven and relentless, piling up like a montage until the mounting pressure became unbearable, heavy as a mountain, suffocating him until his breath came faster and faster.

“No, no, don’t, don’t…”

As the deepest wounds within him were torn open one by one, the agony jolted Li Xian upright. He sprang from his bed, drenched in cold sweat, a sharp and piercing cry erupting from his lips, so loud it startled the two young maids who slept nearby on the small divan.

“Your Highness, Your Highness!”

“Your Highness, wake up, please!”

…

Though both girls were only fifteen or sixteen, they had served Li Xian for years and seldom encountered a scene such as this. Now, seeing him scream like one possessed, they panicked and each rushed forward, one grabbing his arm as they called to him anxiously.

After a few moments, Li Xian’s wild eyes slowly returned to normal size. With the maids shaking him gently, he gradually regained his senses. Fixing his gaze on the two girls at his side, he exhaled deeply and shook his head, speaking slowly: “It’s nothing. I simply had a dream, that’s all. It’s over now, it’s over. Yan Hong, Cui Liu, brew me a pot of tea. I wish to be alone for a while.”

“Your Highness, are you truly alright?”

Yan Hong, the elder of the two, had served Li Xian since his days in the palace, a full six years. She knew his temperament intimately. Now, hearing him speak with such clarity and composure, so different from his earlier frenzy, she was somewhat reassured. Yet his words lacked the childishness of old and instead seemed oddly aged, like those of a little old man. Her suspicion deepened as she studied him, hesitating as she spoke.

Alright? How could he truly be alright? Li Xian had been wrenched from sleep by a nightmare of his previous life’s most harrowing ordeal: after being deposed and made Prince of Luling, his beloved eldest son Li Chongrun was denounced to Empress Wu for privately commenting with his sister Li Xianhui and brother-in-law Wu Yanji on her scandalous private life. The punishment was swift and merciless: Wu ordered them beaten to death before Li Xian’s very eyes. The pitiful cries of his son and daughter, their pleas for mercy, shattered his heart to pieces. Even now, though he knew these events had yet to occur, the pain was undiminished, inescapable.

A tiger, it is said, will not devour its own cubs. But Wu Zetian—she killed her sons, her daughters, her grandsons. There was nothing she would not do to ascend the throne. Could such a person be called a mother? No, she was unworthy of the name. She was a wretch, a demon in human skin. At the thought of these blood-soaked tragedies, Li Xian’s heart pounded wildly, but reason warned him clearly: such secrets must never be spoken—not to anyone.

“I am fine,” he said at last. “I just wish some peace and quiet. Go, fetch me a pot of tea—or, better yet, warm some wine for me.”

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Though his heart ached terribly, Li Xian had no wish to reveal his pain before the two maids, nor confide in them. So he furrowed his brow, forced himself to suppress his agitation, and issued his order in a calm, steady tone.

“Yes, Your Highness, as you command.”

Yan Hong’s lips parted, as if she wished to say more, but seeing the impatience clouding the boy’s still childish face, she was struck by a rare and undeniable authority. Her heart trembled, and she dared not protest further. With a proper salute, she led Cui Liu off to prepare the wine.

Eighteen years. There were still eighteen years left. Li Xian remembered it clearly: in his previous life, his weak-willed father had lived another eighteen years. It sounded like ample time, yet he knew otherwise. Wu Zetian had ascended to supreme power not by chance, but by amassing an invincible foundation in those eighteen years—killing two sons, deposing two more, and finally usurping the Tang throne. In truth, the time left to Li Xian was pitifully short.

Ten years—no more than ten, at best. Within this brief span, if Li Xian could not build a force capable of countering Wu Zetian, his fate would be as wretched as before, perhaps even worse. In his past life, he survived his deposition not because Wu was merciful, but because she deemed him too useless to bother with—he had no talent, no faction, nothing but his imperial bloodline. That alone had spared his life. Thus, if he now strove to accomplish something, Wu Zetian would surely show no mercy.

So, what to do? Go with the flow? Never! Having suffered through one lifetime, Li Xian would not endure another. Even if it meant risking everything, he would fight for his chance—how else could he justify this gift of rebirth? But where should he begin?

“Your Highness, your wine is ready.”

Just as he was lost in thought, Yan Hong returned with two maids, carrying a food box into the room. Seeing Li Xian, wrapped in his quilt and sitting dazed at the edge of the bed, she hesitated, but did not dare ask further. She hurried over, bowed, and reported softly.

“Set it there,” Li Xian replied indifferently, barely glancing at her.

“Yes, Your Highness.” Yan Hong’s suspicion grew with every odd behavior, but she dared not speak it aloud. Brow furrowed, she responded and directed the maids to lay out the wine and food on the small table before the bed, then approached Li Xian quietly. “Your Highness, allow me to help you change.”

“Thank you, Sister Yan Hong,” Li Xian accepted, his voice calm and devoid of emotion.

“Your Highness, did something happen at the palace today?” Yan Hong, having served him for years, was accustomed to informal conversation. Though surprised by his earlier display of authority, she could not keep the question bottled up. Taking the opportunity while changing his clothes, she asked tentatively.

So, she’s grown suspicious, Li Xian thought. With three lifetimes’ memories, he was no longer so naïve. He guessed her thoughts at once but was unconcerned. He simply frowned slightly and replied, “Nothing of importance. I can handle it.”

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Though his tone was even, there was an unmistakable air of command—words that brooked no contradiction. Yan Hong was taken aback and, seeing his composure, dared not pursue the matter further. She finished changing his clothes quietly, then stood aside, her eyes filled with curiosity as she regarded his still undeveloped form, as if searching for the source of this transformation.

“You may all withdraw. I wish to be alone,” Li Xian said, waving them away without emotion.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Yan Hong replied at once. She led the maids out, her mind full of questions, and they waited respectfully in the warm anteroom, ready to answer his call.

In the Tang Dynasty, there was no fine wine. Even as a prince, the best Li Xian could obtain was bland rice wine with the dregs removed—clear enough, but with scarcely any flavor to speak of. It could not compare to the high-end spirits he’d tasted in his later life—not even the cheap street liquor could be matched by this flavorless brew. But tonight, his mind was not on drink. He forced down a few sips just to make do, but the wine only deepened his sorrow.

He must fight—of that, there was no question. But how to begin? Against Wu Zetian, that venomous-hearted woman, there was no hope of persuading her to abandon her ambition. As for Emperor Gaozong—he was no help. The only reason he’d ascended the throne was pure luck; by talent alone, he ranked last among Taizong’s sons. To place hope in such a man was folly, except perhaps to exploit his weak nature for some minor advantage. That was not the way to true strength.

Nor could his two elder brothers be relied upon. Both were talented, but fate had dealt them a cruel hand—a mother with boundless ambition who would not rest until both sons had been poisoned to death. Clearly, he could not count on outsiders. In the end, everything depended on whether he could forge his own path.

Power—ultimately, it all came down to power. Without it, neither self-preservation nor the thwarting of Wu Zetian’s ambitions was possible. Yet building a faction without drawing her suspicion was a perilous challenge. One misstep and he would not only attract his brothers’ scrutiny but risk a fatal blow from Wu Zetian herself. Once trapped, there would be no escape, no matter how cautious he was. He needed a smokescreen—a cover.

But whom to use as that cover?

His own father? Unrealistic. The court belonged to his father in name, and he had no reason to meddle. Wu Zetian? Out of the question—seeking an alliance with a tiger was courting death. The Crown Prince? Possible, but unlikely. Though outwardly kind, the Crown Prince was no fool—behind his gentle facade lay a shrewd mind. Deceiving him would not be easy, and besides, he was destined to inherit the realm, so had no need to cultivate his own private faction. That path was likely blocked as well.

After considering all, only Li Xian’s younger brother Li Xian seemed to offer hope.

“Li Xian? Li Xian!” Li Xian murmured the name unconsciously. Suddenly, his eyes brightened and a plan began to form. Following this line of thought, his mind grew clearer, and a smile gradually crept across his lips. After a long while, he slapped his palm down and called out, “Attendants! Summon Gao Miao to see me at once!”

No sooner had he spoken than a flurry of activity broke out among the waiting maids outside.