Zhao Ruyin began carefully.
She did not poison.
She did not act rashly.
Instead, she tested the water.
A wet nurse with a questionable background was quietly assigned to the prince's quarters. The woman tripped one evening, spilling hot soup near the cradle.
Before anyone could scream, Xu Chen turned his head.
The soup missed him entirely.
The wet nurse collapsed moments later, pale and trembling, insisting she had suddenly felt unable to breathe.
She was dismissed that same night.
Zhao Ruyin frowned for the first time.
Next came rumors—soft ones—suggesting the prince was "too strange," "too quiet," "unnatural."
They never reached the Emperor.
Because every whisper dissolved before it reached his ears.
Xu Chen grew.
At six months, he could sit without support.
At eight months, he walked—slowly, steadily, without falling once.
At one year old, he stood in the imperial garden while petals drifted down around him, watching koi swim beneath frozen water.
The Emperor approached, hands behind his back.
"Do you know who I am?" he asked softly, half-amused.
Xu Chen looked up.
He did not bow.
He did not kneel.
He simply met the Emperor's gaze.
And smiled faintly.
The Emperor froze.
For a breathless moment, it felt as though the roles had reversed—as if the one standing before him was not his son, but something far greater.
Then the Emperor laughed—a deep, joyful sound.
"Well," he said, turning to the stunned eunuchs, "it seems my son has courage."
That night, an imperial edict was written.
Imperial Edict
"By the Mandate of Heaven,
The First Prince, Xu Chen, is exempt from kneeling or bowing to any within the Xu Kingdom.
This decree shall take effect from his first birthday onward.
Those who disobey shall be punished accordingly."
The court exploded.
Ministers knelt in shock.
The harem whispered in disbelief.
Zhao Ruyin shattered a teacup in her sleeve.
"Exempt from bowing?" she whispered hoarsely. "Even before the ancestors?"
Her nails dug into her palm.
On the day of the prince's first birthday, the palace overflowed with nobles.
They expected laughter.
They expected chaos.
Instead, Xu Chen stood quietly beside the Empress, dressed in imperial white, watching the court with calm, ancient eyes.
When ministers bowed—
He did not.
And something unseen pressed down upon them, forcing their spines lower.
High above the mortal sky, a Heavenly Dao trembled.
By the time Prince Xu Chen turned two, the inner palace had learned a strange rule—
Do not provoke the First Prince.
Not because he cried.
Not because he threw tantrums.
But because nothing ever went wrong around him—unless it was meant to.
This realization unsettled Noble Consort Zhao Ruyin more than any omen.
She stood within her pavilion, fingers resting on a chessboard no one had touched. The pieces were arranged perfectly, yet her gaze lingered on the black king.
"A child," she said softly. "No matter how auspicious, no matter how favored… is still a child."
This time, she would not test.
This time, she would end it.
The scheme was flawless.
The Emperor planned to take the Empress and the Prince to the Autumn Ancestral Temple, a sacred site outside the capital. Zhao Ruyin arranged everything through layers of intermediaries—bribed guards, altered carriage routes, a collapsing mountain path timed precisely with a scheduled incense offering.
No poison.
No servants.
No direct touch.
Only accident.
Even if suspicion arose, no thread would lead back to her.
The night before departure, Zhao Ruyin finally slept peacefully.