In Linde Hall, the Empress Dowager had taken her seat. Though over sixty, her hair cascaded black as a waterfall, her eyebrows delicate, her teeth gleaming white—she looked a woman in her forties. Despite feeling unwell and having initially excused herself from the New Year’s Eve banquet, she had arrived midway through, asserting her enduring grip on the court. Even His Majesty, now ruling personally for several years, remained under her subtle dominion.
Cui Xun had taken his seat with impeccable poise. The officials around him fell silent at his arrival, some subtly shifting their chairs away to mask their contempt. Cui Xun ignored them, delicately picking up a slice of fish. His long, graceful fingers, his poised posture, made him seem a noble heir of the Boling Cui clan, yet beneath the elegance lurked a cruel, calculating official, a master of fabricated charges.
The Empress Dowager’s eyes briefly flicked toward him. A moment later, her attending eunuch approached, bearing a bowl of lamb soup with astragalus. “The Empress Dowager says Junior Minister Cui fears the cold, so she specially bestows this to warm your body,” he announced respectfully.
The officials’ gazes flickered with envy, jealousy, and open disdain. Cui Xun was only twenty-three, yet the Empress Dowager—old enough to be his grandmother—lavished him with favor. Their murmured judgments went unchallenged; after all, the Empress Dowager’s reach extended through the court, her supporters entrenched. Even Cui Xun, who had once surrendered to the Turks, now rose to a fourth-rank Junior Minister of the Investigation Department, untouchable.
The New Year’s Eve banquet continued with revelry, followed by the Grand Court Assembly at dawn. Drums and wind instruments resounded through Daming Palace, with carriages and sedan chairs in orderly procession. Princes, nobles, officials, and foreign envoys paid homage to His Majesty—a magnificent display of imperial order. By the time the assembly concluded, the sun was setting in the west.
Exhausted, Cui Xun returned to his mansion in Xuanyang Ward, a dwelling granted by the Empress Dowager. The mansion was large, yet sparsely kept, attended only by a solitary old mute servant. He entered his room and tried to sleep, but his light slumber betrayed him. He dozed fitfully until the hour of the Tiger (3-5 a.m.).
During the fourth watch, a chill stirred him awake. The window stood ajar, the night air cool. Dressing hastily, Cui Xun approached to close it—and glimpsed a figure in a narrow-sleeved, multi-colored skirt. When he looked again, the figure had vanished. Fatigue nudged him toward disbelief, and he returned to bed, though sleep no longer found him. The nightmare lingered, echoing through his mind until dawn.
At the fifth watch, the city awoke with roosters crowing and dogs barking. Officials were still on holiday, commoners visiting friends, and Xuanyang Ward teemed with activity. Yet Cui Xun’s mansion remained eerily silent, devoid of festive decorations or visitors.
Two passing scholars noticed the desolation. “This is Xuanyang Ward, yet no one visits this mansion?” one whispered.
The other smiled knowingly. “This is the mansion of the ‘Lotus Flower Gentleman.’”
“Cui Xun?”
“Who else? The upright officials disdain him, and those seeking favor are rebuffed. His doors remain as silent as if crows roost here. Even the Cui clan nearby no longer claim him.”
The two men departed, oblivious to the young woman standing before the mansion. She held an umbrella, dressed in the old Taichang-era fashion of green and red layered robes, hair in double buns with a celestial-gazing topknot, adorned with gold flower pins, and droplet-shaped makeup gracing her forehead. Her presence radiated rare beauty, with the grace of orchids and the scent of imagined jasmine. She sighed softly, then passed through the closed gates as though no barrier existed.
Inside, Cui Xun had donned his crimson everyday robes, his hair like a black jade crown, his peach blossom eyes glinting faintly. Yet his pallor and frost-like gaze diluted their charm. As he adjusted his belt, he caught a reflection in the bronze mirror—her figure standing behind him.
Cui Xun turned sharply. “Who are you? Why have you intruded into my mansion?”
The young woman’s expression radiated delight rather than fear. “You can see me?”
Cui Xun’s frown deepened. He was neither blind nor feeble. “Of course I can see you.”
The woman smiled brilliantly. “That’s wonderful. I am Princess Yong’an, Li Ying. I have come to ask you to investigate a case for me.” She paused, then added in a voice like silk: “I want to know… who killed me.”
It was a scene unlike any other.
A princess, long dead, stood before a notorious and ruthless official, politely requesting that he investigate the cause of her death. Even Cui Xun, accustomed to the extraordinary, paused for a moment in stunned silence. But composure returned quickly. He arched an eyebrow and asked, “You are a ghost?”
Li Ying nodded. “Yes.”
Cui Xun showed none of the fear that ordinary people would have. He was unafraid of ghosts. “And you’ve come to ask me to investigate your case?”
“Yes,” Li Ying replied softly.
“Your case already has a conclusion,” Cui Xun said evenly. “It was the doing of Prince Consort Zheng Yun.”
Li Ying shook her head. “It wasn’t Zheng Yun.”
“Why not?”
“Because for these thirty years,” Li Ying said, “I have been unable to reincarnate.”
She had died at sixteen. If Zheng Yun had truly killed her, and if he had been executed as the Late Emperor decreed, her soul should have been free to reincarnate. But she had remained trapped in the Lotus Pond all these years. The real murderer, she realized, had not been punished. Her resentment anchored her spirit, preventing rebirth.
But if it wasn’t Zheng Yun, who could have done this? Li Ying did not know—and that was why she had come to Cui Xun.
“Why seek me out?” Cui Xun asked.
“Because you rescued me from the Lotus Pond,” she said.
Since her death, Li Ying’s soul had lingered beneath the pond’s waters, watching the seasons change, the lotus flowers wither and bloom, and the goldfish grow and die. She had observed the green algae creep across the corners in summer, shrink in winter, and marked each day by the three thousand drum beats of Chengtian Gate, signaling the passing of time.
Occasionally, palace maids unaware of the supernatural rules would lean over the pond, scooping up the algae and laughing. From beneath the water, she had tried to reach out, but her fingers had passed through them as though they were air. For thirty years, she had been utterly alone.
Until that day.
A man in white fox fur had been drinking by the Lotus Pond. His gold cup slipped and fell into the water. Instinctively, Li Ying reached out—and this time, her fingers did not pass through the living man’s hand. Instead, they intertwined, warm and tangible. She felt a thrill of joy; the long-dormant warmth of life spread through her icy form. Slowly, she lifted her head, and the murky water seemed to shimmer and clear. Beneath the surface, she glimpsed a face as beautiful and serene as a lotus.
Then a eunuch hurried over, calling the man away. Li Ying blinked, and suddenly she was no longer submerged. Her soul had left the Lotus Pond, free to move through Daming Palace at last.
But the palace she returned to was not the home she had known. Thirty years had passed. Her father had died. Her mother was now the Empress Dowager. Her younger brother had ascended the throne, reigning as Longxing. The world had changed, and she was no longer remembered—except as the princess whose death had sparked the Taichang Blood Incident, spilling rivers of blood across Chang’an.
She had never wished for such carnage. She had only wanted to live in her parents’ presence, enjoy her youth, and continue her life in peace. Grief and bitterness filled her heart. She longed to see her mother, but the gates of Penglai Hall barred her passage. She could pass through walls and rockeries, yet no one noticed her. Though free from the pond, she was still trapped in isolation.
Eventually, Li Ying returned to the Lotus Pond, weary and lonely. The Empress Dowager had lit eternal lamps across Great Zhou, hoping her daughter would reincarnate—but she remained bound, her spirit unresolved.
Once, a ghost officer passed by, and she pleaded with him for release. He told her plainly: as a victim of wrongful death, she could not reincarnate until her murderer was discovered.
So it was not Zheng Yun.
Her only hope rested with the man who had seen her, the man whose living presence had thawed the cold water around her spirit: Cui Xun.
Looking at him with eyes bright and expectant, Li Ying said softly, “Junior Minister Cui, you are the only one who can see me. Can you help me?”
Cui Xun’s gaze remained as calm and imperturbable as a still well. Indifferently, he replied, “Why should I help you? A princess who has been dead for thirty years?”
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