Remarried to a top-tier playboy, her reborn ex-husband is filled with regret.

The old emperor slowly stood up.

All the civil and military officials knelt down and shouted "Long live the Emperor!"

The sunlight streaming through the high windows fell on the center of the hall, casting long, elongated shadows of those prostrate on the ground.

He looked down at his once most beloved son, his eyes showing neither anger nor regret.

There is only a kind of weariness after the dust has settled.

"The Fourth Prince privately opened iron mines, privately manufactured military equipment, framed court officials, and plotted rebellion. His crimes are equivalent to treason."

Considering that he was once my beloved son, I spared him the death penalty, stripped him of his title of Prince, but retained his status as a prince, and exiled him to the imperial mausoleum.

We will forever guard the ancestral tombs and kneel before the ancestral spirits every day to repent.

His mother, Lady Zhao, failed to educate her son properly, relied on her favor to interfere in politics, and allowed her relatives to run rampant.

Effective immediately, she is stripped of her title of Imperial Concubine, demoted to commoner status, and banished to the Cold Palace.

"The Zhao family, taking advantage of the imperial concubine's influence, secretly opened iron mines and manufactured weapons, plotting treason and harboring rebellious intentions."

The Censorate was ordered to bypass the three judicial departments and conduct a thorough investigation directly. Anyone involved was to be executed immediately.

Those not involved will be stripped of all titles and official positions and will never be reinstated.

"From this day forward, all rights to the mining and trading of salt and iron shall be returned to the imperial court."

A new law shall be promulgated immediately, prohibiting ordinary people from privately trading salt and iron; violators shall be punished for treason.

His voice echoed throughout the hall, each word like a rusty guillotine falling one after another.

The Wing King knelt on the ground, his body limp, unable to utter another word.

Xiao Fang stood among the court officials, coldly watching him.

The Zhao family is finished!

The Winged King had all his wings removed.

A prince without a title, without any followers, who was exiled to the imperial mausoleum.

Even if they are still alive, it's no different from being dead.

He turned around, straightened his clothes, and strode out into the sunlight streaming into the hall.

Cold Palace

When Consort Zhao was dragged into the Cold Palace, her imperial concubine robes and crown had not yet been completely stripped off.

The women escorting her were swift and decisive; they tore off her gold phoenix hairpin, removed her pearl earrings, and even snatched the jade pendant from her waist.

His movements were very practiced; no wonder he had done this kind of job his whole life.

When the brocade outer robe was stripped off, Consort Zhao screamed and tried to snatch it.

But the old woman shoved him on the shoulder, and he stumbled and crashed into the mottled door frame of the Cold Palace.

The door slammed shut behind her and locked.

She stood in that room for the full time it takes for an incense stick to burn before she could barely recognize what kind of place it was.

The walls were bare, the paper on the windows had long since rotted away, and cold wind blew in through the holes, making the only oil lamp in the corner flicker and almost go out.

A layer of blackened straw was laid on the kang (a heated brick bed), and something could be faintly rustling in the straw.

In the corner sat a chamber pot with a chipped spout, its rim covered with a layer of grime that was hard to identify.

Consort Zhao had never lived in a house that was even more dilapidated than the Cold Palace in her life.

She entered the palace at the age of sixteen, and with her stunningly beautiful face, she rose smoothly from a lowly concubine to a high-ranking imperial concubine.

In her palace, the finest silver charcoal was always burning.

The tent was decorated with ambergris, she drank pre-Qingming Longjing tea from Jiangnan, and ate special meals prepared for her by the imperial kitchen.

The Emperor doted on her so much that even the Empress had to give her some leeway.

She thought this kind of life would last forever.

She thought her son would become the crown prince!

She will become the Empress Dowager; she will be the one who laughs last in this imperial city.

But now, she's squatting on a pile of moldy straw, without even a change of clothes.

"Open the door!"

Consort Zhao suddenly lunged at the door, clenching her fists and pounding on the heavy wooden door. The sound was sharp and shrill, echoing through the empty courtyard of the cold palace.

"You bunch of lackeys! Do you even know who I am?!"

I am a Noble Consort! The Emperor's most beloved Noble Consort!

When I see the Emperor, I'll have him cut off your heads!

I'll chop off your whole family's heads!

Open the door! Open the door!

The door was closed.

Footsteps came from outside the door, unhurried and leisurely.

With a clang of the lock, the door was pushed open a crack.

A burly old woman stood at the door, holding a wooden stick as thick as a rolling pin, looking at her expressionlessly.

"What are you shouting for?"

The old woman's voice was rough and hoarse, like sandpaper rubbing against sheet metal.

"Don't you even look where you are?"

Nine out of ten people living in the Cold Palace felt they could still get out.

Guess what? Not a single one went out.

Consort Zhao took a half step back, then straightened her back.

"You dare touch me—"

When the wooden stick came down, Consort Zhao didn't even have time to dodge, and she didn't even have time to finish speaking.

That stick struck her calf squarely.

She screamed in pain and collapsed onto the cold ground.

The old woman didn't stop; she struck twice more with the stick, hitting the woman's back and arms with extremely precise force.

The stick was struck with great skill, causing excruciating pain without injuring bones or leaving fatal wounds.

This is a skill honed in the cold palace.

Save your breath.

The old woman slammed her wooden stick on the ground and looked down at Consort Zhao, who was curled up on the ground and trembling.

"There are no imperial concubines here, only criminal women."

If I hear you yelling again, the next beating won't be a stick.

She waved behind her, and another old woman came in carrying a bowl of something and put it on the ground.

The bowl was a chipped, rough earthenware bowl, filled with half a bowl of grayish rice porridge.

A few pieces of vegetable leaves, whose origins were unclear, floated on the surface of the porridge, emitting a sour smell.

Consort Zhao slumped down next to the stale porridge and stared at the bowl of food for a long time.

She remembered the bird's nest porridge the royal kitchen used to make for her, made with blood bird's nest that was a tribute from Siam.

It was served with rock sugar and goji berries in a delicate porcelain bowl decorated with gold, and the palace maid had to kneel and present it to her.

She reached out to pick up the rough earthenware bowl, her fingertips trembling violently as they touched the rim.

The porridge was cold, and the stench assaulted her nostrils. Her stomach clenched violently, and she gagged several times, tears and saliva streaming down her face.

She smashed the bowl.

Spoiled porridge splashed all over the ground, and shards of porcelain bounced off the blue brick floor with a crisp sound.

Hearing the noise, the old woman outside pushed the door open, glanced at the mess on the ground, and without even lifting her eyelids, closed the door again and locked it.

That bowl of porridge was her only meal all day.

As night fell, Consort Zhao, who was dizzy from hunger, finally couldn't hold on any longer.

She lay on the cold ground, scraping the dried porridge stains from the cracks in the floor tiles with her fingers.

She stuffed grains of rice mixed with dust and grit into her mouth, chewing and crying at the same time.

She felt nauseous, but she forced herself to swallow.

She can't die; what will happen to her son if she dies?

Her son was still a prince; the emperor was just angry for a moment.

Once the anger subsides, they will remember the kindness of the mother and son.

Thinking this, she stuck her fingers into the cracks between the floor tiles again.

From that day on, no one brought her food anymore.

When Consort Zhao was starving, she learned something.

Every morning, the old women would slip a cold, hard, coarse flour bun through the crack in the door.

That was her only food.

Sometimes, when a steamed bun rolled on the ground and got covered in dust, she wouldn't wipe it off; she would just pick it up and stuff it into her mouth.

Her fingernails were always embedded with a layer of black dirt, and her hair was stuck together in clumps.

The clothes he was wearing hadn't been changed since the day they were torn, and they smelled sour and foul.

One rainy night, the house was leaking terribly, and there was nowhere to take shelter from the rain.

She huddled in the corner, rain dripping from the rafters onto her head, making her shiver with cold.

She suddenly noticed the broken pieces of porcelain on the ground.

It was the rough earthenware bowl she had smashed.

The largest piece lay in the rain, raindrops splashing onto it.

She stared at the piece of porcelain for a long time, then crawled over and picked it up.

He placed another, slightly larger piece of broken porcelain on the broken tiles under the eaves to make a simple water-collecting vessel.

Rainwater streamed down the porcelain shards, dripping one by one into the dented piece of broken porcelain below, forming a small puddle of murky water.

She brought her mouth close and licked it like a dog.

She recalled that in the Imperial Concubine's Palace, there were seven or eight sets of drinking cups alone.

In summer, they used glass cups, and in winter, they used warm jade cups. The water used to brew tea was dew collected by the palace maids in the Imperial Garden every morning.

She thought the dew wasn't sweet enough, so she added a spoonful of acacia honey to it.

Consort Zhao lay under the leaky eaves, catching rainwater with shards of porcelain to drink, and suddenly laughed.

Laughter echoed in the empty, desolate palace, shrill and hoarse, like crying.

皇陵

The Wing King—no, he should be called the Fourth Prince now.

He has been exiled to the imperial mausoleum for several days now.