Chapter Three: The Cause of My Sister’s Death

But such thoughts could only be entertained in the privacy of one’s mind; never would one dare voice them aloud, much less in front of Wu Zetian, the future empress herself.

People of this era had deep faith in the supernatural—gods and ghosts and all manner of mysterious things. If one were truly to say such a thing, even if nothing happened in the moment, Wu Zetian might well recall it in the future and have you silenced without hesitation.

The royal family was riddled with taboos, and no one cared about the innocence of a child’s words.

All the same, Old Li glanced down at the gathered ministers, who, laughing merrily, raised their cups and chatted with Li Zhi. He couldn’t help but smile. The Tang Dynasty really was a dazzling age, eclipsing all others in history. The ministers mingled without pretension, chatting easily together—it was hard to imagine such an atmosphere in a feudal court.

Scenes of emperors and courtiers joking with one another seemed only to exist in the old TV series “Iron Teeth, Bronze Teeth Ji Xiaolan” from his childhood.

Before arriving in this era, it was impossible to imagine that the relationship between ruler and subject could be so relaxed.

Old Li’s lips curved into a smile. Perhaps this era wasn’t so bad after all.

Yet his amazement was far from over. Once the feast had begun to wind down and everyone was sated, the ministers actually joined in dancing to the music.

Though to Old Li’s eyes the dancing seemed quite awkward—more like the preliminary moves of Mongolian wrestling—it didn’t dampen the ministers’ enthusiasm for dancing together.

If only the lanterns flickered and the music pounded with more energy, he would have thought he’d wandered into a nightclub.

Not only the military officials, but even the civil ministers joined in.

Watching this, Old Li realized that in this era, the distinction between civil and military officials was not so strict.

When the dancing finished, Li Zhi ordered ink, brush, and paper to be brought forth and began composing poetry on the spot.

The ministers urged Li Zhi to take the lead.

The emperor, clearly in high spirits, did not demur, but immediately picked up the brush and began to write.

When he finished, a nearby minister—one Old Li didn’t recognize—began to recite aloud: “Dragon towers gleam with dawn’s first light, Lu pipes open morning’s door. The sun’s beauty paints a radiant shadow, Low stars descend, gifting brilliance…”

As soon as the poem was finished, the other ministers showered him with praise, then each took a turn composing verses.

Old Li noticed that it wasn’t just the civil ministers writing poetry; the military men did as well.

Though, as someone whose own literary skills were abysmal, Old Li couldn’t judge the quality, it was clear that in this time, there was no clear preference for the civil over the military.

Their mutual attitudes made this evident. The ministers composed poetry more for Li Zhi’s sake than anything else.

After all, with an emperor fond of literature and the arts, his officials naturally sought to please him in that arena.

He remembered reading online that during the Xuande era of the Ming Dynasty, cricket fighting became popular in the palace, likely because of the emperor’s own interest.

Of course, a love of games didn’t interfere with governing the country.

It seemed the same principle held true here—Li Zhi’s fondness for writing meant his ministers strove in that direction.

Old Li’s own literary abilities were so poor that poetry and the like were entirely beyond him. The only verses he could still recall were those he’d crammed before exams in school.

“Spring River, Flower Moon Night”—he only remembered the title. From Su Shi’s “River City Song,” only the line “Ten years of life and death, two vast and distant” stuck in his mind. As for Du Fu’s “Ascending the Heights” or Bai Juyi’s “Song of Everlasting Sorrow,” he remembered just the opening lines…

As for later figures like Li Qingzhao or Xin Qiji, he couldn’t recall anything but their names.

Thinking of this, and watching Li Zhi and the ministers composing verses below, Old Li, having just finished a piece of cake, covered his face with both hands and sighed inwardly that he was simply not cut out for transmigration.

Yet to Li Zhi and the ministers below, his gesture of covering his face was adorable, prompting laughter and another burst of praise.

When the banquet finally ended, Old Li had no idea how late it was. He couldn’t tell the time by the moon, so he merely rubbed his eyes with his small, cake-stained hand to show he was sleepy.

Mother Wu Zetian, in high spirits herself, scooped him up and said they would sleep together tonight.

To be honest, Old Li hadn’t planned on this. With an adult’s soul, the idea of three people sharing a bed—no matter how large the emperor’s bed—was awkward in the extreme. But she had no say in the matter.

That night, by dim candlelight, Old Li lay between a slumbering Li Zhi on the left and Wu Zetian, sleeping on her side, on the right. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t fall asleep.

He stared at the ceiling for who knows how long before finally drifting off in a daze…

Days passed. The war at the front grew urgent, and Wu Zetian and Li Zhi became so busy that their feet barely touched the ground.

From breakfast onward, they met with ministers without pause until sunset, then burned the midnight oil reviewing memorials by candlelight.

Even with his poor eyesight, Li Zhi often sat beside Wu Zetian as she reviewed documents, pouring her tea and listening until she finished, so they could retire together.

During this period, Old Li finally found himself with plenty of free time, and Eunuch Fu and a host of palace maids were assigned to care for him.

Since the princess resided in the inner palace, no men were allowed inside without special permission. Thus, the task of teaching Old Li to read and write fell to Eunuch Fu.

Eunuch Fu was literate and began teaching Old Li to recognize characters.

Once he began his studies, apart from putting on a show of learning each day, Old Li spent his time seeking out different books to read.

Never mind that he was ignorant of history—even if he knew it, what was recorded a thousand years later was a completely different matter from what was clearly documented just decades ago.

Ancient history wasn’t of much use, but the history of the Tang Dynasty from its founding to the present was worth studying.

Since he’d ended up in the Tang, the pursuit of immortality was out of the question; his priority was survival.

After all, his mother Wu Zetian was said to be ruthless enough to kill her own children.

He particularly recalled that line from a film: “To accomplish great things, one must be ready to kill even those closest to them!”

The thought alone sent a chill up Old Li’s spine.

His newfound passion for reading was, in Li Zhi and Wu Zetian’s eyes, a sign of innate intelligence, and they made a point of spending time with him each evening before retiring.

No doubt this was also because he was the only princess at the time—the sole darling of the family, with some bonus privileges to match.

As the days went by, July turned to November.

The weather grew steadily colder, and Old Li wore one layer of clothing after another.

Brazier pans were set up throughout the palace—copper basins filled with glowing charcoal. They did keep the place warm, but the smoke could be stifling.

Although all the books were in classical prose and awkwardly read from right to left, with no internet or other forms of entertainment, Old Li forced himself to read through them.

He skimmed over the founding and Zhen Guan eras, focusing on the period after his father Li Zhi ascended the throne.

Other matters didn’t interest him much, but one thing did—his elder sister, who died in infancy.

He’d read online that his mother, Wu Zetian, had killed the child with her own hands to frame Empress Wang.

But in the records he now read, it simply said that Princess Anding had died suddenly.

Of course, even if the murder story were true, no historian would have witnessed it firsthand.

But the logic didn’t add up. Empress Wang was deposed more than a year after the princess’s death. If Wu Zetian really had done it, how could such a heinous crime—murdering a royal family member—go unpunished for nearly two years?

Moreover, Old Li discovered in his reading that Empress Wang came from the Wang clan of Taiyuan, a family so powerful they truly held the imperial clan in contempt.

Through playing cute and feigning ignorance, Old Li managed to glean a great deal from Eunuch Fu.

The Wang family of Taiyuan was a true aristocratic lineage, not just second- or third-generation officials, but with eighteen generations of ancestors all serving in government.

Thus, Empress Wang was arrogant to the extreme, often skipping major state events like the spring plowing or ancestral sacrifices, paying Li Zhi little heed.

Judging by the records, Zhangsun Wuji was still alive at that time and was a staunch supporter of Empress Wang.

If the princess’s death truly was a murder, Empress Wang, backed by her powerful family and Zhangsun Wuji’s immense influence, could easily have avoided punishment.

In that case, with Wu Zetian not yet empress, framing Empress Wang would have been nearly impossible.

To be charged with murdering a member of the imperial family—such a capital crime—would never have survived an official investigation.

If so…

Old Li put down his book, pondering: how did his sister really die?

He couldn’t get anything useful from Eunuch Fu, only that Princess Anding died in the midst of a heavy snow.

Perhaps it was some hereditary illness. Wu Zetian was healthy, but Li Zhi was not.

And possibly due to genetics, his elder brother, Crown Prince Li Hong, was also frail and needed medicine every year.

But even so, with so many eunuchs and maids caring for the princess, wouldn’t they have noticed if she had some congenital heart disease?

Old Li set aside his book and rubbed his temples. Unless he could find one of the palace maids from that time, he might never learn the truth.

Wait—a winter death?

Old Li suddenly turned to look at the nearby charcoal brazier.

The charcoal was no longer glowing as it had been; the smoke had grown thicker.

He sat in silence for a few seconds, then narrowed his eyes.

Of course! In winter, the palace would use braziers, so it was entirely possible she died of carbon monoxide poisoning!

He should ask Wu Zetian someday if, after Princess Anding’s death, her face was flushed pink—if so, that would likely be the cause.

With this thought, Old Li waved his hand. “Eunuch Fu, the charcoal’s gone cold. Bring a new brazier.”

“At once, Your Highness!” Eunuch Fu replied, hurrying to fetch a fresh brazier.

Old Li pulled her lambskin cloak tighter around her shoulders and walked to the palace doors.

Watching the goose-feather snowflakes drift down outside, Old Li fell into contemplation.

Princess Anding’s death was a tragedy. Even without poisoning, in an age without antibiotics, a mere cold could be fatal.

And Old Li knew nothing of medicine—she could make no remedies, and besides, Li Zhi’s family probably had hereditary illnesses.

The only way she could think to protect her own health was…

She made up her mind: exercise! This princess would learn martial arts!

Old Li clenched her tiny fists, a look of determination on her cherubic face.

In her previous life as an extreme sports athlete, Old Li understood well the importance of fitness.

Before long, Eunuch Fu returned with a new brazier. “Your Highness, it’s cold at the door. Better come inside.”

Old Li looked up. “Where are Father and Mother now?”

Eunuch Fu replied, “Your Highness, Their Majesties are both in the Purple Chamber.”

Old Li set off at once. “Take me there!”

Eunuch Fu instinctively tried to stop her, but seeing that Old Li was already outside, he quickly set down the brazier and followed.

The snow was heavy this year; every step crunched underfoot. Many eunuchs were out with brooms, sweeping snow to the sides of the road.

Seeing Old Li approach, they all bowed deeply, but she waved them off and followed Eunuch Fu toward the Purple Chamber.

Seeing the princess from afar, the chief chamberlain, Zhang Chengxin, hurried inside to announce her arrival.

When Old Li reached the entrance, Zhang Chengxin greeted her with a smile. “Your Highness, His Majesty said you may go straight in.”

“Thank you, Chief Zhang.” Old Li nodded and entered.

Zhang Chengxin bowed and gestured with a flourish. “You flatter me, Your Highness.”

As he watched her go in, Zhang Chengxin smiled, reflecting inwardly.

Though he was already chief chamberlain and everyone treated him with the utmost respect, he could always tell when it was mere politeness.

After all, in his position, nothing that happened in the palace escaped him.

But only this little princess, whether dealing with eunuchs or maids, never put on airs. In fact, it sometimes felt as if she truly regarded them as people. That was why everyone in the palace liked her, and Zhang Chengxin was no exception.

Inside, Wu Zetian sat behind a table reviewing memorials, while Li Zhi poured her tea.

When Old Li entered, Li Zhi put down the teapot. “Chen’er, you’re here! Come over!”

Determined not to seem like a prodigy, Old Li put on her cutest expression, opened her arms, and ran to him, leaping into his embrace.

Her head bumped right into his chest with a thud, making Li Zhi stagger and laugh. “Oh, such strength!”

Then he picked her up, his features contorting into what he thought was a funny face but was actually quite grotesque. “What brings Chen’er here today?”

Old Li grinned, showing her newly grown teeth. “I came to see Father and Mother.”