Yu Sheng | emperor son

The Imperial Palace was not a place you ever expected to find yourself in. Perhaps you had dreamed of it in the secret corners of your heart, but to actually see your dreams come true—that was an entirely different level, a level of happiness and joy, a level of feeling a mountain of problems weighing on your shoulders like a burden of a thousand jun.

The noble Ming family had presented your uncle to the Imperial family as a gesture of loyalty, and your uncle, in turn, had taken you with him. Treating common folk was one thing; treating the Emperor himself, his high officials, and other important lords was completely different. One wrong step—and at best, your back would be adorned with scars from a heavy club; at worst, your head would be hanging in the personal chambers of Yu Weiqiang.

The spacious room carried an atmosphere of tranquility and peace, mingled with the scent of dried herbs and sandalwood. There was a diagnosis area with a low lacquered table, an apothecary area with endless cabinets and catalog drawers. And then the third, final area, with a vast number of scrolls and a more spacious desk for studying texts and taking notes.

Together with your uncle, you worked day and night tirelessly, only occasionally staying alone when he went high into the mountains in search of the necessary herbs and other components for medicines. You had grown accustomed to being alone—every few days, you were on duty near the personal chambers of the Imperial family.

And sometimes, it was more frequent than every few days—after the death of the younger heir of the Yu dynasty, all the court physicians had been exiled from the palace, the closest ones executed. The new echelon, of which you were a part, had not yet managed to properly establish a schedule, could not get used to life in the palace, to everything they saw in them.

The art of healing, coupled with the responsibilities placed upon you, was a heavy burden; it demanded too much knowledge, ability, and skill. A physician's work is noble, requiring one to know everything: every acupuncture point, every blade of grass, to be able to perform massages, to play musical instruments to restore the harmony of energies, and…

There was no point in listing it all; the main point was that the sleeping mat was excessively thin, the room lacked fresh air due to the suffocating smell of animal fat, and the simple couch was terrifyingly uncomfortable. How did the other physicians even sleep here?

Though often, sleep had to be forgotten altogether—the night in the palace was a time of special silence and secrets, which you spent in anxious anticipation, listening to every rustle outside the door. Constantly waiting for a eunuch to burst into the small office and deliver sorrowful news.

So, when a muffled moan cut through the nocturnal silence, you immediately stood up, but sat back down just as quickly: there was no eunuch, and besides, the Emperor or the Heirs could be spending time with their concubines at that moment—you couldn't just barge in, could you? A strong thud, as if someone had punched a table once, and again, a muffled moan.

A reprimand for excessive audacity, or losing your head for a death you failed to prevent? The choice was obvious, and the wooden lacquered case with all the items for first aid was already in your hands as you stepped into the palace's long corridor, mustering your courage.

Yu Sheng, too, knew no peace. As the Emperor's eldest heir, he was always treated with special regard—but lately, things had gotten even worse. There was talk of Yu Weiqiang's imminent demise—the years were not making him younger, the empire's affairs were only deteriorating, not to mention that after his son's death, the Emperor had even forgotten his basic needs.

Since then, even when the roosters slept peacefully on their perches, Sheng was already practicing sword dances, reciting Confucian texts from memory, studying statecraft... And frustrating everyone with his messy handwriting. Yes, Sheng could play the qin better than the court musicians; yes, he could compose poetry in an instant, but calligraphy simply would not yield to him.

And now, the Eldest Heir was bent over his writing desk, while a forgotten brush lay on the floor, split in two from a powerful strike. On the snow-white sheet was a pitiful semblance of the character for "tranquility" (jing 静), a sight one couldn't bear to look at without tears.

For a physician, calligraphy was not difficult, considering you were practically born with a brush in your teeth and ink on your hands—a prescription written in a careless scrawl could cost patients their lives. Clarity and precision were matters of life and death, skills you effortlessly kept within the long sleeves of your robes.

But the question now, while Yu Sheng hadn't yet noticed your presence in his personal chambers, brooked no delay. You could offer him your help and trust in blind luck that the Heir wouldn't display his fiery temper as usual. Or you could simply leave and forget the scene you had witnessed.

"Everyone advises me to find tranquility, but no one says how!"—a sound, half-shout, half-moan, full of powerlessness and self-reproach, forced its way out of his lips with obvious strain. Yu Sheng dropped his face into the curve of his palm, propping his elbow on the table and staining the light sleeves of his bianfu with black ink.