The Child Empress and the Trial of Heaven

Zhuo Hua proved true to his word.

He knew the Ghostmen’s weakness well.

These monstrous beings, impervious to blades and arrows,

were invulnerable—except for the single horn upon their foreheads.

That horn feared no steel,

but it did fear silver.

So Zhuo Hua ordered that silver be melted and forged into arrows,

then shot by the kingdom’s finest archers.

Break the horn—

and the Ghostman would collapse,

its strength vanishing as though its arm had been severed.

Qin An doubted,

but still commanded a hundred silver arrows to be forged at once.

The next battle proved Zhuo Hua right.

The Ghostmen whose horns were shattered deflated like punctured skins,

falling helpless before the troops.

Even so, their brute size and strength

still gave them overwhelming advantage.

Two thousand men for fourteen dead Ghostmen—

a victory far too costly.

Qin An sighed.

“If only the Dark God of Heaven still lived,

these demons would never dare run rampant.”

Zhuo Hua lifted his teacup.

“He does.”

Qin An’s head jerked up. “Where?”

Zhuo Hua pointed lazily toward him.

“Far in the heavens, near before your eyes.”

Qin An frowned, while little Haiqing gasped.

Her eyes went wide as moons.

“Zhuo Hua-gege! Is General Qin really a celestial being?”

Zhuo Hua nodded, pinching her nose.

“Call him Master.”

Haiqing clapped her hands in delight.

“Then that’s wonderful!

Can Master Qin fly through the clouds and move mountains too?

If so, could he find the man who wrote this awful book

and flog his corpse for me?”

She held up a thick tome—Treatise on the Nation—

her face twisted in childish grievance.

Qin An twitched but said nothing.

Zhuo Hua flipped open the tome and tapped her head with it.

“Come, little disciple,

recite for your master the chapter on governance.

If you can’t, you won’t sleep tonight.”

Haiqing whimpered, clutching her head in despair.

So their lessons began.

Since returning to the palace, Haiqing had learned two things:

first, that her father, Emperor Zhuo Yuan, was dead;

second, that he’d died after taking an aphrodisiac

during a night of pleasure with his favorite concubine, Hong Ling.

In her fury, Haiqing had Hong Ling’s corpse exhumed and burned to ashes.

Only after this childish act of vengeance

did she remember to weep—

to act, once more, like the eleven-year-old girl she was,

crying into Zhuo Hua’s robes for hours.

Zhuo Hua, watching her, felt something stir.

Perhaps this tearful little girl

was not so hopeless after all.

She could be shaped into an empress.

Yet his time was short.

The poison in his body ran deep.

Soon he would have to return to the Celestial Realm

to report all that had happened—

Bai Xi’s return,

the Ghostmen’s resurrection.

It would earn him minor merit.

But he had defied heavenly law by descending without leave

and by meddling with mortal fate;

he would surely be confined for a hundred days, if not more.

By then, Haiqing might be nothing but dust.

He had to make her ready—quickly.

Haiqing, of course, had no idea.

She only saw Zhuo Hua as the kind but exasperating master

who scolded and spoiled her in equal measure.

Zhuo Hua, idle for half a lifetime,

was teaching in earnest for the first time.

Haiqing, spoiled for half a lifetime,

was learning in earnest for the first time.

The result was war.

When he made her read, she drooled over the scrolls.

When he made her write, she painted her own face with ink.

Day after day she invented new ways to escape her lessons.

Finally, one afternoon,

she fell asleep again over her book.

Zhuo Hua lost his patience.

With a snap of his fingers,

the kite hidden in her robes caught fire.

The flame slithered like a snake,

devouring the tables and chairs around her.

Haiqing woke to a blaze,

screaming, “Master! Help me!”

Zhuo Hua hovered in midair,

cold and still.

“Haiqing,” he said,

“if you were any ordinary girl,

I would let you play as you please.

But you are not.

You are the Empress of a nation,

and one day you will hold the lives of thousands in your hands.”

She blinked up at him, terrified and confused.

“If, at the first sign of trouble,

all you can do is cry,

how will you ever bear the weight of this world?

Haiqing, you disappoint me.

I have no disciple like you.”

And with that,

the blue figure vanished into the smoke.

The palace guards rushed in,

dragging her from the flames.

She had inhaled too much smoke and fainted.

Only then did they notice something strange:

though the room had burned completely,

a single path through the fire had remained untouched—

a clear way out, had she only seen it.

From that day on,

Haiqing was transformed.

She no longer cried or clung to Zhuo Hua.

She buried herself in books and scrolls,

silent, sleepless, tireless.

When word spread of her return,

the ministers joined forces to pressure Qin An.

They demanded he fulfill the late emperor’s edict—

to yield the throne to the rightful heir.

Qin An agreed.

On the first day of the sixth month,

Haiqing ascended the throne.

In the Year of Dingmao, Sixth Month, First Day,

the long-lost Princess Haiqing returned to the palace

and inherited the empire.

Regent Qin An escorted her personally.

She wore a golden robe and a jade crown,

her tiny figure solemn, radiant.

Behind her, the mighty regent bowed low,

his head bent in reverence.

A child—barely twelve—

about to sit upon a seat

that drove grown men to madness.

Then a cry shattered the hush:

“A hen crows at dawn!

Heaven forsakes our realm!”

Qin An turned sharply.

The voice came from an old minister,

a white-haired veteran of two reigns.

He knelt upon the jade floor,

weeping as he cried to the heavens:

“Heaven will destroy us!

Heaven will destroy Xihan!”

Qin An frowned and gestured for guards,

but Haiqing raised a small hand to stop him.

Lifting her robe,

she stepped forward.

“You say Heaven will destroy Xihan?”

Her voice was clear, childish—

yet devoid of innocence.

Her eyes, dark and steady,

reflected no light at all.

“So, my loyal subject,” she said softly,

“you believe my coronation angers Heaven?”

The old man’s rough hands trembled.

“The late emperor was a man of genius,” he said,

“who labored ten years to bring peace and prosperity.

Now he is dead,

our borders besieged,

and you would put a yellow-haired child upon the throne?

Your servant fears for the realm!”

Yellow-haired child.

Those four words were enough to condemn him.

Haiqing merely smiled.

“Then tell me, wise one—

how shall we save our realm?”

The old man looked skyward,

tears streaming down his face.

“Only if Heaven blesses Xihan again,

and sends a true dragon to rule,

can our country survive!”

Thunder split the sky.

Moments ago, the heavens had been clear;

now black clouds gathered,

lightning flashing between them.

The old man flinched, stammering:

“See? Even Heaven rages—

a hen upon the throne defies divine law—”

Another bolt struck—

closer this time—

scorching the floor beneath him.

The gathered courtiers cried out and fell to their knees.

Only Haiqing remained standing.

From the clouds came the cry of a dragon.

A golden form coiled through the storm above the hall.

Then—a phoenix’s song,

louder, nearer.

The ministers dared to raise their heads.

Above them, dragon and phoenix circled,

light cascading over the hall.

Someone shouted,

“Dragon and Phoenix in harmony!

The Empress is Heaven’s chosen!”

The rest followed, weeping and bowing low.

“Long live our Empress!

Heaven saves Xihan!”

Haiqing glanced toward Qin An.

He returned her look,

snapped from his daze,

and ordered the coronation to continue.

Her robe swept through the air,

its golden hem brushing the old man’s face.

Thus history recorded it:

The Dragon and Phoenix Auspice—

the Heaven-Born Empress.

In the Year of Dingmao, Sixth Month, First Day,

Empress Haiqing ascended the throne.

Heavenly omens filled the sky;

the dragon and phoenix circled the palace for three days.

She renamed the nation Jing.

And none within the palace knew—

beyond those high walls,

a man coughed blood into his hand

and whispered, smiling faintly,

“Little girl…

this is the last gift your master can give you.”

On the tenth day of the sixth month,

the Eastern Kingdom sent its war letter.

Though the war had already begun weeks ago,

this formal challenge was directed at Qin An himself.

It declared:

To prevent the suffering of the masses,

let Regent Qin An face General Bai of Dongyi in single combat.

If Dongyi lost, they would surrender at once

and compensate every loss.

If Xihan lost,

they must deliver Qin An and Princess Jinxiu

and become a vassal state forever.

Haiqing accepted the terms

and ordered Qin An to lead the campaign.

Yet one mystery lingered:

no one had seen Princess Jinxiu for months.

Rumor said she’d been spotted in Nanchuan—

that on a barren mountain,

a miracle had occurred:

flowers blooming across a hundred miles,

dead trees returning to life,

a pond bursting with lotus blossoms,

and within it,

a woman of unearthly beauty—

Jinxiu herself.

No one knew if it was true.

On the morning of departure,

Empress Haiqing herself came to the city gates

to send the army off.

She drank three bowls with the soldiers—

a farewell between ruler and men.

The army stretched from the city to the horizon,

a tide of armor and banners—

the last blood of Xihan.

Qin An sat astride his silver-armored horse,

gazing upon the countless young faces before him.

He knew:

they could not lose.

The drums thundered,

horns blared,

wives and mothers clung to their men,

tears silent, eyes fierce.

They all understood—

this was not farewell.

It was parting from life itself.

The army marched east,

their banners shrinking against the rising sun.

Haiqing stood upon the wall,

watching until they vanished from sight,

whispering to herself:

“Just one more look.

Let me see them one more time…”