The skies over Beijing were heavy with gray clouds, and the scent of frost lingered in the air. The grandeur of the Forbidden City seemed muted, its gilded rooftops dim beneath the weight of impending snow. Winter was here—not just in the season, but in the halls of power.
Empress Dowager Cixi had grown frail. The sharp eyes that once dominated every chamber in the palace were now hooded with fatigue. Her once-commanding voice had grown faint, and the silk fan that once danced like a weapon in her hands now trembled slightly with each motion.
Rumors ran like wildfire through the court: Cixi was dying.
Prince Chun (Zaifeng) felt it in every interaction, in every nervous glance from palace officials, and in every hushed whisper among the eunuchs. The pulse of the palace had changed—it was slower, heavier, as if it too held its breath.
But beneath this heavy silence, Zaifeng felt something else—a shift, a crack in the old foundation. His moment was approaching.
"The shadow is fading. And soon, the light will fall on me."
But light had a way of exposing everything—the noble intentions, the hidden ambitions, and the cracks in a man's soul.
Zaifeng stood outside the Hall of Mental Cultivation, staring at the intricately carved wooden doors. Behind them, Cixi awaited him. He had been summoned—not with anger, nor with urgency, but with a quiet request delivered by her trusted eunuch.
When he entered, the sight before him sent a chill down his spine.
Cixi reclined on an opulent daybed draped in silk cushions. The brazier beside her crackled faintly, its warmth failing to chase the pallor from her face. Her hair, once jet black, was streaked with silver, and her sharp eyes now seemed distant—as though staring through him into something far away.
"You look tired, Zaifeng," she said softly, her voice brittle, like old porcelain. "But then again, we are all tired these days, aren't we?"
Zaifeng knelt deeply, his forehead brushing the cool marble floor. "Your Majesty's strength endures. The empire still draws breath because of you."
A faint smile twitched at her lips, but it was bitter. "Flattery does not suit you, Zaifeng. Not after all these years."
He rose slowly, his head bowed respectfully.
"Do you feel it, Zaifeng?" she continued, her fan resting limply in her hand. "The weight of it all. The cracks spreading beneath our feet. The empire is slipping away from us, like sand through our fingers."
Zaifeng's throat tightened, but he spoke carefully. "Not if we act, Your Majesty. Not if we hold it together—piece by piece."
Her tired eyes met his. "You have grown bold these past few years. Ambitious, even. There are those in court who see you as dangerous, Zaifeng. And yet… I kept you close."
Zaifeng froze, his breath caught in his chest.
"Do you know why?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
He shook his head slightly.
"Because ambition, when paired with intelligence, is useful. And because—unlike many others—you have never lied to me, not truly. You have hidden things, yes, but you have not lied. And for that, I have tolerated you."
Cixi shifted slightly, wincing as though even that small motion caused her pain. "But the day will come soon, Zaifeng, when my shadow will no longer shield you. When the weight of everything I have held will fall on someone else. Perhaps on you."
Her words struck him like hammer blows—cryptic, sharp, and laden with significance.
"Your Majesty, I—"
"No, do not speak. Not yet."
Her fan lifted weakly, pointing toward the window. "Look outside, Zaifeng. The empire is not the palace. It is the rivers, the fields, the mountains. It is the people who starve, and it is the soldiers who bleed. It is all of them—and none of this matters if they lose faith in us."
Zaifeng swallowed hard. "I will not let them lose faith."
Her eyes softened slightly, her lips twitching faintly into something resembling a smile. "Then perhaps… perhaps there is hope yet."
She closed her eyes briefly, her voice fading. "But be careful, Zaifeng. A man who climbs too high risks a long fall. And power… power has a way of consuming those who seek it."
The room fell silent. Cixi's breathing grew slow, almost rhythmic. Zaifeng realized she had fallen asleep.
He knelt once more, his voice barely audible. "Rest well, Your Majesty."
As he stepped out into the cold courtyard, the weight of her words settled over him like a shroud.
"When her shadow fades, what will remain? Will I stand in the light—or will the light burn me away?"
The palace was a nest of vipers, and Zaifeng knew it. With Cixi's health deteriorating, the ministers, eunuchs, and minor princes began jostling for position in subtle, dangerous ways.
He could feel the tension rising in every court session, in every hesitant glance cast his way. There were those who saw him as a savior, others who saw him as a threat.
But the most dangerous were those who simply waited—men who had no loyalty to anyone but themselves, who would follow whichever wind blew strongest.
Zaifeng moved carefully, his steps deliberate, his words measured. Every letter he wrote to Yuan Shikai, Zhang Zhidong, and Kang Youwei carried the same message in different forms:
"Be ready. The time is drawing near."
In the quiet hours of night, Zaifeng sat alone in his study. The lantern light cast faint shadows across his face as he stared down at a worn jade pendant—the same one he had carried since his youth in his first life.
"Two lifetimes. Two chances. And yet, here I stand, afraid to take the final step. The fate of millions rests on my shoulders, and I cannot see the path ahead."
Memories of his failures in his first life clawed at the edges of his mind: the abdication, the broken promises, the endless regret.
And then there was the memory of his second life—years spent studying history, knowing every failure, every misstep, every inevitable collapse.
"I cannot fail again. I will not."
But even as he resolved himself, fear lingered at the edges of his mind—fear of the unknown, fear of overstepping, fear of losing everything he had built.
In the final days of 1907, word began to spread in hushed tones: Cixi was no longer leaving her chambers.
The palace was heavy with a sense of expectation—a pregnant silence that felt like the moment before a storm breaks.
Zaifeng stood in the shadows of the Forbidden City, staring out at the snow-covered rooftops.
"When she dies, the dynasty will tremble. And when it trembles, I must be ready to hold it together."
The winds howled across the courtyard, carrying faint echoes of footsteps and whispers.
"Am I ready? When the moment comes, will I be strong enough to seize it?"
The snow began to fall in thick, heavy flakes, blanketing the world in pale silence.
The shadow of the Empress Dowager was fading, and Zaifeng could feel the weight of destiny pressing down upon him.
"The storm is almost here."
The Forbidden City felt heavier than usual, its silence sharper, its shadows darker. The chill of late winter had crept into every corner, seeping into silk curtains and polished marble floors. Behind closed doors, whispers floated like venomous threads through the palace air: Emperor Guangxu's health was failing.
In his study, Prince Chun (Zaifeng) sat in near darkness, a single lantern casting flickering light over a scrap of parchment he held delicately between his fingers. The ink was faint, as though written in haste and with trembling hands.
"Your Highness, the Emperor grows weaker with every passing day. The physicians have been instructed to give him a special tonic prepared under the Empress Dowager's orders. Its contents are… questionable."
The note bore no signature, but Zaifeng knew its source—one of the eunuchs in Li Yuan's network, an invisible thread in the web Zaifeng had spent years weaving.
Zaifeng's hand trembled slightly as he set the note down. His eyes stared at the words, unblinking.
"She's going to kill him."
The realization hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Empress Dowager Cixi was planning to poison Emperor Guangxu.
For years, rumors had swirled in academic circles, whispered theories passed down by historians and scholars. Who killed Guangxu? Why? Was it Cixi herself? Or one of her loyalists acting without her direct order?
Now, in this flickering light, Zaifeng held the answer in his trembling hands.
"It's her. It was always her."
But why now? The answer came swiftly, sharp as a blade to the throat: self-preservation.
Cixi was dying, and she knew it. Her iron grip on the empire was slipping, her control of the court fracturing. Emperor Guangxu was still technically the sovereign ruler of China. And though his influence had been systematically strangled for years, his survival meant retribution.
"When she dies, he will rise again—not as a puppet, but as a man unchained. And he will tear down everything she has built. Her allies, her loyalists, perhaps even me."
Zaifeng closed his eyes briefly. The image of Guangxu came to him—a frail, soft-spoken man whose body was wasting away but whose eyes still burned with quiet defiance.
"Would he have been a good emperor if he had been given the chance? If history had been kinder?"
But the question was irrelevant now. History had chosen its path, and Zaifeng stood at the crossroads.
He could stop this. He could intercept the poison, warn Guangxu, maneuver events to prevent what was about to happen.
But he didn't move.
He sat there in the pale glow of the lantern, his mind churning, his thoughts racing through a labyrinth of consequences.
If Guangxu lived—if he survived Cixi—what would follow? The emperor's rage would burn unchecked. Heads would roll. Alliances would crumble. Zaifeng himself would be viewed as complicit in Cixi's machinations, or worse—as a threat.
"The dynasty cannot afford that chaos. I cannot afford that chaos."
He rose from his chair slowly, crossing the room to stand before the window overlooking the vast expanse of palace rooftops, each one layered in frost and shadows.
"To let him die is an act of cruelty. To save him is an act of foolishness. What am I, then? A coward? A pragmatist?"
His fists clenched tightly at his sides. He hated the cold logic that dictated his thoughts, the cruel clarity of political calculus.
But he could see no other path.
Emperor Guangxu must die.
Zaifeng turned back to the lantern-lit desk and, with trembling hands, began to write a letter to Yuan Shikai.
"General Yuan, prepare your forces to secure the capital at a moment's notice. There are winds stirring in the palace, and they carry the scent of death. Be ready."
Days later, the news broke quietly, like glass shattering in an empty room: Emperor Guangxu was dead.
The court was awash in carefully measured grief. Officials wore somber robes and bowed their heads deeply in mourning. Cixi's eunuchs managed the funeral preparations with mechanical precision, their faces emotionless masks.
In the privacy of his chambers, Zaifeng sat at his desk, his hands folded tightly together, his face a carved mask of stone.
The eunuch's report echoed in his ears:
"His Majesty fell ill suddenly after drinking his tonic. He passed in his sleep. The physicians tried everything, but… it was too late."
The words were sterile, devoid of emotion. But Zaifeng could see the truth behind them: The tonic was poison. The poison was Cixi's will.
As the palace continued its slow funeral dance, Zaifeng's mind churned with guilt, clarity, and an overwhelming sense of inevitability.
"This was always how it was going to end. He was never meant to survive. Even if I had stopped her, someone else would have finished it. The weight of the empire could not be borne by him. And now it must be borne by me."
That night, Zaifeng stood alone in the courtyard outside his chambers. The moon hung low in the sky, a pale silver disc casting faint light across the frost-covered stones.
"I let him die. I could have stopped it. I could have saved him. But I didn't. Because deep down, I know this was the only way forward."
His breath fogged in the cold air as he closed his eyes. The burden of that decision would haunt him for the rest of his life—he knew that. It was another weight added to the growing mountain on his shoulders.
"In another life, perhaps Guangxu might have been a great emperor. In another life, perhaps I would have been a loyal servant to him. But in this life… in this world… I must carry the empire on my shoulders. Even if it means stepping over the bones of those who could not bear the weight."
From somewhere deep within the palace, the faint sound of a gong echoed into the night—a ceremonial signal for mourning.
Zaifeng stood there for a long time, the icy wind cutting across his face, as the realization settled fully in his chest:
The old world was dying. And he had allowed it to die. Now, the future would be his to shape—or to destroy.