The grand Hall of Supreme Harmony stood bathed in winter's pale light. Crimson banners bearing golden dragons fluttered in the cold wind. The vast courtyard outside was filled with ranks of officials, nobles, and military officers, each bowing low as they awaited the arrival of the new emperor.
The weight of centuries pressed down on the marble stairs, on the lacquered wood, on the glistening golden dragon throne that stood waiting beneath a canopy embroidered with clouds and phoenixes.
It was Zaifeng's coronation day.
The bells of the Forbidden City tolled in slow, deliberate chimes. Priests chanted solemn prayers, their voices weaving through the icy air like threads of incense smoke. High-ranking officials, clad in ceremonial silks, stood at the edges of the vast chamber.
Zaifeng, now clad in the imperial yellow robe, embroidered with dragons clutching the pearl of heaven, stepped forward. His every movement was measured, deliberate—a man walking not toward glory, but toward a burden so vast it threatened to crush lesser men.
Behind him stood Yuan Shikai, ever-watchful, flanked by a handful of senior generals. On the opposite side, Prince Qing (Yikuang) and senior princes of the Aisin-Gioro clan stood, their faces masks of solemn respect.
An elderly priest stepped forward, holding a jade tablet etched with sacred verses. His frail voice rang through the hall:
"Heaven's mandate is eternal, yet fragile. The emperor is chosen by fate, yet bound by duty. By the will of Heaven and the lineage of the Aisin-Gioro, we anoint Zaifeng, Prince Chun, as the rightful Emperor of the Great Qing Dynasty."
The priest turned, holding the imperial crown—a heavy circlet of gold adorned with intricate jade and pearl carvings. He approached Zaifeng slowly, hands trembling as he lifted the crown above his head.
"May the Dragon Throne recognize its guardian. May Heaven guide your rule, and may Earth uphold your reign."
The crown was placed upon Zaifeng's head, its weight immediate and undeniable.
He knelt before the Dragon Throne, pressing his forehead against the cold jade tiles, and spoke clearly, his voice unwavering despite the enormity of the moment:
"I, Zaifeng, humbly accept the Mandate of Heaven. With this crown, I bear the burdens of my ancestors. With this throne, I safeguard our people. The Qing Dynasty will not fall—not while I still draw breath."
The hall erupted into a deafening chorus:
"Long live His Majesty! Long live the Emperor!"
As the echo of the court's chorus faded, the elderly priest stepped forward once again, raising the jade tablet high above his head. His voice, though frail, carried across the hall with solemn authority:
"Let it also be proclaimed that with the ascension of His Majesty, a new era dawns upon the Great Qing. From this day forward, the empire shall know this reign as the Zhongxing Era (中興)—the Era of Rejuvenation."
The words hung heavy in the vast hall, their meaning rippling across the gathered assembly. Ministers exchanged glances, nobles lowered their heads in acknowledgment, and generals stood firm, their gazes sharp with understanding.
"Zhongxing—Restoration, Renewal."
The name was more than a declaration; it was a promise etched into the bones of history. It was a banner under which reforms would march and under which enemies, both foreign and domestic, would fall.
Zaifeng rose from his kneeling position, his golden robe shimmering faintly in the lantern light. He turned to face the court, his voice calm but unyielding:
"Let the Zhongxing Era begin. May it restore our empire's strength, honor our ancestors' legacy, and bring prosperity to all under Heaven."
The hall exploded into a thunderous chant, repeated again and again:
"Long live the Zhongxing Emperor! Long live His Majesty!"
The ceremonial drums thundered, echoing into the frozen Beijing sky. Outside the palace walls, bells rang across the capital, and messengers mounted swift horses, carrying imperial edicts declaring the Zhongxing Era to every province, every city, and every corner of the empire.
The Zhongxing Era had begun.
After the rituals, the Hall of Supreme Harmony was cleared for the ceremonial feast. The court—ministers, nobles, and generals—assembled once again, this time seated according to their rank. Gold and crimson silks hung from the rafters, and low tables groaned under the weight of delicacies prepared for the occasion.
Zaifeng sat at the head of the hall, atop a smaller ceremonial throne placed before the Dragon Throne itself. He looked out at the assembly, his face calm, his posture regal.
Yuan Shikai approached first, stepping forward and kneeling deeply before the emperor. His voice was firm, reverberating through the silent hall.
"Your Majesty, the Beiyang Army stands ready to serve the throne and protect the empire. My loyalty is yours. My sword is yours. My life is yours."
Zaifeng nodded, his expression unreadable. "Rise, General Yuan. Your loyalty has already been proven. I will rely on your strength in the days ahead."
Next came Prince Qing, who stepped forward with slow, deliberate grace. His frail frame bent low as he knelt.
"Your Majesty, you carry the hopes of our ancestors and the burden of our dynasty. The council has spoken, and Heaven has agreed. May your reign bring prosperity and peace to all under Heaven."
Zaifeng inclined his head. "Rise, Prince Qing. Your wisdom is a light in these uncertain times."
One by one, the officials came forward, offering words of fealty, tokens of loyalty, and quiet promises of support. Some bowed with genuine devotion, others with forced reverence. Zaifeng read each face carefully, memorizing every flicker of doubt or ambition.
The feast carried on into the evening, but within the shadows of the palace corridors, hushed voices plotted.
A group of conservative ministers gathered in a secluded chamber, their faces lined with worry and suspicion.
"An emperor crowned without imperial precedent… without edict…" one minister muttered.
"And with the Beiyang Army at his back," another added bitterly.
"Yuan Shikai holds too much power. And Prince Chun—now the emperor—has walked a fine line between diplomacy and ambition."
A third voice, low and venomous, hissed from the shadows. "We must tread carefully, or we risk drawing the emperor's ire. But make no mistake—his rule cannot go unchecked. Not while the empire's future hangs in the balance."
Unbeknownst to them, Zaifeng's network of eunuchs and spies already had ears pressed to the walls. Every word was carried back to him before the night was done.
The celebration faded into silence as night wrapped the Forbidden City in a blanket of shadows. From the Hall of Mental Cultivation, Zaifeng overlooked the dim lantern lights scattered across the palace grounds.
A faint rustle of silk signaled Youlan's arrival. She carried a porcelain teapot, her face serene despite the exhaustion etched faintly in her features.
"Your Majesty," she said softly, pouring tea into a small cup. "The day has been long. You must rest."
Zaifeng took the cup, his hands steady despite the fatigue weighing on his shoulders. "There is no rest, Youlan. Not yet."
She knelt beside him, her gaze fixed on his tired eyes. "But there must be moments, Zaifeng. Moments where you breathe, even if just for a short while."
He sipped the tea slowly, the warmth spreading through his chest. For a fleeting moment, the weight of the crown felt distant.
"Youlan," he said after a long silence, his voice low, "today I became emperor. Tomorrow, I begin the true battle."
Her hand rested lightly on his knee, a silent gesture of support. "And you will face it, as you have faced every trial before this—calmly, with wisdom and resolve."
They sat together in silence, the flickering lantern casting faint shadows across their faces.