That voice pierced his ears again.
The instant Li Yi’s fingertips brushed the earthenware bowl, a sharp cry exploded beside him—youthful, urgent, and spoken in a tone he’d never heard within the Sixteen Princes’ Compound before.
His whole body froze.
Yet his hand had already taken the bowl.
Scalding ginger soup slid down his throat. He grinned foolishly. “Sweet! Made by Mother!”
But inside, his stomach felt like a block of ice.
Li Yi knew the voice wasn’t real.
Ever since he was eight—when his father, the Emperor, ordered a palace maid beaten to death behind the Xuanzheng Hall corridor, her blood darkening the stones at his feet and shattering his soul—he’d begun hearing these mad whispers whenever danger loomed. The imperial physicians called it “fright-induced delirium.” The servants simply said, “The thirteenth son’s madness has returned.”
He’d grown used to it.
It was the first month of the Changqing era. Nearly a year had passed since the late emperor’s death. His elder brother, Li Heng, now reigned as Emperor Muzong. As for him—the lowborn, illegitimate thirteenth son—he’d been tucked away in the western wing of the Sixteen Princes’ Compound: nominally a member of the imperial clan, in truth a prisoner.
Snow fell heavily over Chang’an.
…
Two hours earlier, in a side room of the Laundry Bureau.
Wu, Li Yi’s wet nurse, knelt before Palace Attendant Cui, clutching a packet of grayish-white powder so tightly her knuckles turned white.
“My son’s been coughing blood for half a month,” she whispered. “The physicians say without this medicine, he won’t survive the winter.”
“A fool like him doesn’t deserve such care,” Cui sneered. “Empress Dowager Guo has decreed: rations for the Sixteen Princes’ Compound are to be cut. If you make him truly simple-minded—spare him future trouble—I’ll give you double the dose.”
Wu nodded, trembling. She bore no malice. But she was only a mother.
…
Now, barely more than a boy, Li Yi curled beneath thin bedding, his gut twisted as if flayed by knives. Cold sweat soaked through his inner robe; his nails dug into the cracks of the bedboard until they split—yet he felt nothing. He bit hard on the corner of the quilt, silent.
He knew: if he cried out, tomorrow’s rumor would be, “The thirteenth son wailed in the night, disturbing the spirits of the departed.”
Only by playing the fool could he live.
This wasn’t something he said to that phantom voice.
Nor was it mere self-talk.
It was what the eight-year-old boy—hiding behind the dragon-carved pillar as the maid was clubbed to death—had whispered to the Li Yi who’d been fighting for his life ever since.
And deep within his consciousness, another soul—a voice from a time yet unborn—screamed in desperation:
“It’s aconite! Spit it out! Hit your back! Induce vomiting!—Can you hear me? Li Yi! Answer me!”
No matter how fiercely Li Ke roared, no matter how desperately he tried to move a finger, blink an eye, or even steal control of a breath—nothing happened. He’d tried too many times already.
Three years ago, on that blood-soaked afternoon behind the Xuanzheng Hall corridor—
The boy’s father, Emperor Xianzong of Tang, kicked over an alchemical furnace in rage. Crimson pills rolled across the floor.
“You wretched bitch! Where is My Majesty’s jade belt?!”
The dragged-out maid was barely fifteen or sixteen, hair disheveled, sobbing as she kowtowed: “Your Majesty… I only brushed against it while dusting…”
“Club her to death.”
Li Yi had been hiding behind the pillar.
The first blow silenced her cry; the second, she gasped for her mother; by the third, her body lay still.
Li Ke had been reading in a classroom one moment—then suddenly stood amid this slaughter. Instinctively, he reached to cover Li Yi’s eyes and ears—but found he could do nothing at all.
In the years since, he’d watched Lady Zheng teach her son the Classic of Filial Piety in the cold palace shadows, stopping right after “Our bodies, hair, and skin are gifts from our parents,” and adding only: “Life matters more than filial duty.”
He’d seen the thirteenth son shoved into snowdrifts by his brothers until his lips turned blue—yet the boy clapped and laughed like a grinning simpleton. Li Ke shouted, “Stand up! You deserve respect!”—but his voice sank like stone into the sea, unheard.
For three years, he’d witnessed how this child bit his tongue raw at midnight just to stay awake; how he smiled through icy water poured over his head, saying, “Feels refreshing”; how he swallowed hatred until it hardened into silence.
Last winter, during the first month of Yuanhe 15, as Li Yi knelt before his father’s coffin, consorts mocked him: “Son of a lowly servant—you’ve no right to wear mourning hemp.” Enraged, he nearly rose—until Li Ke yelled, “Stay calm! One rash move and you’re dead!” That was the first time Li Yi had ever reacted to his voice.
Yet afterward, he still dismissed it as another hallucination born of fear.
Li Ke had warned him countless times in dreams: “Emperor Wuzong will kill you.” Each time, it was taken as proof his madness worsened.
He carried the knowledge of a thousand years of history—yet couldn’t even whisper, “Don’t be afraid.”
Time travel wasn’t a cheat—it was the cruelest seat in the theater of suffering.
…
A sudden, searing pain tore through Li Yi’s abdomen!
Darkness clouded his vision; coppery bile rose in his throat—on the very edge of death, that voice sliced through the haze once more:
“Bite your tongue! Stay awake! Don’t sleep—if you sleep, you won’t wake!”
He jerked violently.
That hallucination again… but clearer than ever.
Instinctively, he bit down—blood flooded his mouth, sharpening his mind. Still, he didn’t trust the voice. He trusted only what his mother, Lady Zheng, had told him the night before she left the palace:
“Yi’er, remember: in this palace, true feeling is deadlier than poison. If someone bullies you, don’t rage; if someone insults you, don’t argue. Only weep—and weep until they believe you’re a fool. Only then will you live.”
That night, by the dim glow of an oil lamp, she’d sewn his mourning hempen robe. When the needle pricked her finger, she let her blood stain the coarse cloth rather than stop. Outside, eunuchs’ footsteps echoed like funeral drums. She pressed into his palm a worn Kaiyuan Tongbao coin: “If I die, take this to Chou Gongwu. He owes me a life.” After a pause, she added softly, “Trust no one—not even me. If I ever change, it’s because they forced me.”
So at his father’s funeral, he’d wailed with shaking shoulders like a terrified child—but not a single tear fell.
Outside, the snow fell harder.
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The cramps eased slightly; the phantom voice faded. Fighting dizziness, Li Yi counted the frost flowers on the window lattice: one, two, three… seventeen.
The door hinge groaned—just like the scream from that corridor behind Xuanzheng Hall years ago.
He didn’t look up. He knew who’d come. But he had to pretend to sleep.
Wu stood in the doorway, empty bowl in hand. Her tears dropped into its hollow base, shattering like stars.
She bore no malice.
But she was only a mother.
And the night in Chang’an had only just begun to devour its prey.
…
Deep in the recesses of consciousness, Li Ke finally stopped shouting. Quietly, knowing the other would never hear, he whispered:
“…Hold on. Don’t die. Please—don’t die.”
Suddenly, he recalled a line from the histories: “Under the Dazhong reign, the people found peace.”—the golden age that would follow Li Yi’s ascension.
But here, curled in mildewed bedding, was only a child who’d swallowed poison, bitten his tongue raw, and practiced crying like a performance.
History sings of glory—but never mentions how much silent endurance, how many snow-filled nights, lie beneath that radiance.
He knew: the next time he heard his own voice, it would be—once again—on the brink of death.
But at least tonight, this boy of barely more than ten had survived.
Even if it was thanks to a bowl of poison… and a smile he’d faked.
Author’s Note
Thank you for reading.
This story is inspired by the historical figure Li Yi (later Emperor Xuanzong of Tang), who indeed spent decades feigning idiocy to survive court purges—only to emerge as one of the last capable rulers of the Tang dynasty. But history rarely tells us how a child learns to smile while swallowing poison, or what voices echo in the silence between heartbeats when survival demands you become someone else.
I wrote this not as fantasy, but as psychological realism dressed in silk and snow. The “modern soul” is less a ghost and more a metaphor—for the part of us that refuses to accept injustice, even when powerless. In a world where speaking truth means death, sometimes the only rebellion is to stay alive long enough to remember.
If you’ve ever hidden your thoughts to fit in, pretended not to understand to avoid conflict, or smiled through pain—this story is, in some small way, yours too.
New chapters will be released weekly. If you’re moved by Li Yi’s struggle, please consider leaving a rating or comment. On platforms like this, reader engagement is what keeps stories alive.
Translator’s Note on Historical and Cultural Terms (Chapter 1)
This translation renders the world of mid/late-Tang China with fidelity to its emotional texture and political reality. To preserve narrative flow, cultural terms are translated idiomatically where possible, with minimal intervention. The following notes clarify key conventions:
Time
- The story begins in the first month of the Changqing era (821 CE), shortly after the death of Emperor Xianzong (r. 805–820) and the accession of his son, Emperor Muzong (personal name Li Heng).
- References to Yuanhe 15 denote the fifteenth year of Emperor Xianzong’s reign (820 CE), the year of his death.
Kinship and Address
- 阿耶 (ā yé) →“Father”: A colloquial, affectionate term used by children for their father in Tang domestic speech.
- 阿姆 (ā mǔ) →“Mother”: An informal, intimate form of “mother,” often used in southern dialects or within close family settings.
- Wet nurse (乳母, rǔmǔ): A woman hired to breastfeed and care for a noble child, often forming deep emotional ties. Though addressed as “Mother,” she held no legal kinship and could be dismissed or punished at will. Her own children typically lived in poverty, creating painful conflicts of loyalty—as seen with Wu and her sick son.
- 十三郎 (Shísān Láng) →“the Thirteenth Son”: A common way to refer to sons by birth order within noble households. “Láng” conveys youth and informality, not a title.
Titles and Offices
- 尚宫 (Shànggōng) →“Palace Attendant”: A high-ranking female official in the inner palace bureaucracy, overseeing departments such as the Laundry Bureau. Not a concubine, but a powerful administrative figure.
- 太后 (Tàihòu) →“Empress Dowager”: The widow of a deceased emperor; here, Empress Dowager Guo, mother of Emperor Muzong and stepmother to the protagonist.
- 宗室 (Zōngshì) → rendered contextually as “imperial clan”or “member of the imperial house”: Refers to male descendants of past emperors, often politically marginalized.
Places
- 十六王宅 (Sixteen Princes’ Compound): A walled residential complex in Chang’an where imperial princes—especially those deemed potential threats—were confined under nominal privilege but de facto house arrest. Established during Emperor Xuanzong’s reign, it symbolized both imperial care and control.
- 宣政殿 (Xuanzheng Hall): The main audience hall in the Daming Palace, where the emperor held court and issued decrees. Its rear corridors were spaces of private power—and violence.
Objects and Practices
- 缞绖 (cuī dié) →“mourning hemp”or “coarse hempen mourning garments”: Traditional attire worn during the three-year mourning period for a parent, made of unbleached, rough hemp to signify grief and filial duty.
- 开元通宝 (Kaiyuan Tongbao): The standard copper coin of the Tang dynasty, first minted in 713 CE. Though obsolete by the 820s, such coins often circulated as heirlooms or tokens of trust.
Historical Figures (as they appear)
- Emperor Xianzong (Li Chun): Reigned 805–820; known for centralizing power and suppressing regional warlords, but later obsessed with alchemy and immortality elixirs.
- Emperor Muzong (Li Heng): His son and successor; indulgent and short-reigned (820–824).
- Wuzong (mentioned in prophecy): Li Yan, who would become emperor in 840 and indeed persecuted Li Yi (later Emperor Xuanzong)—a tension rooted in historical fact.
Note on Translation Philosophy:
Proper nouns are rendered in pinyin only when no English convention exists (e.g., Chou Gongwu for 仇公武). Titles and institutions are translated functionally (“Palace Attendant,” not “Shanggong”) to convey role over sound. The goal is immersion—not annotation—so that the reader experiences the court’s claustrophobia, the snow’s silence, and the poison in the ginger soup as Li Yi does: without explanation, only consequence.