The capital of Jinri gleamed like a jewel upon the plain. Its walls rose high and proud, painted in vermilion and gold, palace roofs curved like the wings of dragons. From afar, it was a vision of abundance. Within, the streets still echoed with market laughter and the music of court musicians—sounds that masked the hunger gnawing beyond the gates. 

The famine had not yet shattered the illusion. 
To a starving farmer, the city was a dream. 
To Emperor Liang Zhao, it was a gilded cage. 

The long day of glib-tongued ministers and endless deliberation had finally drawn to a close, yet rest remained out of reach. In his private study, a mountain of memorials awaited him—petitions, warnings, desperate pleas—piled like unspoken accusations. 

He moved down the corridor in silence, the echo of his boots swallowed by polished stone. The scent of burning sandalwood lingered, meant to soothe the mind; tonight it only reminded him of ash. 

Do this, think that… he thought bitterly. How can men so full of words understand hunger they’ve never tasted? 

Still, the anger did not quiet the sorrow pressing against his ribs.

He could not stop seeing the faces of his people during his Western tour: hollow-cheeked children, peasants bowing in dust as his palanquin passed. They did not curse him aloud, but their silence condemned him more than words ever could. 

His father’s voice rose unbidden from memory. 

“A great ruler has an even greater heart,”  

Emperor Heqiang had once said, summoning Zhao to his study in those final months. “Never allow them to forget your face, and never allow them to forget the sound of your voice.” 

At the time, Zhao had mistaken it for a lesson in authority—an emperor’s presence, a ruler’s command. Only years later did he understand. His father had not meant dominion; he had meant compassion. 

The Great River who had guided Jinri for fifty years had ruled not by fear but by nearness. He had walked among scholars in their courtyards, spoken with soldiers at their posts, listened to farmers describe their fields. He had dreamed of a system that would let every common voice reach the throne unfiltered. But death claimed him before he could lay the foundations. 

When the emperor’s breath stilled in the sixth month of his fiftieth year on the throne, the palace fell silent. The Empress Dowager wept behind drawn curtains; the princes bowed, each hiding his grief or ambition in equal measure. Zhao remembered the stillness most of all—the way the world seemed to pause, as if Jinri itself had forgotten to breathe. 

Now, four years later, he stood heir to that silence. 

His steps slowed. The corridor stretched before him, long and golden under lamplight. For the first time that night, he truly heard the echo of his father’s words. 

A great ruler has an even greater heart. 

Zhao exhaled softly, his golden-brown eyes lifting toward the painted beams above. Have I lost mine? 

A discreet cough pulled him back. His attendant—quiet as his shadow—bowed and gestured toward the doors of the study. 

“Your Majesty,” he murmured. 

Zhao straightened, gathering the remnants of imperial composure. “Very well,” he replied. He took a final moment to appreciate the quiet hall before stepping once more into the light of his beautiful cell. 

It’s as if the Great River took all the water with him…  

— ➿ — 

Edited 11/21/25

Next Episode — Chapter 3: Duty’s Call

The scent of sandalwood lingers, and an emperor faces a question no crown can answer: where does duty end, and the heart begin?