For ten years, the children didn’t dare come visit me.
They first kept it from their father, the emperor, and sent out several fleets. Very few returned, but at least some survived.
From the survivors, they learned that everything I’d told them was true.
The world was vast, the earth was round, and their father was also in contact with the ruler of Đại Bất Liệt Điện.
For the sake of power, their father was willing to hinder the progress of the entire dynasty.
The children began a ten-year revolutionary plan. It was extremely dangerous, and they proceeded with great caution.
But they believed their mother wouldn’t lie to them.
A great, peaceful system existed in this world, one in which they could pursue their ambitions without brothers having to kill one another.
Harem intrigues, court politics, supreme power.
To the nine of them, none of that was as appealing as building a dynasty free from oppression and humiliation.
I showed them not a gladiatorial arena,
but a bright path where they could support and encourage one another as brothers.
They could see the people living in peace and prosperity, and the dynasty flourishing.
Once they set foot on that path, a petty throne was nothing more than a mayfly in a crumbling feudal society—not worth mentioning.
But what the children regretted most was that, on the final night of the spring reforms, I was poisoned to death with a cup of wine that autumn.
The emperor knew he was about to die. Even in death, he had to take me with him.
He paid no attention to the other beauties. I was the only one he cared about: Consort Đức Phi, whose looks were plain.
“Consort Đức Phi, do as I say.”
“Like hell I will.”
—THE END—