The white jade comb slid through the cascade of ink-black hair. The movement was slow, methodical, and solemn, each pass an act laden with control and possession. In the private chambers of Empress Wei Shuyin, the silence was an entity of its own, thick and fragrant with the smoke of sandalwood incense. There were no handmaidens. Only a mother and a daughter, sitting before a large, polished bronze mirror that reflected the scene with unrelenting clarity.

The Empress, whose name, Shuyin, ironically meant “Gentle and Virtuous,” was neither of those things. She was the embodiment of silent power, her face a mask of austere elegance that revealed nothing. She stood behind her daughter, Princess Wei Yao, and the act of brushing her hair was as intimate as a lesson in military strategy.

“Your image, Yao’er,” the Empress began, her voice as cold and smooth as the jade in her hand, “is the empire’s most important weapon. It cannot have a single fissure. Every strand of your hair, every fold of your robe, every measured smile… it is all part of the armor that projects the power of the Dragon Throne.”

The comb continued its descent, untangling an invisible knot. Wei Yao remained motionless, her back straight and her hands resting in her lap. She had learned to be a statue in her mother’s presence.

“Young Master Jin is not just a man,” the Empress continued, her tone unchanged. “He is an alliance with the Golden Sword Sect. He is control over the steel mines of the Northern Mountains. Your duty tonight is not to feel; it is to assess. Assess his strength, his lineage, his usefulness to the Great Wei Empire. Affection is a luxury that neither you nor I can afford.”

Wei Yao nodded slightly, her reflection in the mirror mimicking the gesture. The mention of duty, of the strategic marriage, brought the council meeting to her mind. Her father’s face, her uncle’s gaze.

“Your father had no male heirs,” the Empress said, and for the first time, a harder edge colored her voice. “The Dragon Throne will fall to you or to the man you choose as your consort. There is no margin for error. There is no room for weakness. Perfection is not an aspiration, Yao’er. It is your only option for survival.”

The statue broke.

The mention of her father, her mother’s obsession with perfection and duty… everything clicked in Wei Yao’s mind. She connected the lesson of that moment with the scene in the council: the absolute contempt on the Emperor’s face, the hatred. Her mother demanded a perfection that her uncle had deliberately trampled upon.

The jade comb slid through her hair once more, but before it could begin another pass, Wei Yao spoke. Her voice, though soft, cut through the silence like a knife.

“Mother.”

The movement stopped.

“This morning at the council…” Wei Yao continued, her golden eyes meeting her mother’s reflection in the mirror. “The way Father looked at Uncle Wei Feng… I have always known he despises his… lifestyle. I have seen it my entire life. But today, his hatred felt older. Deeper. Like a wound that has never healed. Why?”

The silence that followed was different. It was no longer tranquil, but tense, as fragile as glass. The jade comb remained suspended in the air, the Empress’s hand perfectly still. For an instant, Wei Shuyin’s flawless mask showed a fissure. A flash of deep, bitter sorrow crossed her face; an old frustration that hardened her mouth.

She let out a long, resigned sigh, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of decades. She set the comb aside. Her eyes in the mirror no longer looked at a child to be lectured, but at a woman who demanded answers.

“You are the heiress,” the Empress said, her voice now stripped of its usual coldness, tinged with a strange melancholy. “You have the right to know the weight of the crown you will one day wear… and the weight of the man who cast it away.”

The Empress resumed brushing, but the rhythm had changed. The movements were no longer lessons in control, but a slow, thoughtful accompaniment to the tale she was about to unveil. Her voice grew heavy, almost a whisper, as if recounting a tragic legend that still caused her pain.

“Your uncle was not always… like this,” she began. “Before you were born, Yao’er, before wine became his blood and sloth his skin, Wei Feng was the pride of the empire. He was a comet in a starless night sky. A prodigy the likes of which the world had not seen in a thousand years.”

She paused, as if recalling a glorious vision.

“Cultivation has stages, as you know. The Soul Realms. Your Soul Realm is advancing at an admirable pace, but his… his defied the heavens. He reached the Core Forging Realm when the other princes were barely managing to form their Sea of Consciousness. By the time he turned twenty, his Soul Palace was already so vast and stable that the clan Elders whispered he might reach the legendary Seventh Realm. That he could become a Transcendent Saint, a living myth.”

Wei Yao listened, transfixed. The image her mother painted was so alien to the man she knew that it seemed like the story of someone else entirely.

“And he was not just powerful,” the Empress continued, a hint of old pride in her voice. “He was the embodiment of a dragon’s will. Upright, disciplined, with a martial spirit. He would rise at dawn and train with the sword until his hands bled. He would meditate on the classics until midnight. He was brilliant, charismatic, and fiercely loyal to this empire. He was everything your father tries to be and everything I demand that you become. He was perfection made man.”

The Empress paused again, her knuckles white around the jade comb.

“But the power of a Realm, Yao’er, is just the engine. It is the raw strength. A cultivator’s true legacy, his indelible mark upon the Dao, are the Decrees he inscribes upon his soul. A Realm gives you the power to change the world; a Decree is the law by which you change it. It is your personal will made into a fundamental truth.”

Her voice grew graver.

“The Great Wei Empire was founded on the power of the first ancestor, who inscribed in his soul the Decree of the Sovereign Dragon. A law that subjugates, governs, and unifies. That original Decree, the cornerstone of our power, is kept in the form of a jade stele in the Chamber of Legacy. It is the most sacred artifact we possess.”

Wei Yao held her breath. She knew the legends.

“Tradition dictates that the heir to the throne must meditate before the stele for seven days to understand the nature of our power, to feel its weight. But it is strictly forbidden to attempt to refine or absorb it. It is a legacy, not a tool. It is sacred,” the Empress’s voice was laced with venom. “Your uncle, in his genius and his infinite arrogance, broke that rule.

“During his seven days of meditation, he did the unthinkable. He did not just comprehend the Decree of the Sovereign Dragon… he refined it. He tore it from the stele and absorbed it completely into his own Soul Palace. He made the very foundation of our empire his own.”

A chill ran down Wei Yao’s spine. That was a blasphemy of unimaginable proportions.

“The shock was immense,” the Empress admitted. “The Elders were furious, but also… awestruck. We thought it was the ambition of a genius destined for greatness, a man preparing to lead the empire into a new golden age. We all held our breath, waiting to see what glorious Decrees he would inscribe next, now that he possessed the power of the founder.”

Her voice broke with an emotion that sounded painfully like betrayal.

“And then… came the true mockery. The waste. The slap in the face to our ancestors and our entire empire. With the power of a god in his hands, with the ability to forge laws that could shake the continent… he chose parody.

“He inscribed his second Decree.” She paused, as if the word tasted like ash in her mouth. “The Decree of the Last Draught. A law that allows him to find the purest essence and most exquisite flavor in any alcoholic beverage. He turned divine power into the palate of a wine taster.

“Then, his third Decree: The Decree of the Softest Bed. A law that ensures any surface he rests upon will provide him the most restorative and pleasant sleep possible.

“And the last, the most insulting of all… the Decree of the Jade Skin. A law that grants him a supernatural sensitivity to touch, allowing him to experience and bestow pleasure in ways a common mortal could not even conceive.”

The Empress spat the words with icy contempt.

“He turned the power of a sainted emperor into the whims of a hedonist, a libertine… a merchant of his own favors. And when we thought he could dishonor us no further, he committed the final affront: he abdicated.

“In front of the entire council, he handed the crown to your father, his younger brother, a good man but with not a tenth of his genius or power. He said the throne was ‘too much work’ and that he preferred a life of ‘more meaningful pursuits.’ And since that day, he has dedicated himself to voluntarily drowning in wine and women.”

The Empress finally stopped. Her breathing was ragged.

“Your father’s ‘hatred’ is not simple contempt for a drunkard, Yao’er. It is the daily pain of a deep, unfathomable disappointment. It is the resentment of a man who bears a crown that should never have been his, while watching the true Emperor by right and power—the man who should be guiding this empire—squander his life and laugh at us all.”

Upon finishing her story, Empress Wei Shuyin seemed exhausted, as if recounting the tale had stolen her strength. The mask of perfection had cracked, and beneath it was only a sad, bitter woman. With a final gesture, she placed the jade comb on the dark wood vanity. The sound of jade against wood was sharp, final.

“That is enough,” she said, her voice regaining some of its coldness. “The past is dead. You are the future. And you will not make his mistakes.”

With a decisive motion, she tapped a small silver bell resting on the table. The chime was shrill, a call back to reality. Immediately, the chamber doors opened and a retinue of handmaidens entered in absolute silence, breaking the bubble of intimacy. They moved like ghosts, carrying trays of cosmetics, jewels, and the robes for that evening’s banquet.

The hands of the handmaidens began to work on her, applying powders, lining her eyes, arranging her hair. But Wei Yao’s mind was a million miles away. She no longer thought of Young Master Jin, nor of alliances, nor of the weight of the empire.

She was trying to reconcile two impossible images: that of Uncle Wei Feng, the lazy, drunken pervert whose lecherous gaze had burned her that very morning, and that of Prince Wei Feng, the upright, disciplined genius, the prodigy who had touched the power of the gods only to turn it into a joke.

The revelation had not solved the mystery of her uncle. It had only made it infinitely deeper, more complex, and more tragic. She looked at her own reflection, her face slowly becoming the perfect mask her mother demanded, preparing for a night where she would have to face both men: the Emperor who wore the wrong crown, and the Emperor who had tossed it aside for a sip of wine.