After Transmigrating into a Novel, I Turned on Easy Mode - Chapter 12

The person in my memories always wore a sorrowful look. I asked her why she wasn’t happy; she always said I was still too little to know.

She was always arguing with the man called “Father.” I was afraid and wanted to pull her out of that room. Whenever I got angry, she always told me to be good, to listen.

Whenever they quarreled, I wanted to tell her, too: “Be good, listen, don’t get angry—if you get angry, you’ll have nightmares.” But in the end I could only curl up, shivering, in gege’s arms. I felt his body trembling, too; I patted the back of his hand and told him I would protect him.

My brother felt it and held me tighter.

Everyone said she was the most blessed woman in Daxin. The late emperor had given her everything she wanted: rank, wealth—even the person she loved. But now it was a joke. The Princess Royal and her princely consort were at odds—everyone in the streets knew it.

The current emperor and the Princess Royal didn’t get along. If not for the late emperor’s edict, this “tolerant and benevolent” emperor might well have found some pretext to execute her on the spot.

Tongues wagged. Some said the princely consort didn’t know what was good for him: a poor scholar who’d climbed so high and still nitpicked. Others thought he had real talent and set his sights on court service, and that marrying a princess had clipped his wings and cost him his place in history.

No matter the talk, I just couldn’t stop aching for her. I was only four then, still muddle-headed, but you can feel who treats you well and who doesn’t.

I hated the princely consort; I refused to call him Father. In his eyes I always saw a strong disgust, the kind that made me feel like the filthiest, most worthless thing in the world.

Only she and gege were truly my kin. She danced beautifully and loved to wear white. I’d heard she hadn’t liked white before, but I thought she looked lovely in it—so I decided it was the most beautiful color in the world.

She was always telling me she was sorry. I found it strange—I didn’t feel she owed me anything. All I could do was stare at her, wide-eyed and confused.

I wanted to become like her: gentle and beautiful, a single dance to topple a city. That was my childhood goal. I told her this wish loudly and proudly. I thought she’d be happy; instead, she only hugged me tight and said, “Don’t become me. My whole life is love that cannot be had.”

What does “love that cannot be had” mean?

But I liked my brother, and my brother liked me. If you give love, won’t the other person give equal love in return…

They started arguing again. The consort slammed the door and swept off. Only when he’d gone far did gege and I dare enter. The room was a wreck, shards of porcelain everywhere. Afraid I’d cut my feet, gege left me outside the door.

I watched from the threshold as she lay over the table and cried. I was puzzled and heartsore. If it hurts this much, why not change to another consort?

I asked my question. I felt her whole body stiffen. She murmured, with a little self-mockery, “I can’t let go. Even knowing this is how it ends, I still want to force it.”

I still didn’t understand. But back then, if I didn’t understand, I’d just stop thinking. Those days were comparatively happy.

Sometimes I wondered: how did two people so ill-matched end up together? Why did she torment herself like this? Could she really wait long enough for him to turn back to her?

Later she told me they met at a temple, because of a comb. When she told that story, she always wore a smile. Gege told me that was called happiness.

After Gaozu took the throne, his health was poor—minor and major illnesses in turn. She was his most beloved youngest daughter. When he fell sick again, she went to Chaoguang Temple to pray for his recovery.

To show sincerity, she dressed very simply that day, with little on her hair. The most meaningful item was a comb her mother-concubine had given her.

Perhaps the comb had been fastened loosely; only after she returned to her room from praying did she realize it was gone.

It was her mother’s keepsake. She panicked and searched everywhere. But the temple was so big—how could she find something so small?

The sun slanted west, and still she hadn’t found it. Her heart already ached, but she couldn’t give up and kept searching all over the temple.

“Miss, are you looking for this?”

A man’s voice sounded behind her.

She told me it was a sight she would never forget: a blue-robed man beneath a banyan tree, his scholar’s gown washed so often it had turned white, every movement steeped in bookish grace, a faint smile on his lips, and dappled, orange light falling across him through the leaves.

Once she got the comb back, she thought of him every day—his faded robe, the old banyan in the temple, the hint of a smile at his mouth. So she secretly sought him out, told him who she really was, and confessed her heart.

He refused, firmly. He said he was set on officialdom and already had someone he loved. Once he’d achieved success, he would return home and marry her.

Life isn’t a storybook, even when both the “talented scholar” and “beauty” are present. She shut herself in her room, neither eating nor drinking, shrinking to skin and bone.

The late emperor was anxious, but she wouldn’t say anything. He investigated and learned the cause of his darling’s sorrow. He was furious. A rustic nobody dared scorn a phoenix?

He thought to find a crime and exile him. But when she heard, she ran to plead. Seeing how deep she was trapped, the emperor worried. He secretly summoned this “country lad” and promised he could still enter government if he married the princess.

Naturally, the talk collapsed.

He’d toiled at his desk for a decade to spread his wings—and to break it all took only this much: a single comb.

In the end, the late emperor secretly arrested his family and his beloved and used their lives to force him to wed the princess.

Ten li of red silk; the whole capital seemed stained scarlet. The late emperor’s treasure of a princess married down—to a nameless poor scholar.

The bride sat in the palanquin, heart filled with joy. The groom on the tall horse wore no smile.

Married life became endless quarrels, crushing her dreams again and again. The late emperor never told her the marriage had been won by force.

Still she waited—hoping that in time, their daily life together would win his returned gaze.

Then she fell ill—from body to mind. She found and brought back a woman from outside. When the consort saw the woman she’d brought home, his face changed.

It was the biggest fight I can remember. After that, the woman lived in the residence. She never assigned her rough work. She was neither maid nor concubine.

The woman always smiled faintly. I had the feeling the consort was avoiding her—whenever she appeared, he would leave immediately, as if he couldn’t face her.

All the better if he avoided us. I actually liked that woman. I called her He-yi.

He-yi cooked delicious food and told good stories. She seemed to like both me and gege. We listened to little tales from her hometown and embarrassing stories from the consort’s childhood—which I loved, since I hated him.

A year passed like that. Then, on a rainy day, I came down with a high fever. My whole body hurt. For some reason, the doctor never came.

My mouth was parched; my head was foggy. I reached blindly at the bedside but didn’t find her hand as usual. I couldn’t help crying, “Mother, Mother, it hurts. Where are you?”

No answer this time. I fainted. When I woke again, only gege sat by the bed, tear tracks on his face. I reached up to wipe them, but he grabbed me in a hug.

His voice caught, hoarse in a way that made me hurt. “Thank goodness. Thank goodness. Zier, you didn’t go.”

“Zier’s here. Gege, be good—don’t cry, don’t cry. Zier won’t go anywhere.”

Only later did I learn my legs could no longer walk. I truly couldn’t go anywhere. And she and He-yi were both gone.

Gege said they’d gone up to the sky and were watching us from there. So the person who warmed my hands would never come back. I’d never hear her voice again, never see her dance.

Wu You listened as the girl gently spoke of “her.” It was obvious: that “she” was Zhao Qingzi’s mother, Li Mingyue, and the princely consort was her father, Zhao Cuo—today’s Yongding Hou.

The original book said little, only a passing mention. Hearing this, Wu You’s chest ached. The grudges of the previous generation had carried straight into the next.

“Wu You, do you think that woman was foolish? To cling to a love with no ending.”

The girl’s voice was calm, as if telling a stranger’s story, but Wu You knew she must be hurting now.

“Foolish, yes. She could have let go. You can’t force love. Her worst folly was throwing away her two children for a dead-end love.”

At that, Zhao Qingzi looked up. Wu You met her eyes. “You miss her very much, don’t you?”

Zhao Qingzi hesitated, then nodded slightly. Then she asked, “If you were her, what would you do?”

Wu You propped her hands behind her head and thought a moment, then scratched it. “Me? I’m not the brooding type. If someone didn’t like me, I’d probably let go.”

A flicker passed through Zhao Qingzi’s eyes. “And if you were the consort in my story? If someone tried to force you—what then?”

Wu You didn’t notice the tension beneath her words. “I suppose I’d resent it too… I’m someone who loves freedom. I don’t like coercion—ah, unless I choose to be coerced, haha.”

At that, Zhao Qingzi couldn’t help clenching the wheelchair’s arm. She closed her eyes, smoothed her expression, and smiled. “True enough.”

Suddenly her hand was caught. Wu You blew warm air lightly over Zhao Qingzi’s fingers and smiled. “There are still plenty of people in this world who care about you. Let the past stay in the past. If you’re stuck staring backward, how will you ever see the future?”

“Look, your hands are all red from the cold. I’ll warm them.”

As the girl started nagging again, Zhao Qingzi’s lips curved.

Yes… it’s all in the past.