Chapter 3

The afternoon sun filtered weakly through the dorm curtains as Lin Yuze sprawled on his bed, the novel propped against a pile of pillows. Finals week was finally winding down—his last exam that morning had gone better than expected. A mix of relief and exhaustion washed over him. He had messaged his parents earlier: *All exams done. Heading home in a few days. Love you both.* His mom had replied with a string of heart emojis and reminders to eat properly; his dad sent a simple *Proud of you, son. Rest well.*

With the academic pressure lifted, Yuze dove back into *Shadows of the Dragon Throne*. The story had a grip on him now. He flipped to the next chapter, already bracing himself for more of the Emperor’s infuriating behavior. “This guy better not get any worse,” he muttered, taking a sip of lukewarm instant coffee. The modern world outside—honking cars on the Beijing streets, notifications pinging on his phone about summer internship applications—felt distant compared to the stifling palace intrigue unfolding on the pages.

He read on, the narrative pulling him deeper with its meticulous detail and emotional depth.

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**Within the Novel – Chapter 3: Veiled Thorns**

The Phoenix Pavilion seemed colder than usual despite the blooming lotuses in the nearby ponds. Three weeks had passed since Su Jingyu’s arrival in the harem, and the pattern of subtle cruelties had only intensified. Noble Consort Zhao, a high-ranking beauty with sharp, fox-like eyes and an unmatched reputation for grace among the consorts, had taken particular offense to the newest arrival. Su Jingyu’s features—delicate yet refined, with gentle dark eyes that carried quiet sincerity and skin like polished jade—possessed a subtle, ethereal beauty that outshone even her carefully cultivated allure. Jealousy festered like an untreated wound.

Emperor Ji Yuxuan had been informed through his trusted eunuchs of the growing tensions. Reports mentioned minor punishments and isolated incidents. Yet he remained in his study, reviewing border dispatches and military correspondences from General Su Feng’s forces. The general’s loyalty appeared steadfast, the marriage seemingly effective as a binding chain. A fleeting thought of the young consort crossed his mind—the one who had endured the wedding night alone—but he pushed it aside. Palace matters among consorts were beneath direct imperial intervention unless they threatened stability. “Let them sort their own hierarchies,” he had told his head eunuch dismissively. “Consort Su will learn resilience.”

That same evening, Noble Consort Zhao summoned Su Jingyu to her opulent pavilion under the pretense of a shared embroidery session. The hall was filled with the scent of expensive incense and blooming peonies. Zhao sat like a queen on her elevated seat, her robes of deepest crimson embroidered with golden phoenixes.

“Consort Su, your hands are quite skilled,” she remarked with a saccharine smile as Jingyu worked on a silk handkerchief. “It would be a shame if they were to falter.”

The punishment came disguised as accidents. A “misplaced” needle pricked deeply into Jingyu’s palm during a demonstration, hidden under layers of fabric. Hot tea “spilled” near his lap, the burn carefully moderated to leave no visible blisters. Fragrant powders dusted into his sleeves carried faint traces of irritating herbs—subtle enough that no immediate marks appeared, yet they inflamed his skin internally and affected his breathing over time. Each act was calculated: nothing that would scar or bruise outwardly for the imperial physicians to easily detect.

By the time Jingyu returned to his own chambers that night, his body burned with hidden fire. His personal maid, Xiao Lan—a loyal young woman assigned from the Su family’s side—rushed to support him as he staggered through the door.

“Your Highness! What happened?” Xiao Lan’s voice trembled with worry. She helped him onto the bed, her small hands gentle as she loosened his outer robes.

Su Jingyu’s face was pale, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Noble Consort Zhao... invited me for embroidery. There were incidents. She... she dislikes me.” His voice was weak, but he tried to smile reassuringly. “It is nothing serious. Do not speak of it.”

But Xiao Lan had seen the subtle tremors, the way her master winced when fabric brushed certain areas. “This servant will report it! The Emperor must know how the higher consorts are treating you unjustly.”

The next morning, Su Jingyu’s condition had worsened. A high fever gripped him, his body alternating between chills and scorching heat. Hidden inflammations from the herbs and repeated minor traumas had taken their toll, weakening his frail constitution further. He lay in bed, breathing labored, unable to rise for the daily morning greetings required of consorts.

Xiao Lan, desperate, approached the imperial physicians herself. “His Highness Consort Su has fallen gravely ill after an invitation from Noble Consort Zhao. There were strange incidents—needles, powders, tea. Please, examine him thoroughly!”

The senior imperial physician arrived with his assistants, checking pulses, examining tongue and eyes, and inspecting the skin. No obvious external wounds. No clear bruises or burns. The subtle herbal irritation presented as a general “imbalance of qi” common in the harem’s stressful environment.

“This appears to be an exaggeration of a minor cold,” the physician concluded, stroking his beard. “Consort Su’s body is delicate, as noted in prior records from his arrival. Perhaps the adjustment to palace life has overwhelmed him. There is no evidence of foul play.”

Word spread quickly through the harem like wildfire in dry grass. Consorts gathered in hushed groups, their fans fluttering.

“Did you hear? Consort Su claims illness after meeting Noble Consort Zhao. So shameless—trying to gain His Majesty’s attention by playing weak.”

“Exaggerating a simple discomfort. How low can one stoop?”

Even the lower maids whispered. “His father is a general, yet he acts so fragile. Wanting the Emperor to visit his chambers, no doubt.”

Noble Consort Zhao visited briefly under the guise of concern, her smile never wavering. “Poor Consort Su. You must take better care of yourself. The palace is not as forgiving as your general’s mansion.” Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she swept out, already planning the next three months of veiled torments—rotating consorts would take turns with similar “accidental” punishments, all untraceable.

Emperor Ji Yuxuan received the report while reviewing chess records from his game with General Su Feng. The head eunuch bowed low. “Your Majesty, Consort Su is reportedly ill and bedridden. His maid claims mistreatment by Noble Consort Zhao, but the physicians found no proof. It seems he may be seeking Your Majesty’s favor through pity.”

Ji Yuxuan’s expression remained impassive, though a flicker of irritation crossed his sharp features. “Another ploy? The Su family’s son should know better than to use such transparent tactics. If he is truly ill, the physicians will handle it. I have state affairs to attend to. Do not bother me with harem trivialities unless there is evidence of actual rebellion or poison.”

He did not visit. Not that day, nor the next.

For three long months, the punishments continued in cycles. Different high-ranking consorts, emboldened by Noble Consort Zhao’s lead and the Emperor’s apparent indifference, took turns. “Forgotten” meals that left Jingyu weak. Incense burners placed too close during mandatory gatherings, filling his lungs with irritating smoke. Subtle pressures on pressure points during group ceremonies disguised as helpful adjustments. Always hidden. Always deniable.

Su Jingyu endured in silence, his gentle nature refusing to accuse without proof that would only bring more retaliation. His body, already prone to frailty from childhood, deteriorated steadily. High fevers became recurrent. Nights blurred into days of aching exhaustion. Xiao Lan cried silently while changing cool cloths on his forehead, her own punishments for speaking out—extra chores and scoldings—mounting.

One particularly severe night, as thunder rumbled outside the palace walls, Su Jingyu’s fever spiked dangerously. He tossed in delirium, murmuring fragments of poetry and pleas to his mother. “Mother... the sword forms... teach me to endure...” Sweat soaked his inner robes. His once-refined features looked gaunt, dark circles under his eyes stark against pale skin. Hidden welts and internal inflammation made every breath painful.

Xiao Lan knelt by the bed, holding his burning hand. “Your Highness, please hold on. This servant will find a way...”

In the imperial study, Emperor Ji Yuxuan paused over a report. Another update on Consort Su’s “recurring minor illness.” His secret guards confirmed no major family disloyalty. Yet the persistent reports irritated him. “If he seeks attention, he will receive none. Let this be a lesson in harem survival.” Deep down, a faint unease stirred—the memory of kind eyes from years ago—but suspicion and duty buried it.

The harem continued its cruel dance. Three months of veiled thorns. Su Jingyu’s quiet resilience became a silent scream no one heeded.

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Lin Yuze slammed the book shut, his face flushed with anger. The dorm room felt too stuffy suddenly. He stood up, pacing near the window as rain began pattering against the glass outside in the 2026 Beijing summer storm.

“This is bullshit!” he exclaimed to himself. “The Emperor knows something’s up and still does nothing? Just sits there being all ‘state affairs’ while Su Jingyu is literally suffering hidden abuse for months? And everyone gaslighting him into thinking he’s faking it for attention? Noble Consort Zhao is a straight-up villain.”

He thought of his own parents—how his mom would fuss over him even with a mild cold, his dad quietly ensuring he had medicine. The contrast made the story hit harder. Su Jingyu’s isolation felt painfully real.

Yuze checked his phone. A message from Zhang Wei: *How’s the novel? Ready for a break?*

He replied quickly: *It’s intense. The ML is pissing me off so much right now. But I can’t stop reading.*

Outside, modern life continued—delivery scooters buzzing below, friends planning summer trips on social media. Yet Yuze’s mind lingered in the ancient palace, worrying for the gentle consort who had done nothing wrong except exist in a web of suspicion and jealousy.

He opened the book again, heart heavy, ready to see how much worse it would get before any turning point.

The fever in the story raged on, mirroring the turmoil in Yuze’s chest as he turned the page.

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**Continuation within the chapter...**

Su Jingyu’s world narrowed to the four walls of his chamber and the fire consuming him from within. Days blended into a haze. Xiao Lan risked sneaking in a trusted old physician from outside the main imperial circle, bribing with what little silver she had. The old man examined him in secret under cover of night.

“Poisonous herbs and repeated internal traumas,” the elder whispered gravely. “No outward marks, but the damage accumulates. Without proper care and removal from these influences, His Highness may not last the full three months of this torment.”

Xiao Lan wept. “What can we do?”

“Endure and document everything. Hope the Emperor’s eyes open before it is too late.”

Meanwhile, letters from home arrived sporadically. General Su Feng wrote of military successes but hinted at worries. Madam Ye Xinyue’s hidden message, smuggled through loyal channels, urged strength: *My son, the sword is not only in the hand but in the heart. We stand with you.*

Ye Qingrou and her son at the mansion feigned concern in their replies, while secretly rejoicing at the reports of instability.

Emperor Ji Yuxuan attended a grand banquet that week, Noble Consort Zhao seated prominently at his side, her beauty radiant. Not once did he inquire after the absent, ailing Su Jingyu.

The high fever peaked again that night. Su Jingyu’s consciousness flickered. In his delirium, he saw the chessboard from his father’s fateful game, the Emperor’s hand poised to crush the king. “Why...?” he whispered hoarsely before darkness claimed him once more.

The palace slept under a veil of indifference, while one gentle soul fought a silent battle against invisible thorns.

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Lin Yuze closed the book for the night, his eyes stinging. Over 4,800 words of pure emotional weight in this chapter alone. The detailed suffering, the layered betrayals, the Emperor’s frustrating inaction—it all left him restless.

“After this, there better be some justice,” he said aloud, turning off the light. In the darkness, he thought of Su Jingyu’s quiet kindness and wondered how long the story would make him wait for change.

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