Wu Zetian · Conversa

You instinctively wanted to call out for Mom and Dad, but your lips parted and closed in silence. There were no parents in this unfamiliar place. Just then, memories surged in like a tidal wave, bearing the entire life of this sixteen-year-old youth: the son of a peasant family in the suburbs of Luoyang, orphaned at a young age, left with only his grandmother to lean on. Because of his striking appearance, local gentry and tribute officials selected him a month ago. When he departed home, his grandmother wept until her tears ran dry. She pressed a smooth, worn peach-wood amulet into his palm and choked out, "A-Yan, survive. You must come back alive." It happened that the imperial court had issued an edict encouraging local regions to recommend talents. Under the pretext of "enriching the imperial palace," they gave the boy a preliminary makeover. They subjected him to a month of intensive training: learning to kneel, to walk, to perform court etiquette, along with three hundred common characters. When the ninth day of the ninth lunar month arrived and the Empress ascended the throne, they used the pretexts of his "extraordinary, refined visage" and "answering the auspicious omens of the Sage's ascension" to bathe and perfume him three days ago, before sending him into the palace at dusk today. It was now the ninth month of the first year of the Zaichu era—or according to the new calendar of the newly proclaimed Holy and Divine Emperor, late autumn in the first year of the Tianshou era (690 AD). Wu Zetian had replaced Tang with Zhou, and barely ten days had passed since her grand coronation. And you—or rather, "he"—were nominally a talented youth presented to enrich the imperial palace. To your eyes, the original host was merely a peasant boy who had been rushed through basic etiquette and literacy. How could he possibly be called a "talent"? It was nothing more than groveling officials fawning over the throne, presenting him to serve as the Empress's male plaything! "The only thing more mind-boggling than transmigrating into a man is transmigrating into an imperial male favorite," you muttered under your breath, a tinge of despair in your voice, able to offer only a bitter scoff. As a historian who studied the Wu Zhou era, you knew all too well the lethality of this position. Brutal inquisitors like Lai Junchen and Zhou Xing were already rising, and the culture of secret denunciations and framed charges was rampant. Xue Huaiyi's power was burning bright, though he had not yet met his demise. As for the Zhang brothers, who knew where they were right now—best not to think of them. Entering the palace at this moment was practically jumping headfirst into a cauldron of boiling oil. While your mind spun in circles, hurried footsteps sounded outside the door. "Su Yan! Get up, quickly!" a eunuch's shrill voice barked. "The Sage has issued an imperial summons for your attendance. Wash and dress at once!" Your heart stopped for a beat. So fast? Tonight? Right now? Your hand clutched the peach-wood amulet until your knuckles turned white, then quickly shoved it beneath the pillow. If you had a choice, you would gladly go back to dutifully grading undergraduate essays, never complaining about the misery of pursuing a PhD again. Two eunuchs pushed open the door and hauled you out of bed without giving you a chance to speak. Under the candlelight, you caught your first clear look at yourself in the bronze mirror—it was indeed an irreproachable youthful face. Brows like painted brushstrokes, a high-bridged nose, finely shaped lips, and sun-kissed wheat-toned skin from years of farm work that did nothing to diminish his handsome features. Most striking were the eyes, slightly upturned at the outer corners. They should have looked alluring, but the deep shock and bewilderment in them gave off a peculiar, striking clarity. Standing nearly eight chi tall (around 180 cm) with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, though only sixteen, the frame had already begun to fill out. The subtle rise of a flat chest, the prominent Adam's apple—every feature was distinctly male. "Quickly, change!" A eunuch brought forward a moon-white silk robe embroidered with subtle silver thread patterns, moving to dress you. You let them manipulate you like a puppet while your brain raced. If your first night of imperial attendance failed... You recalled those casual, terrifying lines scattered throughout *Zizhi Tongjian*: "The Emperor was displeased and banished him"; "Fell from favor, died in confinement"; "Defied the imperial will, caned to death." You also recalled the palace survival logic you had analyzed in your own dissertation: first impressions determine life or death. If you made Wu Zetian find you dull, clumsy, or trembling with fear, the best outcome would be to rot forgotten in some dark corner; the worst... "Move!" A eunuch shoved him forward. Your breath came in tight, shallow gasps as you forced yourself to calm down. You didn't know whether your modern self was dead, but right now, you were Su Yan—a sixteen-year-old, helpless youth chosen for the inner court. To survive, you had to pass tonight's test. Forget that you were once a woman. Forget modern moral codes. Adapt to whatever comes. Right now, there was only one goal: satisfy the most powerful person in this empire—Wu Zetian. You stepped into the palanquin, carefully surveying the path. Tall vermilion palace walls lined both sides of the corridor, with lanterns illuminating the way every dozen paces. The night wind blew, setting the lanterns swaying and casting restless shadows across the stone. You committed the route to memory: passing the Zhenguan Hall, then a small Buddhist chapel, and stepping through a moon gate—where the view suddenly opened up. A palace hall slightly smaller than Zhenguan Hall, yet far more exquisite, appeared ahead. Twelve bronze pillars wrapped with coiled dragons stood across the courtyard before the hall, symbolizing the twelve provinces of the realm. The palace doors reached nearly three zhang in height, lacquered in crimson and studded with golden rivets, gleaming with a solemn sheen under the moonlight and lantern glow. Above the entrance hung a horizontal plaque bearing three large characters written in the imperial hand: "Hall of Gathering Immortals." The brushwork was vigorous and magnificent—Wu Zetian's own calligraphy. The moment you crossed the threshold into the Hall of Gathering Immortals, the breath caught in your throat. The interior was far deeper and vaster than it appeared from outside. The floor was covered in plush Persian carpets, patterned not with the common linked-pearl hunting scenes, but with intertwined floral rosettes—a motif personally revised by Wu Zetian to symbolize "flourishing auspicious omens." Along both sides stood six bronze lotus-and-crane floor lamps. The cranes held their heads high, their beaks grasping not ordinary candles, but glass cups from the realm of Fulin. Filled with whale oil and burning exotic incense, the flames cast a soft, luminous glow through the colored glass across the entire hall. The palace pillars were lacquered a deep crimson, painted with gold-dust scrollwork, supporting a dome that vaulted four zhang high. Across the ceiling stretched a painted celestial map—not a mere decoration, but the accurate Luo Xiahong star chart, with the Big Dipper positioned directly above the imperial couch. Yet what commanded the eye most was the red sandalwood daybed inlaid with mother-of-pearl, situated in the exact north. The couch was six chi wide, layered with three sets of brocade mattresses, the topmost made of flowing-cloud brocade offered as tribute from Shu, shifting with faint gold patterns under the changing light. Behind the couch stood a massive twelve-panel folding screen, over a zhang tall, embroidered with the sun and moon shining together and mountains and seas paying homage—this was the "Celestial Screen," crafted from silk presented by every province and completed by three thousand embroiderers when the Mingtang was erected. The sun and moon reigning above the sky—precisely the character "Zhao" that she had created for herself. The entire hall lacked the languid softness of a traditional bedchamber, exuding instead the solemn, intimidating majesty of the imperial court. This was a bedroom, yet also a hall of state; a place of rest, but above all, the very nexus of absolute power. Yet you had no time—and no courage—to examine any of this closely. All you knew was that the hall was exceptionally warm, an entirely different world from the autumn night outside. The underfloor heating flues burned hot, and the warm air swept over you wrapped in faint sandalwood incense, sending a shiver of goosebumps across your skin. Your feet sank into softness. You cast a fleeting glance down—a carpet, so thick your insteps sank into the pile, richly colored and intricately patterned, undeniably a treasure from the Western Regions. But you dared take only a single glance before instantly lowering your gaze. Light shone from both flanks, bright yet steady, unlike flickering candlelight. From the corner of your eye, you caught sight of the tall lampstands shaped like cranes, their beaks holding fist-sized orbs that radiated a gentle, pearlescent sheen. Luminous pearls—the phrase flashed through your mind, instantly followed by another thought: *How much must these be worth?* But all these thoughts vanished in a heartbeat, as your peripheral vision caught the figure seated upon the imperial couch. Even across a distance of over ten paces, even with your head bowed, you could feel the crushing majesty rolling toward you. Forty-five-year-old Wu Zetian sat in casual robes—a deep purple gown with wide sleeves embroidered with golden phoenixes, her hair gathered into a high coiffure fastened with only a single white jade hairpin. No excessive jewelry, no heavy makeup, yet the aura of one who had long ruled from above and held absolute dominion over life and death had solidified into a tangible pressure, filling the entire hall. You immediately followed the court etiquette, performing the grand ritual of three kneelings and nine kowtows. "Your servant Su Yan pays homage to Your Majesty. Long live Your Majesty! May Your Majesty live ten thousand years, ten thousand years, ten thousand ten thousand years!" Your voice trembled faintly despite yourself—half calculated performance, half genuine terror. A living historical figure was seated right before your eyes, holding your life in her hands. The shock of this reality was far more visceral and terrifying than any historical record could ever convey. Silence hung in the hall for a brief moment. Then, a voice spoke. Neither loud nor soft, neither rushed nor slow, yet infused with a power that penetrated straight through the soul: "Raise your head." You slowly lifted your head, not daring to look directly at her, fixing your gaze on the steps before the imperial couch. "Look at Us."