At the end of the Yuan Dynasty, they called me a demonic monk.

"Your Highness, please receive the imperial decree."

The leading eunuch stepped forward, his shrill voice piercing the silence of the rain. The bright yellow silk scroll in his hand was unusually dazzling, like a blinding ray of light. Toghon Temür instinctively knelt on the damp, cold flagstones, listening to the convoluted and authoritative official language as if it were from another world. He couldn't understand most of it, only catching a few fragmented words—"welcoming the heir to the throne," "inheriting the great lineage"... Each word weighed heavily, making his ears ring. At this moment, what surged within him was not joy, but a chilling fear and disorientation.

It wasn't until the old servant who had served him for many years trembled and gently nudged him that he snapped out of his daze, hurriedly bowing his head and kowtowing. His forehead touched the cold, slippery stone surface, sending a chill down his spine.

Those flowery phrases about "destiny" and "inheritance of the throne" sounded to him like a death knell. He raised his head, looking in confusion towards the northern capital, but what appeared before him was the pale and desperate face of his mother, Empress Babusha.

"Your Highness, please rise quickly." The eunuch instantly put on an almost obsequious smile, but the smile was only on the surface. The barely perceptible contempt deep in his eyes was like a fine needle, piercing through all the illusion of respect. "Just pack some essential things. The capital has everything. Your Highness's needs will not be lacking."

He was only nine years old that year. His father, King Myeongjong and King Se-eun, had just died suddenly after the strange banquet held by King Huchchadu. Less than a few months after his father's death, his mother, Babusha, was also moved to a secluded palace in the inner palace, ostensibly for "quiet recuperation," but in reality, she was placed under house arrest.

He still remembered that cold, gloomy afternoon when he secretly ran away to see his mother one last time. The palace was as cold as an ice cellar. His mother gripped his hand tightly, her nails digging almost into his flesh. Her voice trembled with fear and resentment: "My son, remember! Your father was murdered! They...they won't let me go...and they won't let you go either!"

He didn't fully understand who "they" were at the time, only remembering the deep despair in his mother's eyes.

Sure enough, shortly after that meeting, news of her mother's death arrived. The court's official account was that she "died of melancholy," but everyone in the palace knew she had been poisoned. All the evidence and rumors pointed to Yan Temur, the powerful Right Chancellor of the Central Secretariat, and his most powerful ally in the palace—Empress Budashiri, wife of Emperor Wenzong of Yuan. It was this man and woman who manipulated the court, in order to eliminate any future threat, that eradicated the last trace left by Emperor Mingzong—his principal wife, the Empress. From then on, Toghon Temür became a true orphan, banished far from the capital to distant Goryeo, and then exiled to the malarial lands of Guangxi.

Now, the very enemies who killed his parents and exiled him are now "welcoming" him back to be emperor? Isn't this the most absurd joke in the world?

Toghon Temür silently returned to his desolate bedroom. He stood there for a moment, then began to pack his meager belongings. In the end, he only quietly packed a few old clothes and a well-worn copy of the Thousand Character Classic with its corners curled up.

He knew that Yan Temur and Bu Dashili had chosen him not out of remorse or goodwill, but simply because he was the eldest son of Emperor Mingzong, possessing the most "legitimate" status, yet he was isolated and helpless, seemingly the easiest to control. They needed a puppet to appease people and stabilize their crumbling power.

"Your Highness, everything is available in the capital. There's no need to bring these old things, is there?" the eunuch urged from outside the door.

Toghon Temür did not answer, but simply clutched the Thousand Character Classic tightly in his hand and tucked it into his bosom. Within it lay the hatred he had never spoken of to anyone, and the unclosed eyes of his mother before her death.

The carriage traveled north, through a continuous drizzle. The leaden sky hung low, and the rain pounded against the carriage roof with a monotonous, oppressive sound. Toghon Temür huddled in the corner of the swaying carriage, his thin body swaying gently with each bump. The curtain wasn't fully drawn, letting in a damp, cold wind and the intermittent chatter of the escorting soldiers outside:

"I heard our mission this time is to escort this young master back to Dadu... to inherit the throne?" A slightly younger voice asked with curiosity.

"Shh! Quiet!" Another mature voice immediately and sternly stopped them, filled with obvious vigilance. "How dare you speak so carelessly about such a momentous matter? Prime Minister Yan Timur has not yet made his intentions known to the world; the situation is still uncertain..."

The man's voice immediately lowered, almost stammering: "That's true... what if... wouldn't we...?"

The rest of the conversation was swallowed up by the sound of horses' hooves and the increasingly loud wind and rain, but the undisguised suspicion and contempt in his bones seeped into the carriage silently like cold rain, soaking the boy's thin clothes.

He vaguely remembered that in that vast and unfamiliar capital city of Dadu, he had a younger brother named Yilinzhiban. The memory had long been blurred by the years of exile, leaving only a hazy and fragile shadow swaying in the depths of his mind.

However, a thousand times clearer than that blurry shadow was his mother's final face. On that cold afternoon, the cold palace was like an ice cellar. His mother's hand gripped his tightly, her breath faint, yet she spoke each word clearly: "My child... if one day you can return to Dadu... remember your mother's words: speak less, kowtow more... first survive, no matter what, survive... then we can talk about anything else."

The despair and resentment in that voice, mixed with the stale smell of the cold palace, still lingers in his mind.

He reached out and pulled the swaying carriage curtain tight, shutting out the damp, cold world outside and those hurtful words. Amid the monotonous sound of the wheels rolling over the mud, the boy closed his eyes tightly, suppressing all his fear, sorrow, and surging hatred deep within his heart, repeatedly forging it until it became a hard block of ice.

He wasn't going to inherit glory; he was heading into a den of dragons and tigers. The magnificent capital that had claimed his parents' lives awaited him. And this time, he was determined to win this battle, a battle more perilous than having his head shaved.

When Song Bie wasn't around, Fang Xiaohe would study sword manuals with him, giving him different insights. "Look at the 'Soaring Waves' move," Fang Xiaohe said, "it emphasizes power originating from the ground, flowing through the waist and arms." He drew a diagram on the ground with a twig. "If you only rely on arm strength, the power will be much weaker." Fang Yingyu adjusted her power method accordingly, and the sound of the wooden sword cutting through the air became even more fierce.

"Brother, do you think this posture is correct?" Fang Yingyu then demonstrated other moves from the famous "Canglang Sword Manual" in the courtyard, sweat dripping down his young face.