Empress Jiang
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 11: The Empress
Hanseong (Seoul), Joseon Kingdom. Spring, 1437 - Winter, 1439
Age 21-24
King Sejong died in the second month of spring, at the age of fifty-two.
The death was not unexpected—he’d been declining for months, his health failing steadily. The court physicians had done what they could, but age and exhaustion had finally claimed him.
The kingdom mourned. The funeral was elaborate. Officials came from every province to pay respects to the king who’d given Korea its alphabet, its legal reforms, its golden age of scholarship.
And Crown Prince Munjong ascended to become King.
Which meant Zhao Lanying, at twenty-three years old, became Queen of Korea.
Not yet Empress—that title would come later, when the formalities were complete. But Queen. The highest-ranking woman in the kingdom.
Second only to the King himself.
And the King, she knew, was manageable.
The transition happened smoothly.
Too smoothly, perhaps. But no one questioned it.
Munjong moved into the King’s quarters. Zhao Lanying into the Queen’s chambers—far more elaborate than her previous rooms. Prince Seong, now two years old, was established in the royal nursery with his own household.
Everything shifted. Everyone adjusted to the new hierarchy.
And on the third day of Munjong’s reign, Zhao Lanying made her first official act as Queen:
She appointed her household staff.
“I wish to appoint Mi-sun as Shàngyí,” she told Munjong during their evening meal. “She has served me faithfully since I was Crown Princess. She understands palace protocol and has my complete trust.”
Munjong barely looked up from his rice. “Of course. You should have staff you’re comfortable with.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
That was it. No questions. No investigation of Mi-sun’s background. No concern about concentrating power.
Just: “Of course.”
Zhao Lanying kept her expression neutral. But inside, she felt the click of pieces falling into place.
Mi-sun was formally elevated to Shàngyí the following week.
The ceremony was brief. Mi-sun knelt before the King and Queen, received her seal of office, and was invested with authority over all palace protocol and the women’s household.
“Serve Her Majesty the Queen with the same loyalty you have always shown,” the King said.
“I will, Your Majesty.” Mi-sun’s voice was steady, her face composed.
She looked the part perfectly—elegant, dignified, competent. Everything a Shàngyí should be.
No one suspected that she was anything more than a loyal servant being rewarded for years of service.
No one knew she was the operational arm of the new Queen’s power.
That evening, Mi-sun came to Zhao Lanying’s private chambers. The first time she’d entered as Shàngyí rather than lady-in-waiting.
The door closed. The guards were dismissed. They were alone.
“Congratulations, Your Majesty,” Mi-sun said. Then, more quietly: “We did it.”
Zhao Lanying smiled—a real smile, rare and genuine. “We did. Queen and Shàngyí. Everything we planned for.”
“Everything Yong died for,” Mi-sun said softly.
The smile faded. “Yes.”
They were quiet for a moment.
Then Zhao Lanying straightened. Business. “We need to discuss staffing. The Queen’s household needs to be rebuilt from scratch. I want our people in every key position.”
“I’ve prepared a list.” Mi-sun produced a small scroll. “Kitchen staff, personal attendants, guards, physicians. All positions where we need absolute loyalty.”
“Show me.”
They spent the next hour reviewing names. People Mi-sun had cultivated over the past three years. Servants who’d proven reliable. Individuals with leverage points—family debts, secrets, ambitions that could be managed.
“The head cook,” Zhao Lanying said, pointing to a name. “You trust her completely?”
“Completely. Her daughter married into a merchant family because I arranged it. She’s grateful and skilled. More importantly, she understands that everything served to Your Majesty must be perfect.”
“Perfect meaning?”
“Clean. No poison, no contamination, no opportunities for anyone else to interfere.” Mi-sun paused. “When the time comes to ... adjust His Majesty’s meals, she’ll be the one who ensures only our preparations reach him.”
Zhao Lanying met her eyes. “That time is years away.”
“I know. But we prepare now.”
“Yes. We prepare now.”
They continued down the list. By the end, they’d identified twenty-three key positions that needed to be filled with loyalists.
“How long to place everyone?” Zhao Lanying asked.
“Three months for the critical positions. Six months for complete coverage.”
“Do it. Quietly.”
“Always quietly, Your Majesty.”
The appointments began immediately.
Not all at once—that would be suspicious. But steadily, over the following months, the Queen’s household was staffed with Mi-sun’s network.
The old Empress’s people were reassigned. Not fired—that would be cruel and notable. Just ... relocated to other duties. Less important duties. Far from the centers of power.
Within six months, every person who touched the Queen’s food, medicine, correspondence, or daily routine was someone Mi-sun had vetted.
The palace didn’t notice. Transitions in staff were normal. New queens always brought their own people.
But Zhao Lanying and Mi-sun had done something more sophisticated than simple housecleaning.
They’d built an intelligence apparatus.
The network expanded rapidly under Mi-sun’s management.
As Shàngyí, she controlled significant resources. A discretionary budget for “household management and servant welfare.” Access to all areas of the palace. Authority to reward, promote, or discipline staff.
She used it masterfully.
A kitchen maid whose mother was ill? Mi-sun arranged for a physician. The maid was grateful, loyal, and naturally mentioned when she overheard interesting conversations in the kitchen.
A guard who wanted promotion? Mi-sun recommended him to the captain. He repaid the favor by reporting who came and went from which quarters at what times.
A junior eunuch with ambitions? Mi-sun took him under her wing, promised future advancement. He brought her palace gossip—who was allied with whom, what ministers were saying privately, which officials were unhappy.
Nothing dramatic. No one was blackmailed or coerced. Just ... small kindnesses. Regular rewards. A sense that Shàngyí Mi-sun took care of those who served well.
Within a year, she had eyes and ears throughout the palace.
And every piece of intelligence flowed back to one place: the Queen’s chambers.
Where Zhao Lanying and Mi-sun met each evening to discuss what they’d learned and what needed to be done.
The first real test came eight months into Munjong’s reign.
Minister Han—an elderly official who’d served King Sejong—began asking uncomfortable questions.
Mi-sun brought the intelligence to Zhao Lanying during their evening meeting.
“Your Majesty, we have a problem. Minister Han has been speaking with the court historians.”
Zhao Lanying set down her tea. “About?”
“The deaths during the transition. Specifically, he’s asking about the timeline of the former Empress’s illness and death. Also inquiring about the maid who was executed for Prince Yong’s murder.”
“Why?”
“He’s writing a memorial. Not for publication—for his own records. He’s a scholar. He wants to understand the patterns of succession and tragedy.” Mi-sun’s expression was neutral. “His questions are innocent. But innocence can become suspicion.”
Zhao Lanying thought for a moment. “Options?”
“Several. We can distract him—his grandson is preparing for the civil service examinations. We could arrange for the boy to fail spectacularly, consuming the Minister’s attention with family crisis.”
“Too cruel. The boy is innocent.”
“Agreed. Alternative: we provide the Minister with sanitized information. Have one of the historians we control give him a complete but misleading account. Satisfy his curiosity with an official version.”
“That’s better. But what if he’s not satisfied?”
“Then we consider more permanent solutions.” Mi-sun’s voice was calm. “But I don’t think we’re there yet. He’s not suspicious. Just thorough. If we feed his thoroughness with plausible information, he’ll incorporate it into his memorial and move on.”
Zhao Lanying nodded slowly. “Handle it. The historian approach first. Watch him closely. If he pushes further...”
“We’ll revisit.”
Three weeks later, Mi-sun reported that Minister Han had received a comprehensive briefing from Court Historian Kim—a man who owed Mi-sun several favors. The Minister had thanked Kim profusely, incorporated the information into his private memorial, and moved on to other research.
Crisis avoided. Without violence. Without exposure.
Exactly how it should work.
By the second year of Munjong’s reign, the partnership between Queen and Shàngyí was operating at full efficiency.
They met every evening, without fail. Officially, these were protocol reviews—the Shàngyí briefing the Queen on household matters.
Actually, they were intelligence briefings and strategic planning sessions.
Mi-sun would arrive with information gathered throughout the day:
“Minister Pak’s wife is pregnant again. Fourth child. He’s worried about expenses.”
Translation: Financial vulnerability. Could be leveraged if needed.
“The Japanese ambassador sent a gift to His Majesty. Wine and silk. The kitchen staff tested it thoroughly—it’s clean.”
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