Empress Jiang
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 13: The Regent
Hanseong (Seoul), Joseon Kingdom.Winter, 1443 - Spring, 1446
Age 27-30
King Munjong died in the tenth month of winter, three weeks after Dr. Yoon’s prediction.
The end came quietly. No dramatic final words. No deathbed confessions. Just a gradual fading—his breathing growing shallower, his consciousness slipping away, until one cold morning he simply didn’t wake up.
Dr. Yoon examined the body and made his official pronouncement: “His Majesty has succumbed to organ failure resulting from prolonged digestive illness and physical exhaustion. Despite our best efforts, his constitution could not recover from the accumulated strain.”
The court physician who’d examined Munjong two months earlier concurred. The third physician brought in for consultation agreed. All the medical records supported the conclusion.
Natural death. Tragic but unsuspicious. A young king brought down by illness and the burdens of rule.
No one questioned it.
No one suspected.
No one would ever know.
Zhao Lanying’s performance of grief was flawless.
When they came to tell her Munjong had died, she was in her chambers reviewing administrative documents. Mi-sun was present, as always during their morning sessions.
The palace official bowed deeply, his face grave. “Your Imperial Majesty ... I regret to inform you ... His Majesty the King has passed.”
Zhao Lanying went very still. The document in her hands trembled slightly.
“What?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“His Majesty died peacefully in his sleep. The physicians did everything possible, but—”
The document fell from her hands. She stood abruptly, swaying as if the news had physically struck her.
“No. No, that’s not—he was getting better, he said he felt stronger yesterday, he—”
Her voice broke. She pressed her hand to her mouth, eyes wide with shock and denial.
Mi-sun moved to support her. “Your Majesty, please sit—”
“I need to see him.” Zhao Lanying’s voice was sharp with desperation. “Take me to him. Now.”
They escorted her to Munjong’s chambers. She walked quickly, almost running, her robes trailing behind her.
When she entered the room and saw his body lying still on the bed, she let out a sound—half gasp, half sob—that was entirely believable.
She rushed to his side. Took his hand—already cooling. Pressed it to her face.
“No. No, please. Munjong, please wake up. Please don’t leave me. Please—”
Her voice dissolved into sobs. Real tears streamed down her face—she’d learned to produce them on command years ago, but these came easily. Not from grief for Munjong, but from the sheer weight of what she’d done. What she’d become.
She collapsed beside the bed, still holding his hand, her body shaking with sobs.
The officials and servants who’d gathered looked away, uncomfortable witnessing such raw imperial grief.
Only Mi-sun, standing quietly in the corner, knew the truth.
This was performance. Masterful, convincing, perfect.
But performance nonetheless.
The mourning period lasted three months.
Zhao Lanying wore white. Attended Buddhist services daily. Wept at appropriate moments. Spoke of Munjong with trembling voice and fond memories.
“He was a good king. A devoted father. A loving husband. He gave everything to Korea, and it cost him his life.”
The court murmured agreement. The ministers praised his dedication. The people mourned their young king, taken too soon by cruel fate.
The funeral was elaborate. The entire kingdom participated in mourning rites. Officials came from every province. Even the Ming Emperor sent condolences and a representative.
Zhao Lanying stood beside seven-year-old Seong throughout the ceremonies. The widow and the orphan. Mother and son. United in grief.
She held Seong’s hand as they watched Munjong’s body being carried to the royal tomb. The boy was crying—genuinely devastated. He’d loved his father.
Zhao Lanying looked down at her son and felt the familiar emptiness. She should comfort him. Should share his grief. Should bond with him over their mutual loss.
Instead, she just squeezed his hand and stared straight ahead.
Munjong was gone. The obstacle was removed. The path was clear.
Now came the final ascent.
The regency was proclaimed immediately after the mourning period ended.
Crown Prince Seong, at seven years old, was too young to rule. He would be crowned King, but his mother—Empress Dowager Jing—would serve as regent until he came of age.
The announcement was met with universal approval.
“The Empress Dowager is wise and experienced. She will guide the young king well.”
“Who better to protect His Majesty than his own mother?”
“The dynasty is in safe hands.”
No one questioned it. No one opposed it. The transition of power was smooth, orderly, expected.
Zhao Lanying accepted the regency with appropriate humility.
“I am honored by the court’s trust. I will serve my son and serve Korea with every breath in my body. My only goal is to ensure His Majesty’s successful reign when he comes of age.”
She bowed deeply to the assembled court.
Inside, she was calculating. Seven years old. He would come of age at twenty. That gave her thirteen years of absolute power.
Thirteen years to rule Korea however she wanted.
Thirteen years to build a legacy.
Thirteen years to prove that Yong’s death, the Empress’s destruction, Munjong’s murder—all of it—had been worth it.
For the dynasty, she told herself. For stability. For Korea’s future.
The familiar lie. The necessary justification.
She almost believed it now.
The first act of the regency was to formalize the power structure.
Zhao Lanying, as Empress Dowager and Regent, would make all significant decisions until the King reached maturity. She would attend all councils, approve all appointments, direct all policy.
Young King Seong would be present at ceremonies and formal audiences—learning, observing, preparing for his eventual rule. But actual governance would rest with his mother.
The second act was to ensure the right people remained in power.
Mi-sun, of course, continued as Shàngyí. But her role expanded. She now attended council meetings as the Empress Dowager’s representative. Oversaw not just the women’s household but palace security. Controlled access to both the Empress Dowager and the young King.
She became, in effect, the second most powerful person in Korea.
And everyone knew: if you wanted something from the Empress Dowager, you went through Shàngyí Mi-sun first.
The third act was to replace or neutralize potential opposition.
Not dramatically. Not all at once. But steadily, over the first year of the regency, officials who might challenge the Empress Dowager’s authority were reassigned, retired, or encouraged to leave court.
Minister Han, who’d once asked uncomfortable questions about the old Empress’s death, was given an honorable retirement. He accepted gratefully—his grandson had recently passed the civil service examinations (with some help from Mi-sun’s network), and he wanted to spend time with family.
Minister Pak, who’d always been slightly too independent, developed health problems. Nothing serious, but enough to suggest a rest cure in the countryside. He took the hint and withdrew from active service.
Minister Kim, who’d been loyal to Munjong and might resent the regency, was offered a prestigious post in a distant province. An honor he couldn’t refuse without appearing ungrateful.
One by one, potential problems were removed. Quietly. Politely. Without obvious purge or scandal.
Just ... gentle reshaping of the court to ensure everyone who remained was either loyal to the Empress Dowager or too weak to oppose her.
Within eighteen months, Korea’s government was staffed entirely with people who owed their positions to Zhao Lanying or knew better than to cross her.
The intelligence network expanded dramatically under the regency.
Mi-sun now had resources that made her previous operations look modest.
She controlled the palace guards’ rotation schedule—ensuring loyalists were always near the Empress Dowager and young King.
She oversaw all palace purchases—creating opportunities to reward supporters and identify potential threats based on spending patterns.
She managed diplomatic communications—reading all correspondence to and from foreign courts before it reached the Empress Dowager.
She supervised the education of the young King—ensuring his tutors taught him to respect and defer to his mother’s wisdom.
And through it all, she maintained the network of greased palms that had served them so well.
By the second year of the regency, Mi-sun received intelligence reports from:
Twenty-three palace servants providing daily information about conversations, movements, and rumors.
Eight government officials reporting on ministerial discussions and potential dissent.
Five merchants tracking economic trends and foreign trade intelligence.
Three physicians monitoring the health of key figures (and available to assist with “health problems” if needed).
Two court historians ensuring the official record reflected the Empress Dowager’s preferred narrative.
Every significant conversation in Korea eventually reached Mi-sun’s ears.
And every piece of intelligence was analyzed in the evening meetings with Zhao Lanying.
Those meetings evolved as the regency matured.
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