Empress Jiang
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 15: The Decline
Hanseong (Seoul), Joseon Kingdom. Winter, 1449 - Autumn, 1452
Age 33-36
The illness began so subtly that at first, Zhao Lanying didn’t notice.
A slight fatigue in the mornings. Nothing alarming. Just the ordinary weariness of someone who’d been ruling a kingdom for seven years.
She ignored it.
The fatigue persisted. Deepened. By the eighth year of the regency, she sometimes needed to rest in the afternoons—something she’d never required before.
It was Mi-sun who first mentioned it.
“Your Majesty, you seem tired lately.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re declining afternoon audiences more frequently.” Mi-sun’s voice was concerned. “When did this start?”
“A few months ago. It’s nothing. Just age and stress.”
“Perhaps you should see the royal physician.”
“It’s just fatigue.”
“Your Majesty.” Mi-sun’s tone was gently insistent. “You’ve always been so strong. This isn’t like you. Please. See Dr. Yoon.”
Zhao Lanying looked at her Shàngyí. The woman who’d helped her murder her son. Who’d poisoned her husband. Who’d served loyally for sixteen years.
The only person in the world she trusted completely.
“Fine. Arrange it.”
Dr. Yoon examined her carefully.
The same physician who’d helped them poison Munjong. Who’d falsified medical records. Who owed everything to Mi-sun’s patronage.
He checked her pulse, examined her eyes and tongue, pressed on her abdomen.
His expression grew grave.
“Your Imperial Majesty, I’m concerned. You’re experiencing a gradual weakening—what we call consumption of qi. The symptoms suggest an imbalance that requires treatment.”
“What kind of treatment?”
“Herbal remedies. Rest. Reduced workload.” He paused. “These conditions can progress slowly over months or years. With proper care, we can manage the symptoms.”
“Can you cure it?”
“That’s ... difficult to say. Sometimes these imbalances correct themselves. Sometimes they worsen despite treatment. I’ll do everything possible.”
After he left, Mi-sun spoke quietly. “You should rest more. Let me handle more of the administrative work.”
“I’m not an invalid.”
“No. But you’re tired. Let me help.”
Zhao Lanying looked at her. Mi-sun’s face showed only concern. Loyalty. Devotion.
“All right. The routine administrative matters—you can handle those. But the important decisions remain mine.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
The herbal treatments began immediately.
Dr. Yoon prepared special tonics. Mi-sun personally oversaw their preparation in the royal kitchen—the same kitchen where Mrs. Gam had once prepared poison for Munjong.
“I want to make sure everything is prepared exactly correctly,” Mi-sun explained. “Your health is too important to leave to chance.”
The tonics tasted bitter. Zhao Lanying drank them dutifully twice daily.
They helped. A little. The fatigue lessened somewhat. She could function more normally.
But the underlying weakness remained. And gradually, subtly, it grew worse.
Six months into the illness, Mi-sun began taking on more responsibility.
“Your Majesty, these are routine appointments and administrative confirmations. I can present them for your seal, then file them.”
Zhao Lanying looked at the stack of documents. Tax assessments. Minor official appointments. Agricultural program renewals. Routine bureaucratic paperwork.
She felt tired just looking at them.
“You’ve reviewed them?”
“Thoroughly. Everything is in order.”
“Then proceed.”
Mi-sun laid out the documents one by one. Zhao Lanying stamped each with the imperial seal, barely glancing at the contents. Trusting Mi-sun’s review.
Stamp. Stamp. Stamp.
Agricultural reforms. Border garrison rotations. Temple maintenance budgets. Judicial appointments.
Stamp. Stamp. Stamp.
One document, buried in the middle of the stack, was slightly different:
“IMPERIAL DECREE: In the event of the Empress Dowager’s death prior to His Majesty reaching his twentieth year, Shàngyí Mi-sun shall serve as Regent and Chief Advisor to His Majesty, with full authority to govern until the completion of His Majesty’s education and assumption of full royal powers.”
The language was bureaucratic. The phrasing dry. It looked like every other administrative document.
Zhao Lanying stamped it without reading.
The seal pressed into the wax. Official. Binding. Legal.
Mi-sun calmly collected the documents, including the now-sealed decree, and filed them away.
“Thank you, Your Majesty. That’s everything for today.”
“Good. I need to rest.”
“Of course. I’ll wake you for the evening council session.”
After Mi-sun left, Zhao Lanying lay down. The fatigue was overwhelming today. The tonic had barely helped.
She closed her eyes and slept.
And never knew what she’d just signed.
The illness progressed steadily over the next year.
Not dramatically. Not with sudden crisis. Just a slow, grinding decline that felt exactly like what had happened to Munjong.
Zhao Lanying noticed the similarity. Sometimes, lying awake at night, she wondered if this was karma. If she was being punished for Munjong’s murder by experiencing the same death.
She never suspected the actual cause.
Never imagined that the tonics Mi-sun so carefully prepared contained the same poisons they’d once used on her husband.
Tiny amounts. Expertly measured. Delivered daily through the “medicine” she took so faithfully.
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