Empress Jiang
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 4: The Shaping
The Forbidden City, Beijing, Summer, 1424 - Winter, 1427
Age 8-11
By her eighth year, Zhao Lanying had disappeared into her Chinese education so completely that even she sometimes forgot she’d ever been anyone else.
She could read two thousand characters. Compose poetry in regulated verse. Identify every official in the Empress Dowager’s household by their seal, their walk, their voice. She moved through the palace like silk through water—silent, graceful, unnoticed until she chose to be seen.
Madam Liu’s lessons had evolved beyond rote memorization into something more dangerous: the study of power itself.
“Language,” Madam Liu said during one of their private sessions, “is the first weapon. Watch.”
She gestured to a scroll containing a memorial from a provincial governor. “Read the third paragraph aloud.”
Zhao Lanying read: “This humble servant suggests, with utmost respect, that the grain tax burden in Shandong Province might be adjusted to reflect the recent drought, if His Imperial Majesty, in his infinite wisdom, deems such modification appropriate.”
“Now tell me what he’s actually saying.”
Zhao Lanying studied the characters more carefully. “He’s ... demanding a tax reduction?”
“Precisely. But notice how he phrases it. ‘Suggests’ rather than demands. ‘Might be adjusted’ rather than must be reduced. ‘If His Imperial Majesty deems it appropriate’ rather than stating it as necessary.” Madam Liu tapped the scroll. “This is the language of power. When you’re weak, you phrase demands as suggestions. When you’re strong, you phrase suggestions as commands.”
“So he’s weak?”
“He’s cautious. There’s a difference.” Madam Liu’s eyes were sharp. “A weak person begs. A cautious person frames their request so the powerful person believes granting it was their own idea. Which do you think is more likely to succeed?”
Zhao Lanying thought about the governor’s careful phrasing. “The cautious person. Because they make the powerful person feel generous rather than pressured.”
“Exactly. Now—” Madam Liu produced a blank sheet of paper. “Draft a response from the Emperor. One that denies the request but makes the governor feel valued and heard.”
It took her three attempts before Madam Liu was satisfied:
“The Emperor, having considered with great attention the memorial from the Governor of Shandong, recognizes the worthy official’s deep concern for his people’s welfare. However, given the empire’s many obligations and the need for consistent policy across all provinces, the current tax structure must be maintained. The Emperor trusts that the Governor’s capable administration will guide the people through this difficult season.”
“Better,” Madam Liu said. “You’ve denied the request, but framed it as trust in his abilities. He can’t argue without appearing incompetent. This is how power maintains itself—not through force, but through making resistance appear foolish.”
Zhao Lanying absorbed this. “But what if the people really are starving? What if the governor is right?”
“Irrelevant. You’re learning to exercise power, not to govern justly. Those are separate skills.”
“But shouldn’t power serve justice?”
Madam Liu’s expression softened slightly—the closest she ever came to affection. “You still have ideals. Good. They’ll serve you better than you think. But first you must understand: power doesn’t care about your ideals. Power is a tool. Justice is a goal. You must master the tool before you can achieve the goal.”
She leaned forward. “And here’s the secret they’ll never teach you in the Confucian classics: the powerful shape what counts as ‘justice.’ If you gain enough power, your version of justice becomes the only version that matters.”
That same year, Zhao Lanying witnessed her first palace intrigue from the inside.
It started with Lady Wen, a young concubine of one of the Emperor’s distant cousins. She’d been rising in favor—beautiful, witty, skilled at music. The sort of woman who could potentially attract imperial attention and elevate her patron.
Which meant she had to be destroyed.
Zhao Lanying didn’t understand the mechanics at first. She only noticed that Lady Wen’s rivals had begun whispering—nothing specific, just quiet comments in passing.
“I heard Lady Wen’s family has connections to the Yongle Emperor’s enemies...”
“Strange how her cousin held office under the previous dynasty...”
“Have you noticed how she always wears purple? Almost presumptuous...”
Individually, the comments meant nothing. Collectively, they created a atmosphere of suspicion.
Madam Liu explained it during one of their evening sessions.
“Lady Wen has committed no crime. She’s done nothing provably wrong. But her rivals have poisoned the well. Now every innocent action appears suspicious. If she wears purple, she’s presumptuous. If she changes to blue, she’s trying to hide something. She can’t win.”
“That’s not fair,” Zhao Lanying said.
“No. It’s effective.” Madam Liu poured tea with deliberate precision. “Fairness is for people who lack the skill to manipulate perception. Power belongs to those who control the narrative.”
“What will happen to her?”
“Watch.”
Two weeks later, Lady Wen was discovered with a forbidden book—a text critical of imperial authority.
She swore she’d never seen it before. Someone must have planted it in her quarters.
Of course someone had planted it.
But proof didn’t matter. The book was there. The whispers had prepared the ground. Her patron, fearing contamination by association, withdrew his protection.
Lady Wen was exiled to a remote monastery.
Her rivals divided her jewelry among themselves.
Zhao Lanying found Madam Liu in the garden that evening.
“Who planted the book?”
“Does it matter?”
“I want to know how it was done.”
Madam Liu smiled—a thin, pleased expression. “Good question. The answer is: probably three different people.”
“What?”
“One person suggested Lady Wen might have dangerous connections. Another person arranged for the book to be available. A third person ensured it was discovered at the right moment. None of them coordinated directly. They simply understood the pattern and played their parts.”
“Like a play without a script?”
“Exactly. The most effective conspiracies are the ones where no one conspires. People simply act in their own interests, and the pattern emerges organically. No one can be accused because everyone has deniability.”
Zhao Lanying thought about this. “So if I wanted to destroy someone...”
“You wouldn’t do it yourself. You’d create conditions where their destruction becomes inevitable. You’d plant doubts, create suspicions, ensure they’re isolated. Then you’d wait for them to make a single mistake—or you’d create the appearance of a mistake—and let nature take its course.”
“And no one would ever know I was involved?”
“The best players are never seen.” Madam Liu’s eyes glinted in the lantern light. “They move pieces without touching them. They win games no one else knew were being played.”
By age ten, Zhao Lanying had been given her first assignment.
There was a eunuch named Gao who’d been stealing from the Empress Dowager’s household. Nothing major—small amounts of rice wine, occasional bolts of cloth. But theft nonetheless.
The problem: Gao was protected by a senior eunuch named Chen, who valued him for reasons no one could quite determine.
Madam Liu summoned Zhao Lanying to her chambers. “The Empress Dowager wants Gao removed, but quietly. No scandal. No direct confrontation with Eunuch Chen. Make it happen.”
This was a test. Zhao Lanying knew it immediately.
She spent three days observing. Learned that Gao had a weakness for gambling. That he owed money to several servants. That he was terrified of being sent away from the palace because his family depended on his income.
She made her move during the mid-autumn festival.
First, she arranged—through Mei, who could speak to servants freely—for Gao to receive an invitation to a particularly high-stakes gambling game. The kind where he could win enough to pay his debts.
Of course, the game was rigged. Within two hours, Gao had lost everything and owed twice what he’d started with.
Second, she ensured that Eunuch Chen learned about the gambling debts. Not from her directly—from a casual comment by another servant who “happened” to overhear the creditors demanding payment.
Third, she waited.
Chen, valuing his own reputation above Gao’s welfare, quietly arranged for Gao to be transferred to a minor post in a distant provincial palace. No scandal. No confrontation. Just a quiet removal.
Gao was gone within a week.
Madam Liu examined her report with approval.
“You didn’t touch him directly. You created a situation where his protector chose to abandon him. Well done.”
“It felt...” Zhao Lanying searched for the word. “Manipulative.”
“It was manipulative. That’s the point.” Madam Liu set down the paper. “Do you feel guilty?”
“A little. Gao was stealing, but what I did was worse. I destroyed his life.”
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