On the tenth day of the fifth lunar month in the thirty-first year of Hongwu, the Nanjing Imperial Palace was filled with the aura of death that could never be recovered.
The seventy-one-year-old Zhu Yuanzhang was lying on the dragon couch, looking at the top of the woven gold tent with turbid eyes.
"Chongba..."
In a trance, he seemed to hear Ma Xiuying calling him, that woman who always had a gentle smile.
"Father..."
It was Biao'er, the prince whom he had the highest hopes for but who passed away early.
The emperor's life flew by in front of his eyes, from the beggar monk in Haozhou City to the ninth-five-year-old master in Yingtian Mansion...
"What's so difficult about being an emperor?"
Withered fingers suddenly clenched the brocade quilt tightly, and then loosened it weakly.
Just when his consciousness was about to sink completely into darkness, an emotionless voice rang in his ears:
"Zhu Yuanzhang, you have a chance to choose."
