In the twenty-first year of the Jinghe era of the Great Sheng, the former emperor dies and his young son ascends the throne.
The ninth prince, Song Huaijin, enters the Golden Throne Hall in a black python robe. In the name of “assisting the government,” he seizes power as regent.
Three years later, all the officials in court know what the name “Song Huaijin” means: life and death at his discretion, a single word enough to condemn nine branches of a family.
He is truly evil.
He has no tragic past, no excuse, and no one forcing him. He was born to enjoy control and destruction. He smiles while hiding a blade from his enemies, exploits and manipulates anyone useful, and exterminates anyone who stands in his way.
The young emperor, Song Yu, is a blade Song Huaijin has sharpened with his own hands. Its edge points outward, and inward as well.
On the day Song Yu takes power, he imprisons Song Huaijin deep in the palace, thinking he has finally broken the backbone of this powerful minister. But he doesn’t know...
The one who cages a dragon will eventually be devoured by it.
Xiao Che, Marquis of Zhenbei, commands four hundred thousand frontier troops. He is a god of war on the border and a mad dog in the capital.
Song Huaijin once saved him from death row, on the condition that he kill his own mentor.
Xiao Che hates him, yet every time he returns victorious, he wants only the cup of poison waiting at the city gate and the smile of the man in white as he hands it over.
Gu Yunzhou, a hostage prince from the enemy state and a hidden piece of Northern Zhou, trades suspicions with Song Huaijin. Two villains are drawn to each other.
He thinks he is the one laying out the pieces, never realizing he has long since become a pawn Song Huaijin is willing to sacrifice to control the northern frontier.
The shadow guard Xuanying was personally chosen by Song Huaijin from the death squad and trained for eight years.
He is Song Huaijin’s sharpest blade and most loyal dog.
As the empress dowager’s edict, the late emperor’s blood-written letter, Northern Zhou’s cavalry, and a palace coup by the imperial clan all bear down at once, Song Huaijin sits beneath the seventy-two eternal lamps in the Ancestral Temple, his white robes as brilliant as snow:
“These hands of mine are so dirty even I can’t stand them. Yet you all just love them dirty.”
