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On a snowy night in the twenty-third year of Yongchang, Zhuang Xijun, the only daughter of the prime minister, carried a blood-stained jade bamboo lantern and fished out the dying seventh prince Xiao Jingke from the dry well in the cold palace. The young man held half a piece of broken jade in her throat, his eyes filled with poison like a wolf cub, but he didn't know that he was being dragged into a carefully woven cobweb of intrigue. In the past ten years, she had bloodbathed twenty-seven secret guards in the East Palace for him, and used her dowry money to buy witch doctors from southern Xinjiang to detoxify his body. On the day he ascended the throne, he ceded half of the country for employment, but he pinched her neck on the dragon couch and sneered: \