The prose of Ruyi’s Royal Love in the Palace is intricate and fragmented; too many threads vanish amid the shimmer of emerald feathers and golden ornaments. I will not single out one scene to discuss its sense of fate; rather, the continuous sequence of events may serve better as an entry point. Hence, I have chosen Chapters 26 to 30 of Volume Six—“Locked Doors” through “Lingyi”—which take place after Ruyi’s confinement and hair-cutting. The narrative, once slow and meticulous, quickens sharply here: the death of Yongqi, Yingwan’s seizure of her daughter, and Ruyi’s revenge all converge, pushing the dramatic conflict to its peak.
Yongqi’s death, directly linked to Yingwan’s intrigue, also stems from his refusal to seek treatment. Only on his deathbed does he confess the reason: his ambition to become crown prince. Bound by the ancestral law that favored the legitimate heir, he feared Ruyi—mother to Prince Yongqi—and her trusted physician, Jiang Yubin. His desire for power ultimately overwhelmed his humanity. Terrified that any sympathy for Ruyi might jeopardize his claim, he sent only symbolic gifts—flowers and incense—as hollow gestures of comfort. Like his mother, Hailan, he dared not plead for Ruyi, lest her return to favor threaten his own path to succession.
Yingwan’s fight to reclaim her daughter, on the other hand, reveals the distortion of motherhood by palace politics. Her plea to the emperor for custody of the Seventh Princess was not purely maternal; it was a test of imperial affection and power distribution within the harem. The child, with whom she shared no real bond, became nothing more than a symbol of authority. Yingwan even went so far as to beat her daughter, forcing the girl to acknowledge her as “mother” in a desperate act to reassert dominance and undermine her rival, Consort Ying.
Both examples expose a tragic inevitability: in the cannibalistic world of the court, all human connections are narrowed into enmity. Within the so-called civilized splendor of the Forbidden City, rivalry and betrayal are not choices but destinies. Even the maternal love of Ruyi and Consort Ying—rushing through palace corridors for their children—cannot wash away the crimson stains of the walls. The revenge that follows, too, is built upon human inevitability, where tea-brown scars and fresh blood intertwine in a web of consequence.
Ruyi plants the seeds of vengeance with her life—mines that will one day shatter the grandeur of Yongshou Palace. Yingwan’s arrogance leaves behind suspicion; her gruesome death, bitterness in the hearts of Hailan and Consort Ying; her memory, guilt for the emperor who once destroyed Ruyi. Ruyi fully understands the inevitabilities woven through her bonds with others—emotional, political, moral—and knows these forces will continue to unfold after her death. In the end, her will prevails: Yingwan loses her power, undone by Hailan and Consort Ying’s friendship-turned-hatred, by the emperor’s controlling fury, and by his guilt disguised as love.
In the aftermath, Hailan’s persuasion of Consort Wan to accuse Yingwan—an act both desperate and devilish—echoes a Faustian temptation. The bait she offers the neglected concubine is the emperor’s notice, a hollow promise, yet Wan still flings herself into the fire of love and doom. Likewise, Wang Fuzhi’s resemblance to Ruyi ensnares the emperor, who falls once again for the shadow of his lost queen, granting the long-conspired revenge its final victory.
The story concludes abruptly amid power’s corruption and fate’s cruel logic. Yingwan’s grotesque death under poison leaves readers unsettled—perhaps intentionally so. Could it be that Liu Lianzi’s fascination with autocratic systems, her merciless style, and her portrayal of fatalism all converge here—breaking free of Ruyi’s Royal Love in the Palace’s enclosed world to form a final, self-contained circle of destiny?
