Li Jing was escorted by the Imperial Guards deep into the royal palace and finally brought into King Zhou's bedchamber.
The accompanying soldiers all withdrew, and the doors slowly closed. The vast bedchamber was utterly empty—no maids, no eunuchs. It was so quiet that a falling needle could be heard.
Li Jing was momentarily bewildered.
He had raced all the way from Chentang Pass, hearing countless rumors in the streets along the way.
They all said that King Zhou was now foolish and tyrannical, addicted to beauty and the Wine Pool and Meat Forest, indulging in music and revelry day and night, long since neglecting state affairs.
Yet where was there even the slightest sign of extravagance or debauchery in this bedchamber before him?
There was no song, no dance, no beauty, no scent of wine. Instead, the room was filled with a heavy solemnity and an imperial majesty that weighed upon the mind.
When he finally raised his eyes and clearly saw the man behind the imperial desk, Li Jing's heart shook even more violently.
King Zhou wore plain clothes and was bent over the desk with brush in hand, writing intently. There was not a trace of laziness or muddleheadedness between his brows, only the gravity and toil of one who had long stood at the pinnacle of power.
He was clearly a mortal sovereign who labored day and night over the affairs of the nation and cared for all under heaven.
The rumors outside... had been false?
Li Jing's thoughts churned, and he dared not think further. He hurriedly prostrated himself, his voice respectful and fearful.
"Your servant... this guilty subject Li Jing, pays his respects to Your Majesty!"
Yet King Zhou ignored him. His brush never paused as he continued reviewing and writing documents.
Li Jing