To say the emperor had stopped holding court was not entirely accurate. In mid-March, he had fallen ill, seriously ill, yet every day he still fell asleep with the books and clothing the Director of Astronomy had left behind beneath his head. Every day when he woke, he would carefully study the construction plans for the underwater tomb the director had left.
The underwater tomb was the chance to turn things around that the director had bought for everyone under heaven with his life. The emperor would not allow the slightest error or deviation.
He knew every corner and turn by heart and could have found his way out of the tomb with his eyes closed.
At last, the underwater tomb was completed, and the emperor dragged his ailing body there in person. He walked through every passage and room the director had designed, but when he reached the very center, he discovered a spacious burial chamber that had not appeared in the plans.
The emperor instinctively looked toward the man in charge of construction, who said, "The director ordered me to build this chamber. He said... once the work was accomplished, I was to move his body here. It could help suppress things, too."
The emperor stared fixedly at the chamber. After a long while, his gaze settled on the pitch-black coffin at its center, and he said, "Rise. Everything else is fine, but this coffin is a little small."
It was not large enough for him and the director to be buried together.
Reading his expression, the subordinate hurriedly said, "Then shall I have someone replace it with a double coffin now?"
"There is no need for anything ostentatious. An ordinary wooden coffin will do," the emperor said softly.
He only wished that in their next lives, they