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He slowly stood up, looking around. Above him were intricately carved beams and painted pillars, beneath his feet lay a floor of golden bricks. Behind a screen depicting five-clawed golden dragons was a long writing desk. On either side of the desk were two crane-shaped palace lamps, their flickering light casting swirling smoke. The cold air of late autumn, scented with sandalwood, blew across his nose.,"How is my son" a noblewoman asked, rushing in from outside. Behind her stood two rows of palace maids, standing silently, each holding a palace lamp and motionless, not daring to lift their heads.,The atmosphere had reached its peak. Emperor Zhu Yi, with great effort, squeezed out a few tears and comforted her: "My son is the emperor of the Ming Dynasty. My son is not afraid, nor does he need his mother to fight desperately. When my son grows up, I will fight them myself. Mother, please don't cry. If you cry again, your son will cry too."。