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"Ouch, that hurts." Zhu Yijun rubbed his forehead, as if he had bumped into something. He paused his rubbing, staring blankly at his delicate hands, unable to believe it. They were completely the hands of a child.,“How is my son” The noblewoman ignored the eunuch’s greeting completely, rushing to Zhu Yijun’s side. She trembled as she reached out and took hold of the ten-year-old child's hand, gently opening the wound.,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."。