After Emperor Wu Yang Zao and his officials escorted Tan Shize’s coffin for three hundred sixty paces, His Majesty led the imperial princes back to the Tan family’s army camp first.
Tan Shize’s coffin was to be carried to a place called Sanjiagou, ten li north of Yandu, where the burial land the Tan family had requested was located. There, they planned to build a shrine to the Marquis Wu Su, so that future generations could pay their respects.
Entering the resting tent the Tan family had prepared, His Majesty stripped completely down from head to toe, had someone take the ceremonial robes away to be burned, then stood while four eunuchs holding incense censers wafted smoke around him for a while before he changed into a blue kesi-woven robe with three-color cyan, white, and gold dragon embroidery.
No matter how close the bond, after so many days lying in state, the smell of decaying flesh couldn’t be masked even by handfuls of incense. It was no small feat that His Majesty had kept a composed face throughout.
Feeling the new robe, His Majesty grew displeased, pinching the sleeve and complaining: “Why is it new again?”
Hearing this, Zhang Minwang’s eyes filled with sympathy: “Oh, Your Majesty! What is this compared to what came before? Think about it—since your enthronement, how long have you worn the same court robes? Look at this craftsmanship—this is still old fabric from the former storehouse. You’re not the same as you used to be now…”
“Not the same?” His Majesty tapped his forehead, mocking himself: “Since ancient times, no one dares yet speak of my achievements in governance or military glory—only that I’ve become emperor. Hmph! Emperor! When it comes to enjoying comfort, I’m nowhere near the front of the line, but for being poor, I could probably take first place. Who would even believe it if I said so aloud?”
Zhang Minwang didn’t dare respond to that. He knew well enough—seeing the Tan family army today, everyone from top to bottom, tens of thousands of men, all outfitted in brand-new armor. That was money. His Majesty was truly displeased.
Scraping together funds from every direction, pouring out hundreds of thousands of taels—and this was the result? He’d heard that at the relief kitchens in Qingfeng city, the gruel was so thin you could see your reflection in it, chopsticks wouldn’t even stand upright.
Other men got to be emperor too, and so had His Majesty, yet ever since his enthronement, every single day had been about money, money, money. Life had been far more pleasant before.
Once he was properly dressed, someone brought over tea. His Majesty saw the porcelain was finer than what he normally used, gaudy enough to sting the eyes, and refused to drink from it. Zhang Minwang smiled and hurried to offer another set instead: “Your Majesty, this is the set we brought ourselves, not from outside.”
Only then did His Majesty glance at him, accept the cup, and after a sip of tea, ask: “What time is it?”
Zhang Minwang answered: “Reporting to Your Majesty, it’s only just past noon. There’s still some time before the Astronomical Bureau’s appointed hour for departure. Perhaps you’d care to eat something simple here at their household?”
His Majesty disliked Tan Shiyuan and had no wish to eat anything from his household. Instead he picked out pastries he’d brought from the palace himself and ate a couple with his tea.
Just as he was eating, a young voice’s shrill scream came from outside—frightened, not a good sound—followed by a burst of commotion.
Only a few days into peace, and though His Majesty now wore the dragon robe, his old habits hadn’t changed. That voice from outside was one he knew all too well—it belonged to his old mother’s most beloved sixth grandson. Though the boy was usually rambling on about spirits and immortals, this kind of scream was rare—his young voice had cracked from the strain.
Spinning quickly around the room and finding no weapon, His Majesty rushed out barehanded, snatching a guard’s saber from outside the tent as he ran.
A young eunuch, cradling a pair of blue kesi-embroidered dragon-patterned black boots, hurried after him, calling out: “Shoes, shoes, Your Majesty, your shoes…”
He hadn’t even made it out of the tent before Zhang Minwang kicked him over.
Snatching up the boots himself, Zhang Minwang cursed: “You useless, embarrassing thing, what are you shouting about! Get out of the way!!”
Making a fuss and losing face in front of outsiders.
By the time Zhang Minwang caught up, boots in his arms, following the anxious flow of people through the camp, he found several men already lying sprawled on the ground.
The sixth prince, who had just been screaming bloody murder, was now leaning excitedly against His Majesty, who held a saber in one hand while pinching and turning the boy’s plump face with the other, checking him over. Seeing his son unharmed, His Majesty finally relaxed: “Why weren’t you resting properly in the tent? Why go running off?!”
His Majesty, a man who normally kept a tight rein on his temper in all matters, was genuinely like an ordinary father with his sons—affectionate, fond of jokes, but also quick to scold, kick, and lose his temper when truly angry.
Yet there was one person he never scolded or struck, one he doted on and indulged endlessly.
That was this sixth prince, Yang Qian.
Years ago, after His Majesty’s principal wife passed away, there had been no shortage of women given to him—by his stepmother, by his birth mother, offered up by subordinates—more than a dozen in all. Over the years these women had borne him over twenty children.
Sadly, amid the chaos of war and constant upheaval, many had died young. Of those still living, he now had five sons: the second prince Yang Zhen, the fifth prince Yang Ying, the sixth prince Yang Qian, the seventh prince Yang Du, and a ninth prince still in swaddling clothes, too young yet to be given a proper name—called only by the pet name Xuan He, meaning “Mystic Crane,” in hopes of long life and good health.
Yang Qian’s birth mother had the surname Dou. Years ago, before His Majesty raised his rebellion, in order to secure ties with various local factions, he had accepted a beautiful woman offered up by a minor local clan—people called her Lady Dou.
Lady Dou had been charming and perceptive, and had won considerable favor with the man who was then Grand Marshal. Unfortunately, her luck ran out—she died shortly after giving birth to Yang Qian.
That same year, His Majesty’s own birth mother, Lady Jiang, fell gravely ill. Out of filial duty, His Majesty sent the not-yet-one-year-old Yang Qian to live with his grandmother—essentially, to keep the old lady company.
Children raised at their grandmother’s side typically share a few traits: first, they tend to be plump; second, their way of thinking tends to mirror the old woman’s in odd ways.
Missing her son and unable to see him, Lady Jiang poured her entire being into burning incense and prostrating herself in worship. Not knowing which deity in this world might protect her son’s safety and fortune, she cast a wide net—sincerely worshipping every god she could find, devoutly making offerings, building temples and casting golden statues without hesitation.
And so, back in His Majesty’s hometown, the old lady had turned an entire street into a row of temples for her son’s sake—Bodhisattva temples, Immortal temples, Dragon King temples, Emperor temples, Confucian temples, Goddess temples, Earth God temples, even a Fire God temple. Beyond the deities already known to this world, there were temples to all manner of auspicious beasts besides.
Every morning, the old lady would rise, eat breakfast, and take her precious grandson from temple to temple—burning incense, donating rice, chatting with temple keepers, abbots, shamans, monks, and Taoist priests to pass the time.
It was in this environment that the sixth prince Yang Qian grew up in the company of gods and immortals, happy, carefree, and healthy, all the way to age nine.
A few months ago, seeing her sixth grandson already so grown while His Majesty still hadn’t sent for him, the old lady grew anxious. She wrote a letter and, in tears, sent her plump grandson back to His Majesty’s side along with it.
The chubby son returned to his father’s side, and naturally there was much affectionate fuss. At the family banquet that very evening, seeing how innocent the boy was, His Majesty asked him in front of the whole family: “My son, is there anything you’d like to do in the future? Think it over and tell me, so your father can plan ahead for you.”
The implication, of course, was: even if I make you a prince with your own fief, someone like you couldn’t manage it alone—and besides, I’m not even emperor yet. Shouldn’t you seize this chance to ask me for some achievements to your name, building up capital for your future title, and perhaps a fertile piece of land to go with it?
His children had always had sharp instincts from a young age, and understood their father’s meaning the instant they heard it.
A sudden silence fell over the room, and then the little chubby boy said, quite cheerfully: “Father! Sooner or later I’ll return to the Heavenly Court to be my immortal self again. I have many old friends and companions up in Heaven, whom I haven’t seen in years and think of often. Father, you only govern matters of the earthly realm—I am a being of both realms. Whatever you might ask me for, you can’t even help me with!!”
Such righteous, matter-of-fact disdain.
The whole table nearly dropped their jaws in shock. Everyone realized then—this chubby little boy had already been thoroughly corrupted by his grandmother’s teachings. His Majesty didn’t know whether to laugh or cry—his own doing, might as well indulge him.
He could only laugh and say: “Fine, fine, fine, if my son wants to be an immortal, an immortal he shall be. Your father’s safety will simply have to depend on your immortal connections then.”
The little chubby boy patted his chest and promised to see to it personally.
But only a few days later, as the army marched through two days of waterless terrain and finally spotted an old well, before anyone could go draw water, the sixth prince dashed forward and climbed right up onto the rim, about to jump in.
Everyone around him panicked—people grabbing him, pulling him back, coaxing him down. By the time they finally got him off the rim, His Majesty had arrived too, furiously demanding to know what he thought he was doing.
The chubby boy, perfectly serious, explained to His Majesty: “Father, you don’t understand. I’m going down into this well to find the Well Dragon King. He and the East Sea Dragon King are cousins, and his home surely has a shortcut straight to the East Sea. Let me go build some rapport with him, and I’ll have the East Sea Dragon King come personally to bring rain and clouds for you, Father, and solve this urgent crisis…”
Hearing this, His Majesty didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, while everyone around them nearly burst their lungs holding back laughter.
In short, this was a prince utterly convinced he was an immortal. No one dared mock him for it—they could only go along with it, pretending he truly was a god.
And it was this immortal prince who had just been suddenly accosted by Chen Dasheng and his men, grabbed and questioned. Raised his whole life in a peaceful, sheltered environment, he’d never seen anyone like Chen Dasheng, let alone such a scene—suddenly appearing out of nowhere, grabbing him, asking if he could read?
The sixth prince screamed in terror. By the time the elite palace guards rushed in, the prince had regained enough composure to shout, first thing: “You mustn’t kill or spill blood carelessly! It’ll damage my cultivation and spiritual foundation! I won’t be done with you mortals if you do…”
The guards, unable to strike properly under such constraints, were sent tumbling to the ground within a few exchanges, all by Yu Qingguan alone, using only the flat of his blade.
Chen Dasheng never once drew his blade.
By this point His Majesty himself had arrived, surrounded and shielded by guards. He pinched the sixth prince’s chubby face, looking him over from side to side, and asked: “Why weren’t you staying put in the tent? Running off like that…”
Zhang Minwang came rushing over too, kneeling to put His Majesty’s shoes on him, but caught the sixth prince excitedly saying: “Father! I just now vaguely heard someone say an immortal in feathered robes and a tall hat came floating by—it must have been Sage Wei of Zhongshan Guard! Back in his day, Sage Wei also revered Emperor Wu…”
Before he could finish, His Majesty, thoroughly exasperated, handed the saber back to a guard and said: “That was a woman!”
The sixth prince paused, then grew even more excited: “Ah! A female immortal, then? Could it be the Maiden Duo who once visited Peng Zu has arrived? Oh my, oh my! This is terribly improper of me—I’ve long wished to meet this female immortal! Back in her day, Maiden Duo sought instruction from Peng Zu on the path to ascension as a minor immortal official…”
Unable to bear it any longer, Emperor Wu took a steadying breath, scooped up his plump son, and dumped him into a guard’s arms: “Take your family’s immortal off to eat, quickly!”
The chubby boy was carried off, still shrieking from a distance: “Father, no! I’ve finally encountered a true immortal, and I’m to miss the chance?! Could Father truly be so reluctant to part with me that you’d ruin my providence… Father and I share the same blood, how could you do this, how could you! Though I am lovable and dear, still, Father, when it’s time to let go, you must let go! Oh, if you couldn’t bear to part with me, you should have said so sooner! I won’t hide it from you, Father—I have a phoenix carriage in Heaven that can travel ten thousand li in a day, so if you wish to see me, just…” whoosh…
No one could make out what he was saying after that—he must have been carried too far away.
Someone laid out a carpet and set up a table. His Majesty sat down in the elevated seat, picked up his tea to steady his nerves, and took a sip—only to suddenly think of something and spray the tea straight out sideways, half-covering his face, shoulders shaking uncontrollably.
Around him, muffled snorts of stifled laughter broke out on all sides. No matter how great one’s anger, it dissolved in the face of that.
After a good while, His Majesty, mouth half open, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, pointed at the huddled, prostrate group kneeling opposite him: “Speak. Tell me what happened. Scaring my sixth son so badly he nearly ascended without meaning to…”
He dissolved into muffled laughter again.
The guards nearby stepped forward to take the blame, explaining that the sixth prince had just been napping, that the Tan family’s camp had no discipline to speak of, with idle strangers wandering about freely. Somehow, the sixth prince had overheard these men and, believing immortals had arrived, dragged the guards out with him to search the camp for gods.
These few men, no one knew where they’d come from, had suddenly appeared and grabbed the sixth prince, asking, young master, can you read? Young master, do you know characters?
The sixth prince, startled, had screamed. The guards had tried to subdue them, but during the scuffle the prince kept shouting not to spill blood, not to damage his cultivation, and so it had ended up like this.
Having finished his account, the guard had several long blades wrapped in tattered cloth presented before His Majesty.
The blades were dropped to the ground with a dull clatter. His Majesty glanced down, and his brows twitched faintly; his eyes lingered on the group of men for a moment.
He recognized the style of these blades—how could he not? Just now there had been hundreds more just like them, worn on the backs of men in black armor standing at attention on horseback, spending his own money while shouting “mighty, mighty” in his honor. But those blades worn on their backs had been the later-model long blades.
These few here were the earliest long-blade design. Tan Shize himself had submitted several revised blueprints afterward—the new blades used better materials and were gradually reduced by three jin four liang in weight, though they couldn’t be made as long, topping out at seven chi.
The old-style blade, the kind lying before him now, was seven and a half chi long, weighed twenty-two jin, with a three-and-a-half chi blade and a four chi hilt. He knew this design intimately—he’d held it countless times with his own hands. And yet the blades he’d once touched felt worlds apart from these.
The edges of these blades were half a cun narrower than the old standard blade width—this was no craftsman’s work. These had been ground down, slowly, by human bone and flesh.
His Majesty suddenly spoke to the guard: “Draw them.”
The guard blinked, followed His Majesty’s gaze, then quickly crouched down and drew each blade in turn, lining them up in a row.
The old blades lay silent side by side—only the edges gleamed silver-white, the rest sunk in deep black. They had no proper sheaths, wrapped instead in strange black cloth, giving off an air of neglect and shabbiness, as if their owners had never cared much for them.
The guards around them found it odd—cloth sheaths for blades, in this day and age? But those with sharper minds soon grasped the deeper meaning, and their expressions gradually turned somber.
Those must once have been palm-width strips of cloth wound around the blades—but after so much blood, the cloth could no longer be pried apart, fused into makeshift sheaths by dried blood itself.
The guard drawing the blades seemed unaware of his own actions—starting from the first blade, he drew each one single-handed while his other hand stayed clamped on the hilt of his own sword, outwardly composed but inwardly gripped by an inexplicable unease.
The head guard nearly reprimanded him, but a glance from His Majesty stopped him.
Looking again at the old blades—everyone knew a blade was a weapon of death, and typically after being forged, the hilt would be wrapped in bright red cloth to ward off evil and absorb sweat. But the hilts of these blades had gone glossy black, all trace of red cloth long gone, as if they were black jade polished smooth by hundreds of years of handling, worn into a uniform dark sheen.
The guard, having finally arranged the blades, straightened up with a sigh of relief—only to hear His Majesty say he’d made a mistake.
He looked up to see His Majesty pointing at the blades: “This is the first, that’s the second, that’s the third…”
Once the blades were properly arranged, His Majesty looked toward the distant group of men, and to everyone’s surprise, his face softened into a gentle smile: “The rest of you—lift your heads, let me see you.”
Chen Dasheng and the others had been prostrate this whole time, and having braced themselves for this moment, pretended not to understand and remained motionless.
It was only when someone kicked them that they finally lifted their heads, one by one, staring up at His Majesty with blank, bewildered faces.
Seeing someone resort to force, His Majesty immediately grew displeased, glaring at the overeager guard: “You! Get out of here. Who do you think they are, that you’d dare kick them…”
But His Majesty’s scolding cut off halfway—for good reason. These men’s appearance was simply too shocking.
No wonder his sixth son had been so frightened.
What on earth were they wearing? These men’s heads, from their topknots down to their necks, were wrapped in headscarves whose original color could no longer be discerned. Their clothing was in tatters, strips of cloth flapping loose, sleeves torn and collars gaping in wretched disarray—one had to look closely to tell that this had once been standard-issue armor, though “armor” was a stretch; it was really just thick padded jackets, and weren’t jackets like this supposed to be issued for winter?
And their faces were even harder to look at—like veteran armed escorts who’d washed once and then spent three years on the road without bathing again. Every face was indistinguishable, caked in what looked like a layer of earthen crust, thick gray skin drawn taut, blank and dull with exhaustion.
Strangely, one man’s face stood out—streaked with lines through the gray crust, like a rain-carved hillside, pitted and uneven.
This was Chen Dasheng, who had just been caught in the rain—which showed just how filthy these men’s faces truly were.
Only their eyes still held any life, black truly black, white truly white; when their mouths opened, red gums and white teeth showed in sharp contrast, and along their jaws, patchy, roughly-hacked stubble.
Armed escorts, to guard against wind and chapping on long journeys, would go a full year of escort duty without washing their faces—three years of escort work, three years unwashed.
If escorts were like that, how much more so for old soldiers on campaign year after year.
At a time like this, that such old soldiers still existed left His Majesty deeply unsettled. Even at this distance, the stench they couldn’t mask reached him in waves, yet he didn’t seem to mind at all.
How long had it been since he’d smelled this? Long ago, in the hardest days, his own old soldiers had once smelled just like this.
The smell remained—but his old soldiers themselves were now few and far between.
By that smell alone, His Majesty knew in his heart these were no assassins, no outsiders.
These were the old soldiers who had followed him through the conquest of the realm, city by city—no, more than old soldiers. These were Tan Er’s own old blades.
The men slowly lifted their heads and finally saw clearly who stood above them. One of them, recognizing the figure, gave a soft startled cry: “Grand… Grand Marshal…”
Before he could finish, he was struck hard from behind and cursed: “Fool! That’s the Emperor! Has been for days now…”
He hadn’t finished either before he too took a blow, and then all together they threw themselves to the ground in prostration so forceful the earth trembled slightly.
His Majesty, unable to hold back a twitch of his lips, said: “No need for such ceremony, no need. Rise, rise!”
But these men were clearly too frightened. They slowly lifted their heads, and their leader spoke: “We… your subordinates, um? Paying respects? To… the Emperor, sir?”
The pitiful men, having never seen such a spectacle, glanced around desperately for guidance.
Zhang Minwang stepped forward with a smile to assist: “You should address him as ‘Your Majesty,’ you all…”
He glanced at His Majesty, who nodded and, after a moment’s thought, said: “Have them say ‘your subject.'”
He’d accept that.
Zhang Minwang swallowed and said: “You should all say, ‘your subject.'”
The ring of guards stared in astonishment at these old soldiers.
The men exchanged glances, still utterly lost, until their leader knocked his head to the ground once more: “Your… Your Majesty, subject, congratu…”
“Bah! What nonsense are you spouting? You’re all subjects, so you should say ‘we your subjects,’ meaning all of you together…”
His Majesty waved a hand helplessly at Zhang Minwang: “Enough, stop confusing them. Teach them slowly later—don’t frighten them!”
With that, he turned and smiled at Chen Dasheng and the others: “Don’t be afraid. Say whatever comes naturally for now, and they’ll teach you properly later.”
Chen Dasheng nodded blankly, then, quite earnestly, led his brothers in another round of kowtowing before finally cupping his fists respectfully: “Right Flank Army, Long Blade Battalion, Chen Dasheng!”
“Yu Qingguan!”
“Tong Jintai!”
“Ma Ergu!”
“Hu Yougui!”
“Cui Erdian!”
“Guan Si’er!”
With another sincere bow, Chen Dasheng straightened up and continued earnestly: “We wish the Emperor, the Emperor sir, Your Majesty…” Poor man, he barely knew any words himself, and had nothing prepared, but he had to start somewhere, so he mustered his strength and bellowed: “We wish you, sir… many sons and grandsons soon!”
Yu Qingguan, mortified, hissed under his breath: “Boss, His Majesty already has a pile of sons!”
Chen Dasheng, flustered, corrected himself: “Ah—already has some? Oh, right, then may you top the imperial examinations…” That wasn’t right either. Pressed for time, he shut his eyes and shouted: “May you, sir, strike it rich!!”
Yu Qingguan, thirty-six years old and experienced, proudly chimed in: “May fortune flow to you from every direction!”
The rest of them, straining with all their might, added their own good wishes as best they could, and so it went, poor souls, all the way down the line.
“May… may good fortune come knocking!”
“Good health!”
“Good? Very good indeed!!”
“May you eat and drink well every day…!”
By the time it reached Cui Erdian, sheer nonsense had run its course, but he was delighted—finally his turn to shine. Back when he used to beg for food, whenever a landlord’s family had a new baby, he’d tag along with his master singing lotus-flower ballads full of auspicious phrases. So naturally, he cupped his fists and began to sing.
The guards, and His Majesty himself, didn’t know what to make of it, their minds filled with nothing but: “He’s singing? He’s actually singing… singing…”
“Hey hey hey, the character for fortune arrives bringing joy, blessings and virtue descend bringing peace and prosperity…”
Yu Qingguan, furious, reached past the others and gave him a hard slap: “Shut your mouth.”
Cui Erdian went down from the slap, revealing the pitiful Guan Si’er behind him. The boy, flustered too, tilted his head, rolled his big eyes with utter sincerity, opened his mouth wide to show red gums and white teeth, cupped his fists, and shouted: “Sir, con-, congratulations, sir!!”
Author’s note: There was an error earlier regarding one of the prince’s surnames—I’ve corrected it. My eyesight isn’t great, so mistakes happen sometimes; please bear with me as we go along.
Also, they say it’s time to hand out red packets to readers—I’ll be doing that occasionally in the Weibo reader group. Come hang out and chat if you’re free; nothing too serious happens there, aside from everyone teasing each other and spreading chaos late at night, and I’ll throw in the occasional giveaway too.
Don’t mind the slow pace of this story—it needs to build gradually. We’re looking at over a million words here, so no rush. A good, solid beginning is what sets up all the turbulence to come.