The autumn in Daxing City felt somewhat desolate. Even people who had lived there for most of their lives found that everything they looked at seemed a little unfamiliar.
No one could say exactly when it began, but rumors had spread throughout the city — that the envoys of both the King of Ning, Li Chi, and the King of Ge Ling, Han Feibao, were present in Daxing City at the same time. Now it was known to everyone.
Even those with the least knowledge of affairs in the world understood what it meant when envoys from both sides appeared simultaneously.
And so the common people of Daxing City gradually split into two camps — not hostile to one another, but worried. Though they spoke of it only in small clusters of two or three, in private, the fact that everyone was talking about it was proof enough that the people knew what was coming.
Some thought the Emperor should choose Han Feibao. Their reasoning: Han Feibao had risen from the palace garrison troops, which meant he still counted, in a sense, as one of the Emperor’s former subjects. He was the adopted son of the Yongzhou Jiedushi and represented, at his core, the forces of the old court. If the Emperor yielded to Han Feibao, Han Feibao would likely not make things too difficult for the Emperor.
Others said they should surrender to the King of Ning, because the Emperor had already declared as much in a public proclamation. There were also reports that the people living under the King of Ning’s rule were doing extraordinarily well — the young provided for, the old cared for. Some even said that in Jizhou things were like paradise on earth: no one picking up lost items on the road, doors left unlocked at night, everyone with money in their pockets, meat at every meal.
If even common people were debating the matter so vigorously, it need hardly be said what was happening among the officials still serving in the court. In private, they had already deliberated among themselves countless times — if the choice were theirs to make, they would have made it for the Emperor long ago.
But the choice was not theirs to make. They were not entitled to it. History would choose, in time, the right man for the future.
Even Yu Wenli — the most senior official in the current court, holding the rank of Duke of the Realm and wielding the powers of Chancellor — could not escape facing this choice. And the basis on which he would make his judgment differed from most: while most people were thinking about what would become of themselves, he was thinking about what would become of the Emperor.
In particular, after the Emperor’s visit to Yibin Garden to see Xiahou Zhuo, Yu Wenli had sensed that a shift had taken place in the Emperor’s state of mind.
The reason was not that Xiahou Zhuo had said anything in the way of guarantees. Rather, it was that Xiahou Zhuo had come to the palace to inform the Emperor that the Imperial Prince was in danger.
The Imperial Prince was now what the Emperor cared about most. The Great Chu had already been reduced to second place.
—
The Eastern Study.
The Emperor personally poured a cup of tea for Yu Wenli. The old official rose immediately and received it with both hands.
Since the death of Prince Wu, no official in the court commanded more prestige than him.
“I want to ask you directly,” said the Emperor. “If I were truly to choose one person to surrender to — would it be Han Feibao, or Li Chi?”
The question was asked with such directness that, even though Yu Wenli had more or less anticipated it, he was still inwardly startled.
“There are advantages and drawbacks to each,” he replied, cradling the teacup. “Your Majesty, from the mood among the court officials, they lean toward Han Feibao.”
“I could have guessed,” said the Emperor.
Of course those men would choose Han Feibao. Li Chi was not of the same kind as them. Han Feibao was the representative of the old court’s power — when all was said and done, he was no different from Yang Xuanji in his day. Li Chi was different. Rather than saying Li Chi represented any particular faction, it was truer to say he represented the common people of the realm. The choices of the privileged class could never fully align with those of ordinary people; the moments when they did align were only when the tide was too overwhelming to resist.
“However…” Yu Wenli said. “A man like Han Feibao — even if he treats Your Majesty with proper courtesy at first — the moment he ascends the throne, he will certainly begin plotting otherwise.”
His words were still relatively restrained. More plainly put: Han Feibao would never allow a potential threat to exist. So long as the Emperor lived, there would always be people in the world willing to pledge their loyalty to him. One should not underestimate the depth of certain people’s devotion — even a hundred years after the Great Zhou was destroyed, there were still descendants of its old officials plotting a restoration.
By comparison, Li Chi could refrain from killing the Emperor — but Han Feibao would eliminate him.
After hearing Yu Wenli out, the Emperor nodded. “Feeling threatened, fearing I might not be resigned, and lacking confidence in himself — that is Han Feibao.”
“The people behind Han Feibao,” said Yu Wenli, “would be afraid Your Majesty might one day reclaim the throne.”
The Emperor smiled slightly. “Though there is no real possibility of that — hearing you put it that way, I find it rather gratifying.”
He walked to the window and stood there, looking out at the autumn scenery.
“So — your view is that if I yield to Han Feibao, all the court officials might survive, but I alone could not.”
Yu Wenli nodded. “That is so, Your Majesty. The civil and military officials do not wish to surrender to the King of Ning, Li Chi, because they understand that while Your Majesty might live, not all of them necessarily would.”
“Because Han Feibao is willing to make accommodations for the old court factions,” said the Emperor, “but Li Chi is not — Li Chi is someone who has never made accommodations, not since Jizhou.”
“Your Majesty,” said Yu Wenli, “in truth, Daxing City still commands several hundred thousand troops. If Your Majesty were willing, you could abandon the city and lead the army south to break through the encirclement.”
The Emperor turned to look at Yu Wenli. He seemed about to say something, but held back, gesturing for Yu Wenli to continue.
“Previously, Yuezhou was occupied by rebels, and the great bandit Li Xionghu ran rampant through the southern borderlands,” Yu Wenli continued. “But after Li Xionghu’s death, the Yuezhou army under the Marquis of Guanting has relocated to Yangzhou — there are no powerful rebel forces remaining in Yuezhou. With Your Majesty’s current force of several hundred thousand soldiers marching south into Yuezhou, you could build up strength, bide your time, plan carefully, and perhaps one day return to retake the capital.”
The Emperor let out a slow sigh. “This is the counsel of a loyal subject. I spoke with others before, and not one of them offered this option.”
Yu Wenli bowed deeply. “If Your Majesty is willing to go south, this old subject would volunteer to command the rearguard. Though I possess no great talent for leading troops, I have the will to die in your service.”
The Emperor took a long, heavy breath, and went to help Yu Wenli up. “I am deeply moved. But I no longer have the will to fight.”
Yu Wenli was taken aback.
“I can endure hardship on the road,” the Emperor said. “I can endure displacement and wandering. But my children… they should no longer have to carry any of this.”
Yu Wenli understood the Emperor’s meaning in an instant.
“This burden, this weight, this suffering — let it end with me,” said the Emperor.
“Your Majesty,” said Yu Wenli, “if you have truly made up your mind, I believe the Imperial Prince should first be entrusted to the Consort of King Wu and taken out of Daxing City.”
The Emperor shook his head. “If I still wanted to make one last stand, entrusting An’er to my aunt would be the wisest choice. But I truly no longer wish to fight.”
He looked at Yu Wenli. “For the first time, from the very marrow of my bones, I no longer wish to fight.”
Yu Wenli’s eyes had already filled with tears. This was the Emperor before him — the Emperor of the Great Chu. To hear those words pass his lips was to understand the depth of the Emperor’s despair.
“I always believed there was nothing wrong with me — that I had not lost because of any failing in myself,” said the Emperor with a small smile. “It was only after meeting Li Chi that I understood — I simply could not match him.”
“Met Li Chi?” Yu Wenli’s expression shifted sharply.
The Emperor paused, then smiled. “I meant Xiahou Zhuo. A slip of the tongue — though perhaps not entirely wrong, since Xiahou Zhuo speaks for Li Chi.”
Yu Wenli exhaled with relief. For a moment he had thought the Emperor’s mind had grown muddled from despair.
“I never admitted defeat,” the Emperor continued. “Every loss after loss, I told myself it was heaven’s injustice, ill fortune, forces beyond the power of man. But when I think it through — even when I was still lord of all thirteen provinces, Li Chi was nothing more than a small figure in a Jizhou carriage depot. At that time I could summon a million-man army with a single word, while he had only a handful of friends around him…”
“If you’ve lost, you have to admit it. Though an emperor is the most one who cannot afford to lose — once he admits it, there is nothing more to it.”
The Emperor looked at Yu Wenli. “Go to Yibin Garden on my behalf to see Xiahou Zhuo, and convey my meaning to him.”
Yu Wenli dropped to his knees with a thud. “I implore Your Majesty to reconsider.”
“Reconsider?” said the Emperor. “I have reconsidered five times, six times — hundreds of times, thousands of times. That is already behind me.”
He smiled. “You need not grieve for me. I have let it go. What is it you cannot let go?”
Yu Wenli prostrated himself deeply.
He was grieving not only for the Emperor but for himself. He, a subject of Chu, would be going on behalf of the Emperor to convey willingness to surrender to the people of the King of Ning. If his name were ever to appear in the historical record, it could only be recorded in connection with this one act.
His name would be bound, forever and inseparably, to the fall of Chu. However many hundreds or thousands of years might pass — whenever the fall of Chu was mentioned, he would be mentioned too: this man who had gone to tender surrender on behalf of the Emperor.
“I… understand,” he said at last.
The Emperor reached down to help him up. “I know how difficult this is, how humiliating, how painful. But I can only place this in your hands.”
“Because you are not only the trusted pillar I rely upon — you are also my father-in-law. You are An’er’s maternal grandfather.”
Yu Wenli understood. He bowed. “This subject comprehends.”
“There is another reason I am sending you,” said the Emperor. “You can negotiate conditions with Xiahou Zhuo — for yourself. The country is nearly lost, and there is honestly very little I can still give you. So why not, while you are going to negotiate my surrender to the King of Ning’s people on my behalf, ask for something good in return? The two of us… this can be our last scheme together, one final trick to squeeze something out of Li Chi.”
The Emperor made a visible effort to smile with something that might look like equanimity. “You can say that you are able to counsel me into surrendering to the King of Ning — but only if the King of Ning offers favorable terms. Let that be our parting collusion.”
He gripped Yu Wenli’s hand. “I may die — but An’er must be kept safe, above all else.”
Yu Wenli knelt again, and prostrated himself deeply.
—
Yibin Garden.
Li Chi stood in the courtyard, head tilted up, watching the autumn leaves fall.
They said this was a strange sight — Daxing City lay south of the Yangtze, and the south never showed autumn clearly. The trees here were different from those in the north and would not shed their leaves in fall to grow new ones in spring. But this year, for reasons no one could explain, leaves that had no business falling were falling.
One thing was certain: the fall of leaves was an anomaly. The return of spring was inevitable.
“Boss.”
Yu Jiuling moved to Li Chi’s side and lowered his voice. “The Emperor sent someone. It’s Yu Wenli. He’s already at the gate.”
Li Chi nodded. “Show him in.”
Yu Jiuling made a sound of agreement, turned to go, then stopped, unable to stop himself from asking: “Boss, Yu Wenli coming now — it’s to talk about the surrender, isn’t it.”
“Most likely,” said Li Chi.
Yu Jiuling broke into a grin.
“What are you grinning at?” Li Chi said.
Yu Jiuling gave a thumbs-up. “The Boss is something else!”
“Where does that come from?” Li Chi asked, amused.
“I haven’t read many books,” said Yu Jiuling, “but I’ve heard plenty of stories — operas, novels, everything. There’s never been anyone quite like the Boss, who came practically alone into the enemy’s stronghold and ended up receiving their surrender.”
“That flattery is a bit too restrained,” said Li Chi. “You can lay it on thicker.”
“The Boss is unmatched under heaven!”
Li Chi nodded. “Humbly accepted.”
Yu Jiuling burst out laughing — and in that laughter lived the promise of peace and lasting prosperity for all the realm.
—