In theory, border troops could not be mobilized, as Great Wei might detect this and cross the river to attack. But at this critical moment, Han Shouye couldn’t worry about such matters. Compared to the nation, he valued more the safety of himself and the Han clan. If it truly came to a fight to the death, these fifty thousand troops would have to be deployed.

Han Shousong pondered for a long time upon hearing this, finally steeling his resolve. He solemnly received the tiger tally from Han Shouye’s hands and replied, “Elder brother, rest assured.”

The great affairs of state lie in sacrifice and war.

The sacrificial ceremony at Mount Yao in the sixth year of Jiahe was the most magnificent sacrifice since Great Liang’s southern migration. The ritual on the tenth day of the sixth month was truly unprecedented, and like that day itself, it left a vivid mark in Great Liang’s historical records.

That day truly lived up to being called a “once-in-a-century auspicious day”—the sun was brilliant, the wind clear, and not a cloud in the vast sky. The beautiful trees on Mount Yao stood tall and verdant, making the sacrificial altar in the mountains appear even more sacred and majestic.

The emperor donned sacrificial robes to welcome the imperial spirits. To the music of the Shiping Chapter, he slowly ascended the divine altar, kneeling before the supreme heavenly throne to offer incense. He also sacrificed to ancestral tablets, performing the grand ceremony of three bows and nine kowtows to the various deities, presenting jade and silk, advancing food offerings, performing the initial, secondary, and final libation ceremonies, clearing the offerings, sending off the imperial spirits, and watching the sacrificial fire. A series of time-consuming grand sacrificial rites proceeded in orderly fashion.

The mountain altar was surrounded by Great Liang’s important ministers observing the ceremony, with Her Majesty the Empress and His Highness the Crown Prince beside them. Everyone watched their Emperor, watched him pray for blessings for the countless people of Jiangzuo.

Qi Le, the Fourth Young Master of the Qi family serving as Assistant Director of the Court of Imperial Sacrifices, was naturally among those observing the ceremony.

Five years had passed, and this young master of the Qi family had changed greatly from before.

He had grown somewhat taller. Perhaps because he was now married, his demeanor had become more steady and mature. Last month his wife Lady Ning had given birth to a daughter, making him a father, so his bearing had become even more composed, no longer showing the mischievous and impetuous appearance of his youth.

He stood in a position quite far back in the crowd, as his fifth-rank junior official position naturally couldn’t bring him to the front. Looking at the dense crowd before him, he saw no fellow clansmen from the Qi family.

Yes, the Qi family had declined. There weren’t many officials left in court, and Qi Le’s timing for entering officialdom had been the worst—his father had already retired due to stroke, his eldest brother had been dismissed and sent home, and even his second brother struggled under constraints from the imperial family and the Han and Fu surnames, with no one able to help or support him.

His father Qi Zhang had even advised him not to enter officialdom. His legitimate mother and birth mother had also urged him to stay away from court—it was an endless quagmire, a place that devoured people, that would drain all the Qi family’s blood dry.

Yet he still insisted on taking the spring examinations, passing the imperial examinations, and entering court as an official—not for any other purpose, simply because he wanted to help his second brother.

He just… didn’t want his second brother to bear everything alone.

In his youth, he had been quite senseless, his heart set only on marrying Zhao Yao. When he failed the spring examination the year his second brother served as chief examiner, he harbored resentment, blaming his second brother in his heart for being cold-hearted and seeking only a clean reputation. At that time, he hadn’t thought at all about what tremendous burdens his second brother was carrying while he fretted over such trivial matters.

What happened later? Later, when the great Qi family mansion collapsed, his beloved Sister Yao immediately cast him aside like worn shoes. Only his second brother continued to exhaust himself for this family. He saw it all and finally understood how terribly wrong he had been.

He very much wanted to apologize to his second brother, but with time passed and circumstances changed, it was difficult to speak of such things. Moreover, words were truly too weak and powerless—far less substantial than taking action. Therefore, he ultimately decided to enter officialdom—to help his second brother shoulder some burden, even if just a little, at least so his second brother wouldn’t be alone.

But his second brother didn’t appreciate it. Before he took the spring examinations, his brother even tried to dissuade him, saying, “The court situation is dangerous, and I have no spare attention to look after you. It would be better if you stayed home like Jing’an and didn’t cause trouble.”

His second brother spoke coldly, but Qi Le knew this was his brother protecting him. He didn’t want him to enter officialdom because he didn’t want him to fall into danger. He deliberately acted cold simply to make him retreat from difficulty.

But he would no longer retreat. He must enter officialdom, must help his second brother support their family.

Later he indeed got his wish, and his second brother truly, as he had said before, provided him no advancement or help, never transferring him to crucial places like the Privy Council or Imperial Secretariat. He didn’t mind, relying only on himself to struggle in officialdom, walking step by step to where he was today.

He had tried his utmost, yet in this murderous officialdom he remained like a speck of insignificant dust. He knew… he hadn’t helped his second brother one bit.

Second brother… Today was the grand sacrificial ceremony, yet his second brother, as the nation’s Left Chancellor, was not present. Some said he had died in the northern territories, others said he would never return to Jiangzuo. Everywhere there was malicious gossip.

Qi Le knew his second brother had offended too many aristocratic families by supporting commoners—he had become a completely isolated minister. But he didn’t believe his second brother would just die like that. He must, he must…

He must return.

He must give him hope.

As night fell, the Mount Yao traveling palace built on the mountainside was brightly lit. In the palace halls, the emperor and empress were dining with the little Crown Prince.

Since his birth, the Crown Prince had never traveled so far from home. Though his mother had taught this four-year-old child to be somewhat precocious, he was still just a child after all. Arriving at a new place naturally excited him, and even during the evening meal he remained so happy his little face was flushed red, sitting on his stool and joyfully fidgeting.

Yet his father was very silent, and even his mother was different from usual—seeing him fidget, she didn’t scold him, as if her attention wasn’t on him at all.

They both seemed to be waiting for something to happen.

The little Crown Prince didn’t quite understand, but this didn’t hinder his cheerfulness, until he gradually noticed increasingly chaotic footsteps beginning to appear outside the traveling palace doors, along with increasingly noisy shouting, which finally made him furrow his little brow.

What bold palace servants dared make such noise before the imperial presence!

He was somewhat angry and wanted to rise to scold these rule-ignorant slaves for his father and mother, but unexpectedly his father stood up first, protecting him behind himself.

“Zhao’er,” his father’s voice was low, his expression more serious than ever before, somewhat frightening, “go to your mother’s side.”

Hearing this, the little Crown Prince was somewhat confused, not knowing why his father suddenly showed such alarming demeanor. Not daring to ask, he could only retreat to his mother’s side.

Fu Rong embraced the Crown Prince as instructed, yet her gaze remained fixed on Xiao Ziheng, watching him walk step by step toward the magnificent golden door of the palace hall. She couldn’t help calling out.

“Your Majesty!”

Hearing this, Xiao Ziheng stopped and looked back at Fu Rong. Fu Rong’s heart tightened. In the increasingly chaotic noise, she looked up at the increasingly turbulent firelight and shadows outside the door, couldn’t help saying, “…Your Majesty, be careful.”

They had been married eight years, long past the seven-year itch. Even fundamentally, they had never truly loved each other—they had simply been drawn together into the surging whirlpool of power, calculating against each other, using each other, depending on each other, guarding against each other.

Yet that was still eight real years of companionship, and they had a child between them.

At this moment, might there also be some genuine feeling?

They both knew what scene awaited outside that door. If they lost, nothing more need be discussed. Even if they won, Fu Rong knew the Fu family’s path ahead wouldn’t be easy. Yet at this moment, she still sincerely hoped this man who was her husband could achieve victory, which gave that “be careful” some additional solemnity and tenderness.

Perhaps Xiao Ziheng heard this deeper meaning, or perhaps he didn’t. He only looked at Fu Rong once, then quickly turned his head, leaving only one sentence: “Protect Zhao’er well.”

Having spoken, he pushed open the great door before him.

Outside the door, night had fallen, yet the entire Mount Yao was already bright as day.

Countless torches had been lit, their blazing flames burning and casting bright yet panic-inducing light. Beneath the torches were armored soldiers with swords, their killing intent fierce as they slaughtered each other. The white jade-paved ground was now strewn with countless bloody corpses. If one looked toward the mountain path leading from the base to the traveling palace, one would see the road piled with countless more bodies—some in silver armor, some in iron armor. The former were the emperor’s guards, the latter the rebels’ troops.

When the red sun was high, this Mount Yao had been filled with auspicious energy, with ruler and ministers together worshipping heaven, earth, and the various deities. Yet in just one day, everything had changed. The auspicious sacrificial sacred mountain had instantly become a hellish battlefield of bones and corpses. How absurd? How laughable?

Xiao Ziheng could hardly bear to look.

With the emperor’s appearance, those rebellious traitors naturally became even more excited, each one more spirited as they wielded swords and spears. A general clad in silver armor struck down a rebel with one halberd stroke, then strode quickly to Xiao Ziheng’s side. This was one of Fu Rong’s uncles, named Fu Jiang, Great Liang’s General of Swift Cavalry.

In the extremely chaotic sounds of slaughter, he shouted loudly to Xiao Ziheng, “Your Majesty! The Han rebels come with fierce momentum—this place is truly too dangerous. Please move to the rear mountain to temporarily avoid their edge!”

In just the time it took to say this sentence, countless more soldiers had died beneath each other’s swords.

They bore no grudges against each other and were all subjects of Great Liang. They were simply unlucky enough to be swept into the whirlpool of power struggle, and thus had to sacrifice their lives.

How regrettable.

Xiao Ziheng looked at all this before him, yet his expression showed no emotion—one general’s success is built on ten thousand bleached bones. Perhaps beneath every emperor’s throne lay piles of skeletal remains. This was so-called fate: some people were destined to live and die in confusion, while others were destined to step over countless corpses to ascend the limitlessly glorious peak of power, grasping everything under heaven tightly in their hands.

The bloody scenes before his eyes not only failed to make Xiao Ziheng feel fear or heartache, but instead aroused a strange excitement deep in his heart. Those peach-blossom eyes appeared even more demonic, faintly hiding some imperceptible madness.

“We go nowhere,” he said. “We remain here, together with all of you.”

This sentence was beautifully spoken, his voice loud. Caught by the night wind, it immediately spread over this battlefield of blood and fire. Hearing these words, the soldiers fighting for their sovereign felt the hot blood in their chests surge even more—they felt that even if they died now, they would die defending Great Liang’s legitimate rule, die in loyalty to their monarch. They died appropriately, died without regret, even more willingly than the sacrificial animals offered to the deities on today’s altar.

Author’s Note: Fight! Fight!