Ren Yao and Jiang Ling went on their usual wall patrol. Somehow, their fellow soldiers had learned of their upcoming marriage, and the moment they saw the two, they called out with smiles: “Adjutant Ren, Master Jiang — congratulations!”
Ren Yao was taken aback, still processing the news, when Jiang Ling had already produced wedding cakes and, grinning broadly, began pressing them into everyone’s hands. “Many thanks! When we hold the banquet, you all must come and celebrate with us!”
The wedding cakes were wrapped in red paper, inscribed with auspicious phrases wishing a hundred years of harmony and the like. One could tell they had been prepared with care. Ren Yao looked at Jiang Ling with some surprise — she hadn’t even known when he had prepared all of this.
It was early morning, and everyone had a lucky gift to receive, so people came to join the fun whether they knew the couple or not. Jiang Ling turned no one away; anyone who offered congratulations received a wedding cake from him with great delight. The whole packet of cakes was quickly distributed. Ren Yao looked at his now-empty bundle and said, “I thought you were carrying rations. So it was these all along. You’ve given everything away — what will you eat at noon?”
They were stationed at Jianmen Pass, and a patrol often meant walking the entire day, so both Ren Yao and Jiang Ling had fallen into the habit of carrying rations and water whenever they set out. That morning, Ren Yao had noticed Jiang Ling leaving with a large pack and assumed it held food. She hadn’t imagined it was wedding cakes.
Jiang Ling tucked his empty bundle away and said, as though it were perfectly obvious: “Aren’t you here?”
Ren Yao raised an eyebrow and said coldly, “I only brought my own share.”
Jiang Ling sidled up with a shameless grin: “I don’t believe you. You definitely brought mine.”
As a precaution, Ren Yao always packed enough for two whenever she went out, though she had never needed to use the extra share and had never mentioned it. But Jiang Ling knew she always kept a place for him, which was precisely why he behaved so shamelessly.
Ren Yao gave him a disgruntled look, shifted the bundle onto her back, and walked on ahead. Jiang Ling laughed and chased after her: “You’ve been so good to me, my dear wife — let me carry that!”
“Get away from me. Who’s your wife?”
“My mistake, my mistake — you’ve been so good to me, superior officer. All the more reason for me to carry it.”
The two were still bickering and laughing when Jiang Ling spotted the general approaching. He waved at once: “General Zhou! We’re getting married! Ren Yao especially set this wedding cake aside for you, to thank you for looking after her.”
Ren Yao shot Jiang Ling a glare of mortified fury — when had it become her wedding cake? Jiang Ling signaled her with a look to say nothing, and with a cheerful smile he pressed the cake into General Zhou’s hands. A wedding was, after all, a joyous occasion, and General Zhou accepted without refusing. His expression softened slightly: “You’re holding a wedding banquet?”
Before Ren Yao could speak, Jiang Ling had already rushed ahead: “The date isn’t fixed yet. You’ve looked after us so well these past months — we were hoping to ask the General to preside over the ceremony for us.”
General Zhou was aware that these two had come from Chang’an and had presumably offended someone to be sent to such a remote posting. Otherwise, he would never have been qualified to be their commanding officer. But Ren Yao and Jiang Ling showed not the slightest resentment; they addressed him as “General” at every turn and were thoroughly respectful. During patrols and training, they displayed none of the spoiled airs typical of Chang’an’s noble sons and daughters, and they competed to take on every task.
General Zhou had at first suspected they were simply putting on a performance in order to be transferred out sooner. But he had watched them with cool eyes for some time now, and the two carried out their duties in earnest. Off their shifts, they returned home to cook meals and arrange the house, as though they intended to put down roots here — there was no trace of anyone merely making do.
Gradually, General Zhou had come to regard them sincerely as his own. Jiang Ling’s feelings for Ren Yao were plain for everyone to see, and now that the two were finally to be married, General Zhou was genuinely happy for them. In Chang’an, those qualified to preside over their wedding ceremony would likely have been, at the very least, a duke or marquis. Now that they came to him, it was clear they truly considered him their commanding officer.
In earlier times, General Zhou would have agreed on the spot. But now, he let out a sigh and said: “I just received a letter from Chang’an. The Emperor has abdicated in favor of Prince Xiang, who has been restored to the title of Prince Wen. The court is at a critical juncture. Jianmen Pass is a vital frontier, and there can be no mishaps. As commanding general, I cannot neglect my duties. I fear your wedding banquet is a pleasure I am not destined to enjoy.”
Ren Yao and Jiang Ling exchanged a glance, both deeply shaken. Jiang Ling immediately dropped his smile. Ren Yao asked, keeping her composure: “When did this happen?”
“According to the official gazette, it was the first day of the third month. However, Jianmen Pass is a great distance away — the dispatch was delayed two months on the road, which is why it has only arrived now.”
Ren Yao pressed on at once: “Prince Wen has abdicated in favor of Prince Xiang. What of Empress Dowager Wei?”
General Zhou spread his hands, helpless: “Unknown.”
·
Two months earlier. The last day of the second month. The Taiji Palace.
Xuanwu Gate was soaked in crimson — whether firelight or splattered blood, it was impossible to distinguish. The heads of the Wei family were mounted on horseback; killed in their sleep, their eyes were still wide open even now, as though they could not believe that the lowly soldiers they had always looked down upon would dare to show them such disrespect.
An officer of the Ten Thousand Cavalry raised his arm and shouted: “Empress Wei poisoned the late Emperor and brought calamity upon the realm! Tonight, we must unite and cut down the Wei clan and their confederates, and support Prince Xiang’s ascension to stabilize the world. Any who dare to aid the treasonous faction shall have three generations of their family put to death!”
The soldiers of the Imperial Guard responded with a roar. They had long harbored resentment against the Wei family’s swaggering sons, who threw their weight around unchecked. With the rallying cry from their commanding officer — a man they had served alongside for over a decade — they were mobilized in an instant, turning their spears as one toward the Wei clan.
The Left Ten Thousand Cavalry attacked Xuande Gate; the Right Ten Thousand Cavalry attacked Baoshou Gate. They cut down the guards at the entrances, and after the two forces rendezvoused at the Lingyan Pavilion, they immediately beat the war drums in a thunderous din. Xuanwu Gate — which had been built to repel outside enemies — now opened from within. Xie Jichuan rode in on horseback, his movements unhurried to the beat of the urgent, rousing drums as he entered through Xuanwu Gate.
Soldiers ran back and forth; their heavy footsteps seemed to make the very ground tremble. Xie Jichuan stood in the darkness in his pale blue robe, as immaculate and coolly composed as always, completely at odds with the scene around him. He asked: “What is the situation at Taiji Hall?”
“As agreed — when the Southern Imperial Guard soldiers stationed at Taiji Hall to watch over the late Emperor Zhongzong’s coffin heard the drums, they all donned their armor and rallied to us.”
“Good.” Xie Jichuan said. “Go to Lizheng Hall and capture Empress Wei. She must not be allowed to escape.”
Xie Jichuan calmly listened to soldiers’ reports from various directions and issued his orders without haste. A soldier came running over, clasped his fists, and said: “Chief Equerry, there is a complication on Prince of Commandery’s end. He asks that you come.”
Xie Jichuan’s expression remained placid. “What happened?”
The soldier whispered something. Xie Jichuan raised an eyebrow and said, “Lead the way.”
Xie Jichuan made his way into the inner palace. From a distance, he could already see a slender, graceful figure holding a lantern, standing before a horse. Xie Jichuan acted as though he had not noticed her, and stepped forward first to bow to the Prince of Linzi: “Your Highness.”
The Prince of Linzi saw Xie Jichuan and dismounted, his manner extremely respectful: “Chief Equerry Xie, you’ve come.”
Xie Jichuan observed the formalities before glancing coolly toward the woman ahead and asking, “Your Highness, this is…?”
The Prince of Linzi said gravely: “I am in the process of apprehending the remnants of Empress Wei’s faction. Imperial Consort Shangguan led her palace attendants to block my horse, saying that everything she previously did was done under the Empress’s coercion. She claims that in the succession edict for the late Emperor Zhongzong she had drafted, she had originally written that Prince Xiang should serve as adviser to the court and assist the new Emperor — and that it was Empress Wei who removed those passages. She has already drafted a new succession edict and is willing to continue serving Prince Xiang and Princess Taiping.”
Upon hearing this, Xie Jichuan looked calmly toward Shangguan Wan’er. Shangguan Wan’er held the edict up to her brow and bowed her head slightly, exposing a stretch of slender, elegant neck — the very picture of submission.
Xie Jichuan’s outward expression was unmoved, but inwardly he laughed with cold disdain. Fate truly was a cycle. The last time, in this same place, under these same circumstances, Shangguan Wan’er had spoken almost the same words — only the person to whom she now presented the edict had changed, and the master Xie Jichuan now served had also changed.
Ivy clings only to the strongest tree. The reputation was well-deserved.
Xie Jichuan signaled the Prince of Linzi to speak somewhere else. The Prince of Linzi followed him to a place where Shangguan Wan’er could not hear. The Prince asked: “Chief Equerry Xie, what do you think should be done?”
Xie Jichuan gathered his long sleeves and spoke without inflection: “The Empress Regnant showed her the recognition that changed her fate, yet during the Shenlong coup, she immediately abandoned the Empress and surrendered to Emperor Zhongzong. Prince Yong was benevolent and spared her life. But when Prince Yong fell under suspicion, she immediately defected to Empress Wei and became her instrument. Now, at Your Highness’s coup, she did not go to seek out the fate of Empress Wei, but instead came to block your horse with an edict. Though ivy is delicate and yielding, when it clings to a tree for long enough, it competes with its host for nourishment, blocks out the light, and slowly sucks the once-healthy, long-lived tree into an empty husk. I would urge Your Highness to decide with your head, not your heart.”
The Prince of Linzi paused, then said: “But she and my royal aunt, Princess Taiping, are on very close terms. Tonight’s action could not have succeeded without my aunt’s assistance. If she is killed, how do I account for it to my aunt?”
“She is merely a female official. Surely Princess Taiping would not become estranged from Your Highness over her death?” Xie Jichuan said indifferently. “Besides, who, in truth, is the leader of tonight’s action — Your Highness, or Princess Taiping?”
That final question made the Prince of Linzi’s mind up completely. Shangguan Wan’er, seeing that the Prince of Linzi and Xie Jichuan had not returned for some time, grew anxious, and called out softly: “Your Highness?”
The Prince of Linzi turned back. Even now, he remembered clearly: many years ago, the Empress Regnant had held a banquet at the Shangyang Palace and commanded the assembled scholars to compose poems. Shangguan Wan’er had looked through the drafts one by one, casting them aside until the hem of her skirt was heaped with discarded manuscripts like drifts of snow. She had read each one only once, yet could recall every fine line; she wrote on behalf of the various princesses and princes, the brush moving with effortless speed, each poem distinct in style, each with its own merits. With such brilliance, who among those present had not admired Shangguan Wan’er’s name — the Red-Robed Chancellor — and declared it well-earned?
Yet in the blink of an eye, the empress who had seemed all-knowing and all-capable at that banquet was dead; his steady, composed elder cousin Prince Chongjun had bled to death before the Danfeng Gate; his cousin Princess Yongtai, torn from a forced engagement, had followed her husband to the grave; the old Crown Prince, who had walked on eggshells throughout his life, had been poisoned by the wife who had shared his hardships; and Li Huazhang, who had at that time been staying in the home of a subject, had regained his identity, only to be exiled for having earned merit that overshadowed his master.
The world had turned. Everyone had changed. Only Xuanwu Gate, weathered through fire and war, still stood here, bearing witness to yet another round of fratricide.
The Prince of Linzi turned away with reluctance, but the words he spoke were cold and clear: “Imperial Consort Shangguan is a confederate of Empress Wei. Execute her.”
Shangguan Wan’er realized something was wrong and tried to rush forward to plead with the Prince of Linzi, but was held back by soldiers. A hand was raised, and a spray of blood cut through the air. Xie Jichuan watched with cold eyes, then turned away without pause, his voice still utterly level: “Find Princess Anle and Empress Wei. Alive or dead — bring proof.”
Xie Jichuan walked along the dimly lit palace corridor. Blood ran like a river on both sides, yet his robes remained immaculate, strangely out of place. Instinctively, he looked up for the moon — but it was the thirtieth day of the month, and there was no moon. The entire sky was pitch black, like a great maw that had swallowed all the light.
So there was no moon tonight.
Xie Jichuan thought: if that person were here, what would he do? He certainly would not have agreed to execute Shangguan Wan’er. He would most likely have said — she acted to survive; why be so harsh? He would have stripped Shangguan Wan’er of all authority, yet given her a sum of money, released her from the palace, and let her spend her remaining years as an ordinary person.
Xie Jichuan curved the corner of his mouth in the faintest smile, but there was not the slightest warmth in his eyes. A pity — he could not be as kind and naïve as Li Huazhang. When he thought of people, he always anticipated the worst possibility; when he acted, he always prepared for the most unfortunate outcome.
Li Huazhang and Ming Huashang were both optimistic idealists. He alone was a pessimistic realist, focused only on practical interests. So it was inevitable that they would go their separate ways. Li Huazhang could surrender a throne for the sake of a greater good; Xie Jichuan had instead turned to the Prince of Linzi and, for the glory of the Xie family, planned yet another coup without a moment’s hesitation.
Even Ren Yao, when she had once served Empress Wei, had done so under duress. He, by contrast, had done it with perfect clarity — and willingly.
Xie Jichuan let out a barely audible sigh, made no further attempt to search for the moon, and walked alone, against the light, deeper into the palace.
The purge lasted through half the night. Xie Jichuan calmly received soldiers’ reports — they had located Princess Anle. In her own palace, during those final moments, she had made no attempt to flee. Instead, she had changed into a magnificent robe woven with the feathers of a hundred birds, sat before her mirror, and adorned her face with great care, waiting in beautiful, serene composure as the soldiers burst in to kill her.
The soldiers could not help but remark that Princess Anle was truly extraordinarily beautiful — her title as the greatest beauty of the Tang Dynasty was well-deserved. Xie Jichuan simply let out a cold, contemptuous laugh: “Once the head of the greatest beauty is struck off, it is no more beautiful than anyone else’s. A woman who aspired to become Crown Princess — and when a coup came, her first instinct was not to save herself but to sit down and do her makeup. Empress Wei at least knew enough to run to the city gates and try to bribe soldiers into defecting with offers of reward, whereas this woman didn’t even attempt resistance before surrendering her fate. Truly foolish.”
Though Empress Wei had failed as well. If Ren Yao had been there, Empress Wei might have won the Imperial Guards over to her side. But she had personally seen to it that Ren Yao was exiled, and after witnessing Ren Yao’s fate, who among the Imperial Guards would lay down their lives for her?
Once Empress Wei had lost the loyalty of the Northern Guards, she had already half-lost. She had placed a great many loyalists in positions of military authority, but those Wei family sons had been dropped in as commanding officers from above, and they treated the soldiers under them to constant abuse and beatings. How could they possibly command anyone?
When Xie Jichuan had been in Shangzhou listening to Ming Yuji describe her experiences leaving the city, he had already spotted this weakness. At the time, Li Huazhang and Ming Huashang had spotted it too — but Li Huazhang had not returned. Since he had surrendered the opportunity, Xie Jichuan saw no reason to be polite about it.
When opportunity arrives, it comes in silence and fairness. Who it rewards depends on who is standing there at that moment, and who reaches out to take it.
Princess Anle was certainly very beautiful — but also exceptionally foolish, and entirely unsuited to politics. Empress Wei had at least a little of a stateswoman’s mind, though only a little. She had not secured a firm grip on military power; after putting up some resistance at the city walls, she was killed by one of the cavalry soldiers.
In a single night, three women who had dominated the political stage — Empress Wei, Princess Anle, and Shangguan Wan’er — were all dead. The Wei family members Empress Wei had placed within the palace had also all been beheaded. As for those outside the palace — the Wei clan’s in-laws, the husbands of their daughters who had married out, the officials who had served Empress Wei — Xie Jichuan had ordered all the city gates sealed at the moment he moved. What remained was fish trapped in a barrel; no waves of consequence could be raised.
Xie Jichuan looked up toward the east. Dawn was breaking. Blood covered the ground. The palace and its surroundings had all been pacified. What remained was to sound the gong and call off the troops — and to deal with the young, naive Emperor on the throne, whose sole qualification seemed to be good fortune.
Xie Jichuan summoned a soldier and said with calm composure, “Go and invite the Prince of Linzi. It is time to welcome Prince Xiang’s ascension.”
Prince Xiang had risen as usual, and suddenly heard the sound of clamor. His third son arrived, leading a dense crowd of people, and without a word fell to his knees before him and kowtowed: “Your son launched an action last night. Fearing it might fail and implicate the family, I was unable to inform you in advance. I beg your forgiveness!”
Prince Xiang listened for some time before he finally grasped what had happened. His third son and his sister had launched a coup last night, putting to death Empress Dowager Wei and Princess Anle, who had brought chaos to the court, and were now asking him to take charge of the situation.
Prince Xiang was silent for a moment, and then suddenly understood the feeling Emperor Zhongzong must have had many years ago, when his nephews and sister had pushed him onto the throne. But he was slightly luckier than his third eldest brother — at least the one placing him on the throne was his own son.
Prince Xiang let out a soft sigh, and with his own hands raised the Prince of Linzi to his feet: “The ancestral shrines of the Tang Dynasty have been preserved. All of this is to your credit. How could I possibly blame you?”
The Prince of Linzi led his forces to escort Prince Xiang into the palace to “assist” the young Emperor. Princess Taiping received word and entered the palace, and upon learning that Shangguan Wan’er had been killed in the fighting, expressed deep regret. However, it was only regret; with the great matter of seizing power before her, she could hardly question the Prince of Linzi over which soldier had killed Shangguan Wan’er on account of a dead woman.
The young Emperor Li Chongmao sat in Taiji Hall, trembling, as soldiers stood in formation throughout the hall. Despite the overwhelming golden majesty of the throne hall, no one dared actually lay hands on the Emperor. At this impasse, it was Princess Taiping who stepped forward, grabbed Li Chongmao by his collar, and dragged him off the throne, saying: “This is not a seat that belongs to you.”
Shortly after, the young Emperor Li Chongmao wrote out his abdication edict, declaring his virtue insufficient, and abdicated in favor of his imperial uncle Prince Xiang. Prince Xiang declined repeatedly, but in the end could not resist the insistence of those around him and ascended the throne. His first act upon donning the dragon robe was to appoint the Prince of Linzi as Crown Prince, to increase Princess Taiping’s food stipend to ten thousand households, and to grant her sons promotions and additional titles. Prince Xiang also personally instructed those around him that for all matters of state, they should follow the arrangements of the Third Prince and Princess Taiping.
The congratulations in Taiji Hall were unceasing. In particular, Princess Taiping — the youngest princess, who had participated in two coups and placed two of her brothers on the throne — what an incomparable, world-shaking achievement! And Prince Xiang had not failed to honor his sister’s contributions; the glory he bestowed upon her was unprecedented, standing as the greatest power ever held by any princess in all the dynasties.
Xie Jichuan watched all of this coldly, said nothing, and quietly withdrew. When he left that arena of fame and profit, the gentle breeze of early spring swept over him, and only then did Xie Jichuan feel he could breathe freely. He gazed at the gleaming ridge of Taiji Hall’s golden eaves, and his thoughts drifted without warning to the situation at the frontier.
The Chang’an nobility were preoccupied with dividing up the lucrative positions vacated by the Wei family. None of them spared a thought for the fact that the Military Governor of Jiannan on the southwestern frontier had already harbored treasonous ambitions, and the situation in the southwest was as precarious as eggs stacked on end — a single touch away from disaster.
If the southwest erupted into chaos and foreign enemies came pouring in, what good would all these titles of “General Who Secures the Nation” or “Adviser to the Chancellery” amount to?
Xie Jichuan was still lost in thought when a eunuch came out of Taiji Hall, spotted him, and hurried over: “Chief Equerry Xie, why are you standing here alone? The Crown Prince has been looking everywhere for you.”
Xie Jichuan startled at the words “Crown Prince,” then remembered that the Crown Prince had changed hands many times, and the Crown Prince now was the Prince of Linzi. He pressed his palm, suppressed his feelings, and in an instant recovered his composed, gentle demeanor of a noble family’s son: “I came out for some air. I’ve kept the Crown Prince waiting.”
The eunuch knew that this man was the great meritorious figure of this coup, deeply relied upon by His Highness the Crown Prince, and that his rise to prominence in the coming days was a certainty. The eunuch was increasingly warm toward Xie Jichuan, and smiled: “Chief Equerry, you’ve been busy all night and must be exhausted. If Chief Equerry does not mind, this servant can have someone brew you a pot of invigorating tea?”
Xie Jichuan smiled faintly and shook his head, thanked the eunuch for his kind thought, and stepped toward Taiji Hall. With his back to the sunlight, he crossed the high threshold, and the smile in his eyes receded like a tide, withdrawing bit by bit.
In truth, Li Huazhang had been right — the same things happened again and again. Fathers and sons at odds, brothers slaughtering one another, husbands and wives estranged. It was truly tiresome. The hall was still occupied with the distribution of rewards for merit, but Xie Jichuan could already foresee that this seemingly harmonious aunt and nephew pair would very soon fall out. The Emperor was weak and could not hold down his meritorious subjects; from this point on, Chang’an would surely descend into a power struggle between the Crown Prince and Princess Taiping, and might not be in any position to spare attention for the military governors.
At a time like this, he could only choose to trust Li Huazhang. The southwest had to be held steady — long enough for the Crown Prince to consolidate power, long enough for him to enter the Chancellery.
·
A tongue of flame crept across the corner of the paper, where the characters “the Prince of Linzi and Princess Taiping launched a palace coup, executed Empress Wei, and established Prince Xiang as Emperor” were still faintly legible. Mu Yunping, the Military Governor of Jiannan, burned the confidential letter and let out a long sigh. Seeing this, his subordinate cautiously asked: “Governor, what should we do now?”
Mu Yunping thought of all the events that had unfolded one after another in recent times, and said nothing, his brows furrowed.
Two years ago, when Prince Qiao had been exiled to Junzhou, Mu Yunping had had no thought of getting involved. The imperial clan fought among themselves endlessly — regardless of who sat on the throne, he would always remain the Military Governor of Jiannan. What did it matter to him who occupied the throne? But Prince Qiao had written to him repeatedly, making ardent overtures, and had promised that once he ascended the throne, he would enfeoff Mu Yunping as the King of Jiannan.
Mu Yunping could not help but be moved. At present, although he commanded one side of the country and held military, political, salt, and iron authority over the Jiannan Circuit, he was merely an official. Whether he could continue in his post depended on the court’s orders; a single imperial decree could strip him of everything. But if he became the King of Jiannan, that would be a different matter entirely. He could maintain his own personal guard, establish his own advisory council, and after his death, his sons could inherit his power. The Mu family would rule the Jiannan Circuit from generation to generation.
What was so-called loyalty to the sovereign and love of country, compared to passing wealth and power on to your descendants and establishing yourself as a king? Mu Yunping was persuaded, and his correspondence with Prince Qiao grew gradually more frequent. But he had been tempered through years on the battlefield, and was not one to believe whatever someone told him. His trusted agent sent to Junzhou showed hints of willingness to cooperate with Prince Qiao but never formally agreed to anything, and in their written exchanges, only official-sounding language was used — no handles were left behind for anyone to seize.
Had Prince Qiao not been so foolish as to feed him false intelligence — causing him to mistakenly transfer two hundred thousand troops from Chuzhou — he would never have been placed in such a passive position. Now Mu Yunping could only find a bitter comfort in the fact that he had always been cautious, leaving no written evidence. Even if Prince Qiao were captured, on the surface there was nothing that could implicate him.
But only on the surface. He and Prince Yong each knew perfectly well what the other was thinking. It was simply that neither of them had the certainty of victory, so both pretended not to know, holding their forces in check, each watching closely for the other’s vulnerabilities.
Mu Yunping couldn’t help but reflect on everything that had happened recently — where, exactly, had things gone wrong?
An urgent report came from his spies in Chang’an: Emperor Zhongzong was suspected dead; Empress Wei was concealing the death and feverishly placing her loyalists throughout the court; Princess Taiping had agreed to establish Prince Wen as Crown Prince, with Empress Wei administering state affairs from behind the throne — but only on the condition that Prince Xiang serve as court adviser, allowing the Wei family and the imperial clan to share power. Empress Wei had refused, instead appointing Prince Xiang as Grand Preceptor to the Crown Prince, effectively stripping him of all authority — which meant she had completely torn off the pretense of agreement.
Mu Yunping had known at that point that Empress Wei’s days were numbered. In matters of power, balance was paramount; Empress Wei had refused to abide by the rules of the game, greedy to take everything for herself, and was bound to come to a bad end.
Mu Yunping knew the imperial clan would not stand by and watch the Wei family dominate. A change in Chang’an was inevitable. He quietly began his own preparations. He shifted his main force to Chuzhou, intending to wait until Princess Taiping, Prince Xiang, and Empress Wei had exhausted each other in a mutual struggle, and then raise Prince Qiao’s banner, march his army in — under the pretext of investigating the cause of Emperor Zhongzong’s death and avenging his father — and sweep through to Chang’an.
Passing the throne to a younger brother had no proper justification, but Prince Qiao was Emperor Zhongzong’s own son. It was only natural for a father to be succeeded by his son; Prince Qiao held the authority of law and tradition, while the Jiannan army held the advantage of strategic position. Once they marched into Chang’an, how Emperor Zhongzong had actually died would be for them to decide.
Mu Yunping waited for Empress Wei and Princess Taiping to come to blows, but then a message from Prince Qiao arrived ordering him to transfer the Chuzhou forces to Jinzhou, to block the Longxi troops at Han’yin.
Mu Yunping thought Prince Qiao had simply gone mad. He had no regard for the so-called Marquis Pingnan; in his estimation, a young girl who had never seen real battle would certainly take the short route, go to Shangzhou to seek help from Prince Yong, whom she knew well, and after combining forces with him, proceed along the Han River to Junzhou.
The Shangzhou prefectural troops — short on experience and composed largely of the old and infirm — together with a mere few hundred Imperial Guards, were no match for his seasoned Chuzhou forces. Mu Yunping paid no attention to Prince Qiao’s message and continued having his Chuzhou troops sharpen their weapons and prepare for battle. But only a few days later, another urgent letter arrived from Prince Qiao, saying he had invited Prince Yong to come as his guest, and Prince Yong had truly arrived with only three or five attendants. Prince Yong’s willingness to come to Junzhou alone, Qiao said, proved he knew nothing of Ren Yao’s movements — which meant Ren Yao’s alliance with the Military Governor of Longxi was real!
Mu Yunping had no regard for the prefectural troops and the Imperial Guards, but if the one coming was the Military Governor of Longxi, the situation was different. Mu Yunping did not dare to be careless, and immediately ordered his two hundred thousand Chuzhou soldiers to quick-march to Jinzhou.
No more than two days after he had sent out that order, the communications from Junzhou suddenly went dead. At first Mu Yunping had not been concerned, but gradually the ominous signs multiplied. The scouts dispatched from Jinzhou ventured out to gather intelligence and discovered no signs of troop movements on the far side of the Han River. The truth only emerged when the soldiers guarding Chuzhou heard traveling merchants complaining that Junzhou’s city gates had been sealed for several days, leaving their New Year goods undelivered. The soldiers hastily reported this, and only then did Mu Yunping learn that Prince Qiao’s attempt at treason had been uncovered, every official in Junzhou had been swept up in one net, and even the spies he had left in Junzhou had been caught by government soldiers — every single one, as though by convenient coincidence.
Mu Yunping scrambled to order his two hundred thousand soldiers to turn back and reinforce Chuzhou, but the army was on the march, and he had specifically instructed their commander to conceal their movements before they set out. Who could say where they were now? By the time scouts found the main force mid-route, and he had exhausted every means possible to convince the commanding general that the order to return via the original road was genuinely from Mu Yunping, and then turned two hundred thousand soldiers around to march back to Chuzhou — a month had already passed.
By that point, Ren Yao had already escorted Prince Qiao toward Chang’an, and even if Chuzhou had wanted to reinforce Junzhou, it was too late. Mu Yunping had also dispatched men to assassinate Ren Yao and rescue Prince Qiao — or even kill Prince Qiao if rescue was impossible, since that was preferable to letting him be captured by the court. But Ren Yao’s party seemed to have vanished into thin air. Mu Yunping’s assassins repeatedly found traces of the march and came rushing in with full force, only to find no one there. The assassins he had sent failed to find their quarry again and again, skulking through the mountain forests for a month before Mu Yunping finally understood: there was a skilled hand concealing Ren Yao’s movements, deliberately creating false trails to clean out the pursuers on her flank.
That Ren Yao had escorted Prince Qiao alive all the way to Chang’an with only five hundred men — the person behind her had contributed incomparably. The killers Mu Yunping had dispatched went silent one by one, and he knew then that this time, he had met his match.
If by now Mu Yunping still could not guess who had masterminded all of this, he might as well have wasted his years as a military governor. To withdraw the Chuzhou forces without a single soldier lost, to seize Junzhou with the force of a thunderbolt and capture Prince Qiao alive, all without a word of it leaking out — there was only one person capable of such a feat: the chief architect of the Shenlong Coup himself, Prince Yong.
To plan strategy in the tent and decide victory a thousand li away — such methods truly recalled the flair of the Empress Regnant in her youth. That family, truly, surpassed the generations before them in brilliance.
After that, Mu Yunping and Li Huazhang had settled into a precarious balance. Mu Yunping knew that Prince Qiao’s having been lured into a trap was undoubtedly Li Huazhang’s doing — had Li Huazhang not gone to Junzhou in person, Prince Qiao would not have believed that Ren Yao was launching an attack from Han’yin, and nothing that followed would have occurred. Li Huazhang very likely also knew that it was Mu Yunping who had backed Prince Qiao from behind, but Mu Yunping had been exceedingly careful; important matters were all handled through face-to-face meetings with trusted agents, and no other correspondence had left any exploitable evidence. Without concrete proof, Prince Yong had no choice but to feign ignorance and maintain a surface-level peace.
Both sides preserved a dangerously unstable balance, neither moving openly, yet both watching closely for the other’s weak point. But Mu Yunping was a subject, and Li Huazhang was of imperial blood — no matter how the imperial family fought internally, when it came to outsiders they would always stand together, never siding with a subject. The longer this dragged on, the worse it would be for Mu Yunping.
Mu Yunping had to find an opportunity to strike first.
His subordinates were still waiting for his instructions. Mu Yunping thought — nothing ventured, nothing gained — and steeled himself: “The throne in Chang’an has changed hands. Those princes and princesses are busy with their internal power struggles and will have no time to mind the outlying provinces. This is a rare opportunity. We should take advantage of it and raise the banner of loyal support for the throne. We will issue a declaration stating that Prince Xiang, in his bid for the throne, framed Prince Qiao, and now intends to harm Prince Wen as well — calling upon the heroes of the realm to rise against him.”
His subordinate was worried: “But both Prince Qiao and Prince Wen are in Chang’an’s hands. If they kill those two, on what grounds would we raise our banner?”
Mu Yunping was unconcerned: “By the time we march to Chang’an, whether Prince Qiao and Prince Wen are alive or dead is completely irrelevant. It would actually be better if both of them died. We can simply find some young child with the surname Li, declare him Emperor, and be done with it. At that point, we control the Emperor and command the realm — we will have all the riches we could ever enjoy.”
His subordinate suddenly understood: “Governor, you are brilliant.”
Mu Yunping was quite pleased with himself. Chang’an had been embroiled in internal strife for years — policies changed with every new wind, the Imperial Guards launched coups one after another, soldiers did not know their generals and generals did not know their soldiers. How could that compare to the seasoned Jiannan forces? Those princes and princesses had grown too comfortable in Chang’an’s peace; they had forgotten that before real military strength, all the cleverest scheming was paper — one poke and it fell apart.
But this plan had one obstacle: Prince Yong. Mu Yunping sighed. Prince Xiang, Princess Taiping — those pampered, privileged members of the imperial clan were not to be feared. But Prince Yong he could not afford to underestimate. After the Junzhou incident, the entire upper echelon of the prefectural governor’s office had been swept up in one net, and now Li Huazhang concurrently administered it. The combined forces of Shang and Jun prefectures had both fallen into Prince Yong’s hands; Mu Yunping was not particularly worried about those troops. What worried him was the man himself.
This feeling was difficult to articulate. That husband and wife — they appeared to travel about enjoying the scenery, without ambition or contention. Yet at critical moments, they had uncanny luck; whatever they did seemed to have heaven’s blessing. It was uncanny.
Mu Yunping remembered the lesson from last time all too well, and instructed: “Pass my orders down — place Chuzhou on high alert, and watch Shangzhou’s movements at all times. Whatever they do, report it to me at once.”
His subordinate replied loudly, clasping their hands: “Understood.”
Not long after Mu Yunping had given these instructions, Shangzhou did in fact make a move. Another corpse floated down the river into Chuzhou, carrying a letter. The Chuzhou soldiers dared not be careless, and immediately dispatched it to Mu Yunping by urgent relay. Mu Yunping opened the so-called personal letter, which described Prince Yong’s intention to combine forces with the Military Governor of Longxi and station troops at Han’yin. Before he had finished reading, Mu Yunping tossed the letter into the wastepaper basket with a sneer of contempt: “They used this exact trick to deceive Prince Qiao last time. And now they think they can deceive me with it? Using the same stratagem twice — has Prince Yong run out of ideas?”
Mu Yunping threw the letter away and paid it no further mind. Though he yearned to stake everything on a great gamble, this was not a small matter — one misstep and it meant nine generations of family exterminated. His trusted advisers were divided, and Mu Yunping himself had not fully made up his mind. The matter of raising a rebellion dragged on with no resolution, until one day the frontline sent an urgent report: the Longxi forces had crossed the Han River under cover of night and, with the speed of thunder that leaves no time to cover one’s ears, had seized Tongzhou.
Tongzhou was the corridor between the southwest and the Guanzhong region. With Tongzhou fallen, the various prefectures of Jiannan and Chuzhou had been severed in two. The two hundred thousand Chuzhou troops were cut off from any support — an isolated island!
The news of Tongzhou’s fall caused an uproar through the army, and even Mu Yunping’s heart lurched with a sharp jolt. He suddenly recalled the letter he had thrown away just a few days earlier. So — while he had been mocking Prince Yong for running out of ideas, he had unwittingly stepped into Prince Yong’s trap.
Li Huazhang had deliberately repeated the old stratagem, using a corpse to transmit intelligence — and on the Jiannan side, they had seen through it without question. Mu Yunping had sneered, mocking Li Huazhang for recycling the same trick. Yet this was precisely Li Huazhang’s brilliance: he had exploited Mu Yunping’s arrogance and played a masterstroke of deception. This time, the intelligence in the corpse’s letter was real. Li Huazhang had genuinely contacted the Military Governor of Longxi and truly intended to send forces from Han’yin.
If Mu Yunping had disbelieved the intelligence — that would have been the best outcome. They could have crossed the Han River without anyone knowing, and Chuzhou would have remained completely unaware, the two hundred thousand troops staying in place, on guard against Junzhou and Shangzhou, which had long since become empty cities. Only when the combined forces took Tongzhou and Chuzhou’s supply lines were cut off would they have finally seen the truth — and by then, it would have been too late.
If Mu Yunping had believed the intelligence — Li Huazhang had surely also prepared countermeasures. The troop movements described in the letter likely mixed real and false information; the whole point was this mixture of truth and fabrication, reality within illusion, luring the enemy silently and imperceptibly into a trap.
Only now did Mu Yunping sincerely and wholeheartedly acknowledge: Prince Yong was truly a rare talent capable of commanding both the military and civil realms. Such an extraordinary gift — why had he not gone to Chang’an to contend for the throne? Why linger in an outlying province, making a wedding garment for others?
Naturally, had Li Huazhang truly gone to Chang’an, Jiannan’s situation would have been entirely different — Mu Yunping would have raised his revolt long ago.
But the situation had left Mu Yunping little time to dwell on such thoughts. He was run ragged, writing and receiving letters all day without respite, summoning people to meetings, discussing how to retake Tongzhou and reinforce Chuzhou. He went without proper sleep for several days in a row, and with the military situation turning against him, his temper grew increasingly volatile. He could not help but berate his subordinates during consultations. After yet another outburst at a trusted aide, Mu Yunping headed back to the city that evening, turning over what he had said during the day — and in truth, feeling some regret. He was thinking about whether he ought to offer some comfort tomorrow, when a group of men suddenly rushed out from beside the road without a word and came at him with raised blades.
Mu Yunping was alarmed. As Military Governor, he was always meticulous about his personal safety. But these men were extremely familiar with the guards around him, moving through them as though there were no one there, and charged straight for him through the crowd.
Even as he fell, his eyes were brimming with unwillingness. The only people this familiar with him would be his own trusted aides — but why? What could they possibly gain from killing him?
There was indeed a gain to be had — just not for the officers under Mu Yunping, but for Li Huazhang.
Ming Huashang received the Xuan Xiaowei’s secret letter, read it through, and immediately held it to the candle flame to burn. She carried the candlestick into the outer room and saw Li Huazhang still bent over the sand table, and said: “Take a rest. You’ve been looking at that all afternoon.”
Li Huazhang pinched the bridge of his nose and took the candlestick from her hand. “I’m fine. What’s the news from Jiannan?”
Ming Huashang’s eyes were clear as water, her face like pearls and jade. She was concise: “The operation succeeded. We can move to the next step.”
Mu Yunping had colluded with Prince Qiao; the court would certainly not tolerate him, and raising a rebellion was his only path. But the generals under him had other options. Ming Huashang had seized on this divergence of interests. She contacted Han Jie after a long interval and had him mobilize his old subordinates, dispersed among Mu Yunping’s officers, to gather intelligence — every piece of information was to be collected. When the intelligence came back, Ming Huashang used her gift to sketch portraits, and quickly selected her target.
Mu Yunping’s officers already harbored grievances against him, which made fanning the flames of discord considerably easier. Ming Huashang had her people whisper in the target’s ear: following Mu Yunping was treason — a road of no return. Even if it succeeded, the credit might not go to him, but if it failed, his family would suffer for it. Was it not better to kill Mu Yunping now and present it as merit to the court? With the Jiannan Circuit leaderless, the position of Military Governor would be his for the taking.
Where great rewards are offered, brave men will surely appear — all the more so when the words used to goad them had been carefully crafted by Ming Huashang to suit the target’s specific temperament. The turncoat operation quickly bore fruit: the trusted aide, pushed past endurance by Mu Yunping’s abuse, dispatched men to kill him.
The outcome Ming Huashang had most wished for was thus achieved.
Li Huazhang heard that Ming Huashang’s plan had actually succeeded, and could not quite believe it: “He actually went through with it?”
“When people act in a moment of impulse, they are very easily moved to do things they will bitterly regret once calmer. Isn’t that how the vast majority of homicides come about?” Ming Huashang sat down and stretched out a long, lazy stretch, her limbs drooping loosely — still that unhurried, harmlessly languid air of hers. “I’ve been reading reports for several days straight, and my back and waist are aching terribly. Fortunately, Mu Yunping died quickly. Otherwise my shoulders would have given out first.”
Li Huazhang, upon hearing this, walked behind her and began massaging her shoulders. “What do you plan to do next?”
Ming Huashang closed her eyes, and without even looking, leaned back — and landed, of course, steadily and securely against Li Huazhang. Too lazy to stir, she said: “What else can be done? Obviously we need to let them know the truth. I’ve already written to the Xuan Xiaowei in Yizhou, instructing them to spread the news of Mu Yunping’s assassination by his own people to the other officers — but to do it half-true, half-false, so they know it happened but can find no evidence, leaving them all suspecting each other. When Mu Yunping was alive, they were colleagues; once he dies, they will squabble over how to divide the spoils, each acting on their own, and soon they’ll be a scattered heap of sand. From there, it falls to you — swallowing them whole, or prying them apart piece by piece. Should not be difficult, should it?”
The way Ming Huashang spoke of war, it sounded as easy as child’s play. Li Huazhang said nothing of this, his fingers continuing to press her acupressure points with measured force: “It is not difficult. You’ve worked hard these past months. I was right when I said that being able to marry you was my great fortune in three lifetimes.”
Ming Huashang was used to taking advantage of Li Huazhang’s good nature, but he never complained — and when he praised her this earnestly, she felt her conscience stir, as though she had gone too far. She suddenly turned around, stretched out her arms to embrace Li Huazhang’s lean, slender waist, and pressed her cheek against his abdomen, rubbing it lightly: “We’re old married folk now. Why are you saying such things?”
Li Huazhang raised an eyebrow, his fingers trailing over Ming Huashang’s neck with an enigmatic meaning: “Old married folk? Seems I’ve been too lax lately — so lax that my Huashang has grown bored?”
His fingers lingered at the back of her neck but did not press down, like a feather — ticklish and tantalizing. Ming Huashang laughed and squirmed away from his hand, her almond-shaped eyes wide and round, and she stared at him with all her might: “Stop that.”
But the glare had no power to deter anyone. Unable to escape, Ming Huashang decided to fight fire with fire and went for his ticklish spots in return. Those who are closest always know exactly where the other is most ticklish; in the end, the two ended up tumbling together, both with hair loosened from their pins and robes falling open — all dignity entirely lost.
Li Huazhang’s hand settled naturally at the small of Ming Huashang’s back, his intention unmistakable. Ming Huashang, breathing unsteadily, glanced toward the sand table not far away and hesitated: “What about all of this — you’re not going to deal with it?”
Li Huazhang rested against the couch, unhurried as ever, looking up at Ming Huashang above him, and said: “You’ve rid me of my most serious problem, my dear. All those tactics need to be reworked from scratch — running through them again now would be pointless. We may as well attend to something more important.”