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June had arrived, and Xiaoshan lay ahead.
On the 25th day of the fifth month, the imperial procession departed Jiankang. It wasn’t until the 8th day of the sixth month that they reached the Xiaoshan palace. The grand sacrificial ceremony was scheduled for the 10th day of the sixth month—a date deemed auspicious by the Ministry of Rites, proclaimed to be a once-in-a-century alignment of heavenly fortune.
The Emperor’s travels were nothing short of spectacular. The road was lined with fluttering banners, and the procession drew throngs of commoners who bowed in reverence, shouting “Long live the Emperor!” To an outsider unaware of the political turmoil, it might have seemed like the epitome of a peaceful and prosperous era.
Upon arriving at the palace, officials from the Ministry of Rites sprang into action. Qi Le, the fourth son of the Qi family and an official of the Ministry, found himself busier than ever. He followed his superiors meticulously, inspecting every detail of the grand sacrificial ceremony—the placement of ritual vessels, the construction of the altar, even ensuring the sacrificial animals were still alive. Every precaution was taken to prevent any mishaps during the rites, lest divine wrath descend upon the Liang Empire.
Unlike Qi Le and the other officials of the Ministry of Rites, General Han Shouye’s activities were far more discreet. They had to remain hidden beneath the surface.
As the highest-ranking military officer in the court, Han Shouye naturally accompanied the Emperor on this journey. His eldest son, Han Feicong, also joined the entourage as part of the imperial guard. Han Feicong had recently returned from inspecting the border defenses near Gaoping before being summoned again to escort the Emperor to Xiaoshan—a task that left him utterly exhausted.
In truth, Han Feicong’s trip to Gaoping wasn’t about inspecting the borders at all. It was a covert mission orchestrated by his father to assassinate their superior, the Left Chancellor.
Han Shouye was obsessed with eliminating Qi Yin. As long as he hadn’t seen Qi Yin’s corpse, he remained convinced that danger lurked behind every corner, fearing betrayal at any moment. After the failed ambush in Qingyuan, he ordered his eldest son to personally track down Qi Yin, demanding absolute confirmation of his death. Under no circumstances was Qi Yin to return alive to Jiangzuo.
Han Feicong dutifully obeyed his father’s command.
After the Qingyuan ambush, the Left Chancellor had vanished without a trace. If not for the fact that none of the assassins sent after him had returned alive, Han Feicong might have believed Qi Yin was already dead. Presumably, the Left Chancellor was hiding somewhere north of the Yangtze River—a vast and sprawling region. Where should he even begin searching?
Han Feicong was deeply troubled by this dilemma. Eventually, he realized one crucial fact: no matter where the Left Chancellor was hiding, if he intended to return south, he would have to cross a body of water—the Bian River, the Huai River, or perhaps even the Yangtze itself.
With this in mind, Han Feicong’s plan became clear: seal off all ferry crossings along the northern border and rigorously inspect every vessel traveling south. If executed properly, even someone with Qi Yin’s resourcefulness would find himself trapped.
Without delay, Han Feicong dispatched men to secretly monitor all river crossings along the border. Day and night, they maintained a strict watch. Meanwhile, he stationed himself at the intersection of Dongping County in Northern Wei and Gaoping County in Liang, keeping a close eye on the ports along the Bian and Si Rivers.
After several days of fruitless surveillance, Han Feicong grew bored. While continuing to inspect ships heading south, he began entertaining some underhanded thoughts—after all, now that he was here, why not take advantage of the situation? If he didn’t skim a little profit from the merchants passing through, how could he justify the trouble of this assignment?
Trade between the north and south was not yet fully open, and many merchant ships operated in a legal gray area, relying on connections with officials from both sides to keep their businesses afloat. With Han Feicong now stationed here, he became an insurmountable obstacle. Merchants hoping to avoid confiscation of their goods had no choice but to grease his palms generously.
Thus, after a few days of guarding the crossing, while Han Feicong hadn’t caught anyone suspicious, his pockets had grown significantly heavier—a development that brought him immense satisfaction.
On the first day of the sixth month, fate presented him with an opportunity. Han Feicong encountered a salt merchant named Gong Xun. This was no stranger to him; they had been acquainted for four or five years. In exchange for safe passage to smuggle salt from the north to the south, Gong Xun had secretly funneled countless silver coins into Han Feicong’s coffers over the years, ensuring his comfortable lifestyle.
Their meeting that day seemed to catch Gong Xun off guard. Clearly surprised to encounter Han Feicong in Gaoping, he quickly disembarked and approached the general with exaggerated courtesy. He showered Han Feicong with flattery and slipped him a red envelope, praying for the same protection he had enjoyed in the past.
Han Feicong accepted the envelope, weighing it in his hand and finding it satisfyingly heavy. His mood improved considerably, and he treated Gong Xun with warmth. After exchanging pleasantries, he casually remarked, “Things are different these days. Every ship crossing the river must undergo inspection. You understand—it’s impossible for me to show favoritism. Open your cargo hold so my men can take a quick look.”
Gong Xun nodded obsequiously but hesitated, his expression troubled. Lowering his voice, he leaned closer to Han Feicong and whispered, “General, there’s something I must confess… There are items aboard my ship that aren’t exactly… presentable.”
Hearing this, Han Feicong’s brows furrowed, and his expression turned stern. “What do you mean? What’s in your ship?”
Gong Xun scratched the back of his head, looking sheepish. After a nervous chuckle, he admitted, “Well… I’ve mixed in some xiaoyan …”
Xiaoyan.
This required explanation.
Official salt prices in both the southern and northern courts were exorbitant, making it unaffordable for ordinary people. To circumvent this, some resorted to extracting salt from wood ash or boiling moldy soil scraped from walls, producing a white powder known as xiaoyan . While it had a faint salty taste, prolonged consumption was harmful to health. But what choice did impoverished households have? They used it as a substitute.
Hearing this, Han Feicong understood immediately: Gong Xun was smuggling xiaoyan , mixing it with official salt to exploit the price difference and reap enormous profits!
No wonder his bribes were always so generous!
Han Feicong was both amused and irritated, muttering, “You cunning merchant!” Gong Xun didn’t dare retort, instead laughing awkwardly and pleading, “General, please spare me this time! If word gets out during the inspection, my head will roll! Show mercy, General—let me live another day.”
His plea was heartfelt, and his pitiable demeanor only added to its sincerity. Having known Gong Xun for years and profited handsomely from him, Han Feicong felt obligated to help. Convinced that the Left Chancellor wouldn’t be foolish enough to hide on Gong Xun’s ship, he was inclined to let him pass—until he remembered his father’s stern instructions before departing. Han Shouye had emphasized leaving no stone unturned in hunting down Qi Jingchen. If he failed, their entire clan would face annihilation. This was no trivial matter.
Though usually rash like his father, Han Feicong knew better than to take such weighty matters lightly. Frowning, he prepared to refuse Gong Xun’s request when suddenly, commotion erupted at the dock. A group of soldiers drew their swords as a small, unassuming black ship ignored inspections and sailed downstream at full speed.
Alarmed, Han Feicong shoved Gong Xun aside and rushed to the riverbank. Squinting, he spotted a figure standing on the fleeing ship—tall and imposing, wearing a wide robe and a towering hat, with sharp phoenix eyes. It was none other than the elusive Left Chancellor!
So, the wretch had chosen this moment to force his way through!
If he allowed this ship to escape, he’d write his name backward!
Fury ignited within Han Feicong. Drawing his sword, he barked orders for his men to pursue Qi Yin by boat. Meanwhile, Gong Xun, oblivious to the gravity of the situation, persisted, “General! General! What about my issue…?”
Han Feicong had no patience for such trifles. Snapping, “Get lost!” he hurried toward the scene, unaware of the calculating glint in Gong Xun’s eyes as he retreated silently back to his ship, vanishing into the horizon.
The chase was intense.
Though small, the fleeing vessel was swift with the wind at its back. Despite a relentless pursuit, Han Feicong couldn’t close the gap. Finally, he ordered his men to fire flaming arrows.
Each arrow was soaked in oil, igniting into an unquenchable blaze upon launch. At his command, thousands of arrows rained down, engulfing the river in flames. How could such a tiny ship escape this inferno? Within moments, it was consumed by roaring fire, billowing thick black smoke.
Han Feicong watched as the ship disintegrated and sank into the river. Not even a celestial deity could survive such destruction, let alone a mortal man. Confident in his success, he still sent divers to scour the waters, though they retrieved nothing. Dead bodies, once submerged, were swiftly swept downstream or devoured by fish. Qi Jingchen, once a powerful minister of noble lineage, had met a tragic end—consumed by the river’s depths. It was a pitiful fate indeed.
Feigning sorrow, Han Feicong inwardly rejoiced at finally eliminating Qi Jingchen. Returning triumphantly to Jiankang, he reported to his father.
Han Shouye questioned him repeatedly, demanding confirmation that he had witnessed Qi Yin’s demise. Han Feicong affirmed it each time, repeating himself over a dozen times until his father was satisfied. Both men breathed a sigh of relief. With Qi Yin gone, Han Shouye felt emboldened to act.
Xiaoshan…
Though the Emperor’s departure from Jiankang posed challenges, Han Shouye remained confident in securing victory. The forces available to the Emperor were limited and well within his grasp. Now that Qi Jingchen was dead, the odds were overwhelmingly in his favor. Even if the Emperor reached Xiaoshan, the Empress Dowager remained in the palace. Should anything go awry, Han Shouye could order his disciple Zhao Qinghan to detain her—a valuable bargaining chip.
After a week of careful deliberation, Han Shouye finalized his plans. The uprising was set for the night of the grand sacrificial ceremony. As a contingency, he entrusted his younger brother, Han Shousong, with a tiger tally capable of mobilizing 50,000 troops. Since Han Shousong was not accompanying the Emperor to Xiaoshan, he would remain in reserve. Should news of unrest reach him, Han Shousong was to dispatch reinforcements from the border regions, ensuring the operation’s success at all costs.
#203: Xiaoshan (2)
In theory, mobilizing troops from the border regions was forbidden. If the Northern Wei detected such movements, they might seize the opportunity to invade across the river. But in this critical moment, Han Shouye could no longer afford to worry about such risks. Compared to the safety of his family and clan, the survival of the nation seemed secondary. If push came to shove, these 50,000 soldiers would be indispensable.
After hearing his brother’s plan, Han Shousong fell into deep thought for a long while before finally making up his mind. He solemnly accepted the tiger tally from Han Shouye and replied, “Brother, rest assured.”
The affairs of a nation revolve around two things: rituals and warfare.
The grand sacrificial ceremony at Xiaoshan in the sixth year of Jiawei marked the most magnificent event since the Southern Liang Dynasty’s relocation southward. The rites conducted on the 10th day of the sixth month were unparalleled, leaving an indelible mark in the annals of Liang history—just like that fateful day itself.
True to its reputation as a “once-in-a-century auspicious day,” the skies were clear, and the air was crisp with not a single cloud in sight. The lush ancient trees of Xiaoshan stood tall and majestic, casting a sacred aura over the mountain’s altar.
Dressed in ceremonial robes, the Emperor ascended the altar to welcome the spirits of the heavens. Accompanied by the solemn music of Shi Ping Zhang , he slowly mounted the sacred platform. At the uppermost level, facing the main seat dedicated to the Heavenly Sovereign, he knelt to offer incense. He then paid homage to the ancestral tablets, performing the triple-kowtow and nine prostrations before the deities. The rituals proceeded methodically: presenting jade and silk offerings, advancing sacrificial food, performing the initial, intermediate, and final libations, withdrawing the offerings, bidding farewell to the divine presence, and finally igniting the ceremonial fire. Each step was carried out with meticulous precision.
Surrounding the sacred altar were the high-ranking officials of the Liang court, including the Empress and the young Crown Prince. All eyes were fixed on their Emperor as he prayed for blessings upon the people of Jiangzuo.
Among the spectators stood Qi Le, the fourth son of the Qi family and an official of the Ministry of Rites.
Five years had passed, and much had changed for this once-young master of the Qi household.
He had grown taller, and marriage had brought a more mature and composed demeanor to his features. Just last month, his wife Lady Ning had given birth to a daughter, making him a father. This new role further grounded him, erasing all traces of the mischievous and impetuous youth he once was.
Qi Le stood toward the back of the crowd, as befitted his modest rank of fifth-rank junior official. From his vantage point, he scanned the dense throng of dignitaries but saw no familiar faces from his own clan.
Indeed, the Qi family had fallen from grace. Few members remained in government service. When Qi Le entered public office, it was during the worst possible time: his father had suffered a stroke and retired, his eldest brother had been dismissed from his post, and even his second brother struggled under the constraints imposed by both the imperial family and the Han-Fu factions. There was no one left to guide or support him.
His father, Qi Zhang, had urged him to abandon any ambitions of entering public service. His stepmother and biological mother echoed the sentiment, warning him that the imperial court was a bottomless quagmire—a place that devoured the blood of the Qi family.
Yet Qi Le persisted. Against all odds, he resolved to take the spring examinations, earn the title of jinshi, and serve in the imperial bureaucracy—not for personal gain, but because he wanted to help his second brother.
He simply… didn’t want his second brother to shoulder everything alone.
In his youth, he had been selfish and immature, obsessed only with marrying Zhao Yao. When he failed the spring examinations during the year his second brother served as chief examiner, he harbored resentment, blaming his brother for being cold-hearted and overly concerned with his pristine reputation. Back then, he never imagined the immense burdens his brother bore while he wallowed in self-pity over trivial matters.
Later, when the Qi family collapsed, Zhao Yao, the sister he had cherished so deeply, abandoned him without a second thought. Only his second brother continued to labor tirelessly for their family. Witnessing this, Qi Le realized how egregiously wrong he had been.
He longed to apologize to his second brother, but time had passed, and words felt too feeble to bridge the gap. Actions spoke louder than apologies. Thus, he decided to enter public service—to share some of the burden, however small, so his brother wouldn’t have to face it all alone.
But his brother showed no gratitude. Before Qi Le sat for the spring examinations, his second brother even tried to dissuade him, saying, “Court politics are perilous. I won’t have the luxury of protecting you. It’s better if you stay home like Jing’an and avoid trouble.”
Though spoken coldly, Qi Le understood that his brother was trying to shield him. By discouraging him, his brother sought to keep him safe. The aloofness was merely a facade meant to discourage him from stepping into danger.
But Qi Le refused to retreat. He was determined to enter public service and stand alongside his brother to uphold their family’s legacy.
Eventually, he succeeded. True to his word, his second brother offered no assistance or preferential treatment, assigning him to neither the Privy Council nor the Secretariat—the innermost circles of power. Qi Le didn’t resent this; he relied solely on his own efforts to carve out a path in the treacherous world of politics, advancing step by painstaking step to where he stood today.
He had done his utmost, yet in the brutal arena of officialdom, he remained as insignificant as a speck of dust. Deep down, he knew… he hadn’t helped his second brother in the slightest.
Second Brother… Today was the grand sacrificial ceremony, yet the Left Chancellor was conspicuously absent. Rumors swirled: some claimed he had perished in the north, others whispered he would never return to Jiangzuo. Malicious gossip abounded.
Qi Le understood. His second brother had offended countless noble families in his efforts to elevate the commoners. He was now a solitary minister, utterly isolated. Yet Qi Le refused to believe his brother was dead. No—he must still be alive.
He must return.
He must bring hope.
________________________________________
As night fell, the Xiaoshan palace atop the mountainside blazed with light. Inside the grand halls, the Emperor, Empress, and young Crown Prince dined together.
This was the first time the four-year-old prince had ventured so far from home. Though precocious thanks to his mother’s teachings, he was still just a child at heart. Excited by the novelty of the surroundings, his cheeks flushed with joy as he bounced happily on his chair throughout dinner.
His father, however, remained unusually silent. Even his mother seemed preoccupied, paying little attention to his antics when she normally would have scolded him.
It was as though they were waiting for something.
Confused but undeterred in his cheerfulness, the young prince noticed the growing commotion outside the palace gates. Footsteps grew louder, accompanied by increasingly chaotic shouts. Furrowing his brows slightly, he wondered who dared disturb the imperial quarters with such noise!
Annoyed, he prepared to rise and reprimand the unruly servants on behalf of his parents—but to his surprise, his father stood first, pulling him protectively behind him.
“Zhao’er,” the Emperor’s voice was low and stern, his expression more serious than ever, causing a shiver of fear. “Go to your mother.”
Puzzled by his father’s sudden gravity, the young prince obeyed without question, retreating to his mother’s side.
Empress Fu embraced her son, her gaze lingering on Xiao Ziteng as he strode toward the golden doors of the hall. Unable to restrain herself, she called out softly, “Your Majesty!”
Hearing her voice, Xiao Ziteng paused, turning to look at her. In the escalating cacophony, Empress Fu glanced at the flickering torchlight and ominous shadows beyond the gates, murmuring, “…Your Majesty, be careful.”
They had been married for eight years, long past the proverbial seven-year itch. From the start, theirs had been a union of convenience rather than love. Caught in the whirlpool of power struggles, they calculated, exploited, relied on, and guarded against each other.
Yet those eight years were real. And between them, there was a child.
At this moment, perhaps there was some genuine emotion?
Both knew what awaited beyond the gates. If they lost, nothing else mattered. Even if they won, Empress Fu understood that her family’s future would remain fraught with challenges. Still, she sincerely hoped for her husband’s victory. That single word—”be careful”—carried unexpected weight and warmth.
Xiao Ziteng may or may not have discerned this sincerity. He gave her a fleeting glance before turning away, leaving behind one final command:
“Protect Zhao’er.”
With that, he pushed open the grand doors.
Outside, night had fallen, yet Xiaoshan burned brighter than daylight.
Countless torches illuminated the scene, their flames casting a brilliant yet unsettling glow. Beneath them, armored warriors clashed fiercely, their weapons gleaming in the chaos. The white marble pathways were already strewn with bloody corpses. Looking down the mountain road leading to the palace, the piles of bodies—some clad in silver armor, others in iron—were endless. The former belonged to the Emperor’s guards, the latter to the rebels.
That morning, Xiaoshan had radiated auspiciousness as emperor and subjects alike paid homage to the gods. Now, mere hours later, the sacred mountain had transformed into a hellish battleground littered with corpses. How absurd? How tragic?
Xiao Ziteng found the sight unbearable.
The appearance of the Emperor invigorated the traitorous rebels, who redoubled their fervor, hacking and slashing with renewed vigor. A general clad in silver armor, wielding a halberd, cut down a rebel soldier and strode toward Xiao Ziteng. This was Empress Fu’s uncle, Fu Jiang, the Commander-in-Chief of the Cavalry.
Amidst the deafening clamor of battle, he shouted to the Emperor, “Your Majesty! The forces of Han approach relentlessly. This place is too dangerous! Please retreat to the rear mountain temporarily!”
Even as he spoke, countless more soldiers fell beneath each other’s blades.
These men bore no personal grudges; they were all subjects of the Liang Empire. Yet caught in the vortex of power struggles, they were forced to sacrifice their lives.
How pitiful.
Xiao Ziteng surveyed the carnage, his expression unmoved. Beneath every triumphant general lay mountains of bones—such was the fate decreed by destiny. Some were born to live and die in obscurity, while others were destined to ascend to the pinnacle of power, trampling over countless corpses to grasp dominion over the world.
Rather than evoking fear or sorrow, the blood-soaked scene ignited an eerie excitement within Xiao Ziteng. His peach-blossom eyes took on an almost unhinged glint, barely concealed beneath their seductive depths.
“I will not flee,” he declared. “I shall remain here, standing alongside you.”
His words rang loud and clear, carried by the night wind across the battlefield. The soldiers fighting for their sovereign felt their blood boil. Death held no fear—it was a sacrifice for the Liang dynasty, an act of loyalty to their Emperor. They died willingly, more contentedly than the sacrificial animals offered to the gods earlier that day.
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