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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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