FYM - 124

South of the Yangtze, the rain continued without respite. But beyond the mountains, the former western capital stood under a cloudless night sky.

In the third year of Taqing, Emperor Renzong moved east to Luoyang, and the thousand-mile imperial land of Chang’an fell into the hands of barbarian invaders. The Western Turkic Khan Tuo Na led eighty thousand cavalrymen to break through the gates of Chang’an, setting the imperial palace ablaze for three days and nights. The once-glorious city was reduced to ruins, while the Zhou court fled eastward in disarray, leaving behind countless treasures for the looters.

Though the burned remnants were a tragic sight, the name “Chang’an” still held deep significance in people’s hearts. After the Turks retreated, they handed this land over to Wei Zheng and Zhong He, who had served as their guides and facilitators along the way. Zhong He subsequently took up residence in the half-destroyed palaces. After two or three years of patchwork repairs, the inner palace was partially restored. Wei Zheng then declared himself emperor, claiming legitimacy as the true heir of the Zhou dynasty, dismissing the southern court that had fled across the Yangtze as nothing more than rebels who would one day answer for their crimes before the ancestors.

The Ganlu Hall, where Emperor Ruizong once resided, was among the first structures to be repaired. Despite the hardships of living under Turkic rule, Wei Zheng ordered his officials to restore it exactly as it had been—floors of gold and jade, tiles of glazed glass, evoking the illusion of a revived golden age.

Within the halls, music and revelry often filled the air. The elderly palace servants who had survived the chaos recognized the melodies as those favored by Consort Zhong during Emperor Ruizong’s reign. The current “emperor” listened to them frequently, almost daily losing himself in drunken indulgence, paying no heed to affairs of state or military matters.

“You’re playing it wrong—”

Amidst the music, a sudden reprimand rang out. A moment later, a drunken man staggered out from the inner hall. Barefoot, with disheveled hair and an unkempt beard matted into clumps, he swayed unsteadily toward the musician holding a pipa. His hunched posture betrayed a sickly frailty.

“The thick strings clamor like torrential rain; the thin strings whisper like private murmurs… Clamorous and soft notes intertwine, like pearls large and small falling onto a jade plate…”

He slurred unintelligibly, while the musicians giggled and laughed, clearly unafraid of him. They knew that playing a few wrong notes wouldn’t bring punishment—it might even earn them a favorable glance from “His Majesty.” Sure enough, a moment later, he dropped his wine cup, knelt before the pipa player, and reached out to take her instrument, muttering: “No harm, no harm… I, I will teach you personally…”

This absurd scene was unprecedented. The palace attendants laughed heartily, the atmosphere brimming with joy. Alas, unwelcome guests always arrived to disrupt such moments. A young eunuch, his hat askew, rushed into the hall, shouting frantically amid the cacophony of laughter: “Your Majesty—the Regent has returned! The Regent has returned!”

At these words, the musicians and palace maids, who had been basking in the revelry, immediately turned pale with fear. They abandoned their instruments and fell trembling to the ground in prostration. Only Wei Zheng remained, still madly plucking at the pipa. The next moment, a gust of night wind blew open the carved windows of the Ganlu Hall, and Zhong He, the Regent who had been away from Chang’an for two months, strode into the palace without announcement.

An eerie silence fell over the hall, broken only by the occasional sharp twang of a string. Everyone held their breath, frozen like frightened insects. After a moment, the Regent’s cold, merciless voice cut through the air: “Guards.”

“Drag them away. Execute them.”

Outside the hall, Zhong He’s personal soldiers were already waiting. Upon hearing the order, they entered without hesitation, dragging away the terrified women whose screams echoed through the hall. Each cried out for the emperor’s mercy, but Wei Zheng seemed oblivious to everything around him, his numb gaze fixed solely on the pipa in his arms.

As the hall gradually fell silent, Zhong He looked down disdainfully at his nephew, who lay sprawled like a pile of mud. His anger surged, and finally, unable to contain himself, he kicked the pipa out of Wei Zheng’s arms, sending it flying ten feet away. The snapping of the strings produced a piercing sound that made one’s heart race.

“Wei Zheng!”

The roar was like thunder. At over sixty years old, the Regent was even more domineering than when he had been a military governor.

“Open your eyes and look at yourself!”

“For months, the battle in Hedong has remained unresolved, and Tuo Na Khan has repeatedly invited you to his court for discussions—but you? You turn a deaf ear!”

“Every day you wallow in wine and women, worthless and debased. How dare you call yourself the ruler of Zhou? How dare you set foot in your father’s Ganlu Hall?”

His harsh words left no room for politeness, unlike the restraint shown during Emperor Ruizong’s reign. Yet Wei Zheng showed no sign of anger. Instead, he listened intently to the lingering echoes of the broken strings, waiting until the sound faded entirely before slowly raising his head to meet his uncle’s gaze. Beneath his disheveled hair, his eyes were clouded, but his deranged smile was unmistakable. With feigned leisure, he retorted: “I am indeed unworthy… But can groveling to the Turkic court, like you do, truly allow my father to rest in peace?”

This biting mockery struck a nerve, hurling the public’s ridicule and curses directly at Zhong He’s face. Enraged, the Regent’s fury erupted as he slapped Wei Zheng hard across the face, shouting: “Ignorant brat! Without me, you would have been chopped into pieces by Wei Qin ten years ago! Do you have the gall to speak to me like this?”

The blow was forceful, sending Wei Zheng sprawling to the ground. Yet he burst into uncontrollable laughter, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. Ten years ago, the Prince of Qin had been the beloved favorite of the court, but now he was more wretched than a beggar on the roadside. If Emperor Ruizong truly watched from beyond the grave… he might not bear to look anymore.

“Laugh! Keep laughing like the madman you pretend to be—”

Zhong He’s anger showed no signs of abating, his scolding echoing through the Ganlu Hall, unchanged from ten years prior.

“Do you even know what’s happening outside?”

“Duolo is on the verge of defeat by Xie Ci Jiang Chao and is seeking peace with Jinling! What will Tuo Na Khan do then? And how will he treat us?”

“Do you think hiding in your father’s palace will keep you safe? Life and death hang by a thread! The losers will die!”

Wei Zheng had heard these words so many times they had grown tiresome. Whenever there was trouble on the front lines, his uncle would erupt in this same tirade. In the past, Wei Zheng might have listened patiently, but now he simply lay on the ground, reaching for the shattered pipa. Seeing this, Zhong He kicked him hard in the abdomen, causing him to fall backward without resistance. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, staining the white jade floor of the late emperor’s bedchamber.

“If you weren’t still surnamed Wei, I’d kill you right now—”

The venomous words lingered in the air. The mention of the surname “Wei” only added to the absurdity. The empire was already fractured, and a crumbling nation held little worth. What respect could a weak and depraved royal name command?

“As long as you still have some use to the country, I urge you to pull yourself together and return to your senses—changes are coming in the south. Some people will require the emperor’s personal presence.”

…The south?

Through the blood and haze, a flicker of clarity passed through Wei Zheng’s chaotic gaze. He hadn’t expected his uncle’s information network to be so extensive. How many days had it been since Shi Hong and Du Zehun’s petitions reached Jinling? Yet here Zhong He was, already aware of their schemes and extrapolating future developments. Who were these people that required the presence of the Wei emperor? Could it involve the military governors…?

Years of indulgence in wine and women had dulled his mind, but his instincts, honed by years of turmoil, still whispered that something was amiss. Sure enough, a moment later, Zhong He let out a low, chilling laugh.

“Heaven’s favor, geographical advantage, and human harmony—how many of these does Jinling truly hold? After losing Central Plains, they’ve lost the advantage of geography. Now, human harmony is slipping away too… Fang Xianting won’t always be so lucky, escaping death time and again…”

These muttered words were cryptic, but the fanaticism behind them rivaled Wei Zheng’s own madness. No one needed to spell it out—the Fang clan of Yingchuan was an unsolvable knot in the Regent’s heart. For every word of praise sung about the former Duke and the current Marquis of Yingchuan, the Zhong clan of Longyou bore an equal measure of scorn and curses. Zhong He would forever be the dark, repulsive insect beneath the Fangs’ spotless reputation. Only ultimate victory could wash away years of shame and carve out a place in history where his name might escape collective vilification.

“It won’t be long now—seize the opportunity, for it won’t come again…”

Zhong He suppressed the fear and excitement in his eyes, then turned and strode out of the palace. The desolate, dimly lit Chang’an was nothing more than a hollow shell of a dead city. To those already trapped in hell, it no longer mattered.

Wei Zheng watched the retreating figure of his uncle disappear into the night. Beneath his tangled hair, a fleeting spark of lucidity flashed in his eyes.