[Lightscreen]
[In 2004, at a British archaeological symposium, the director of the Institute of Archaeology at University College London—Peter Ucko—raised a question that instantly lit the room on fire:
Should the Chinese artifacts held by the British Museum be returned to China?
An Englishman stood up to object.
"Cultural relics are witnesses to history," he said.
"Their greatest value lies in recording the past. The moment we seized them from China, they became connected to the British Empire. Therefore, they are not only China's relics—they are also ours. We have every right to preserve them."
The second half of that statement was shameless beyond words.
But irritatingly enough, the first half was not wrong.
Cultural relics are witnesses to history.
They bear witness not only to the era that created them, but also to every era that touches them afterward—each age layering new meaning on top of the old.
Take, for example, the "Manuscript for a Fallen Nephew" (Ji Zhi Wen Gao), revered as one of the Three Greatest Running Script Works Under Heaven.
It was written by Yan Zhenqing in grief and rage, words spilling straight from his chest onto the page.
The manuscript is full of smudges, revisions, crossed-out strokes—yet those very imperfections make it burn brighter.
This hurried piece of calligraphy witnessed the An Lushan Rebellion.
It witnessed the annihilation of the Yan family's loyal martyrs.
It witnessed Yan Zhenqing's life—unyielding, upright, and unwilling to bend.
It also witnessed his transformation as a calligrapher.
The Concise General History of China later wrote that the early Tang masters—Ouyang Xun, Yu Shinan, Chu Suiliang, and Xue Ji—were merely inheritors of the Two Wangs.
But Yan Zhenqing of the Great Tang?
He was the creator of an entirely new Tang style.
Yan Zhenqing himself was like a writing brush.
In the first half of his life, he soaked himself in the ink of a flourishing empire.
In the second half, he used his own body as the brush, and with a life of civil and military merit, wrote the collapse of Tang amid rebellion and fire.
After his death, the Manuscript for a Fallen Nephew passed through the hands of famed collectors and imperial treasuries.
It witnessed the fall of Song, the unification under Yuan, the revival under Ming, and the Manchu entry into China.
Originally just seventy-five centimeters long, the manuscript was gradually extended to more than five meters.
Each added sheet bore inscriptions, postscripts, and seals from later generations.
Rather than diminishing the work, these layers enriched it—turning the manuscript itself into a living historical archive.]
Ganlu Hall
"Preposterous sophistry!"
Wei Zheng's face flushed with anger.
He had always revered the Yan family's loyalty.
"If we follow that barbaric logic," he snapped,
"then if we plunder their wealth and enslave their people, they would have no right to demand restitution either?"
"They truly have no shame at all!"
Hou Junji, however, fell into thought.
"By their logic," he murmured,
"if we conquer them with arms, then everything becomes ours by right?"
The thought made him recall Xuanzang's description of the western lands—
societies without ritual or righteousness, valuing only wealth and profit.
A thousand years later, and still no progress.
"Well," he added dryly,
"that does make conquest rather… convenient."
Changsun Wuji licked his lips and gave a cold laugh.
"Too bad," he said,
"that land is far away—even if their geography is unclear."
Li Shimin said nothing.
His gaze rested quietly on the manuscript displayed before him.
As later generations would say, the manuscript had been extended with different colored papers, growing long and uneven.
The added inscriptions were longer than the original text, neater, more refined.
And yet—
They all humbly stood aside.
None dared obscure the brilliance of the original manuscript—scarred with revisions, yet blazing with grief and fury.
Calligraphy was one of Li Shimin's personal interests.
Though skilled in the Two Wangs' style, he was particularly adept at flying-white script.
Now, seeing this work with his own eyes, he sighed deeply.
"The Yan family's sacrifice," he said softly,
"is also a funeral elegy for the Great Tang."
He then recited Yan Zhenqing's anguished lines:
"Father captured, son slain;"Father captured, son slain;
The nest overturned, eggs shattered.The nest overturned, eggs shattered.
Heaven shows no remorse—Heaven shows no remorse—
Who, then, unleashed this poison?"
Who unleashed it?
Later generations did not answer plainly.
But Li Shimin had his own thoughts—rooted in military authority.
From the Jinwu Guard, to imperial troops, to supreme commanders on distant campaigns—
the farther one was from the Son of Heaven, the greater one's autonomy had to be.
In times of peace, a vast empire meant frontier commanders wielded authority rivaling ancient feudal kings.
Strong branches. Weak trunk.
All it took was one ambitious commander—and rebellion would erupt.
And yet—
Li Shimin felt a strange eagerness stir within him.
Shouldn't ancestors shield their descendants from storms?
Why demand perfection from those who come after?
[Lightscreen]
[Yet perhaps even Yan Zhenqing himself never imagined this—
That in modern times, the injustice he once suffered would be reenacted upon this very national treasure.
The Manuscript for a Fallen Nephew is ranked as the Second Greatest Running Script Under Heaven.
But considering that the First—The Orchid Pavilion Preface—was allegedly buried with "Second Phoenix" himself…
One could argue this manuscript is the greatest surviving running script in existence.
There is an old saying in artifact preservation:
Paper lasts a thousand years. Silk, only half that.
A thousand-year-old paper manuscript—
each viewing damages it, each exhibition shortens its life.
And yet—
This peerless treasure was voluntarily loaned out by Yi Province to be exhibited in the land of the "little suns."
They called it "cultural exchange."
But the Louvre would never loan out the Mona Lisa.
Egypt would never send Tutankhamun's golden mask abroad.
This manuscript bore the weight of national humiliation and family blood.
And yet it was handed over—smiling—to those who shared that same blood debt.
Yan Zhenqing could never have imagined that, a thousand years later,
his manuscript would once again bear witness—
This time, to the faces of traitors.
One could not help recalling Chancellor Li Mian's warning to Emperor Dezong when Yan Zhenqing was sent to his death:
"To lose a pillar of the state is to disgrace the dynasty."
A thousand years passed.
And now—
To curry favor with foreign powers using national treasures—
How was that any different from drowning oneself to check the reflection?]
Ganlu Hall
Everyone instinctively turned to look at their emperor.
Li Shimin's ears reddened.
He cleared his throat and declared firmly:
"I treasure cultural relics with utmost care!
Did not later generations say paper lasts only a thousand years?"
"If not for my protection, this manuscript might have perished in war—or fallen into the hands of thieves!"
"We who cherish national treasures deserve praise!"
Changsun Wuji immediately nodded in support.
Wei Zheng rolled his eyes internally.
Typical in-law behavior.
Still, he said nothing.
The ministers were more startled than anything else—after all, His Majesty was still vigorous and hale.
Talk of burial goods naturally made people glance twice.
But what troubled them more was the fate of the manuscript itself.
Wei Zheng sighed.
"Even after a thousand years," he said,
"there are still plenty of shameless men."
"To use words written in blood and grief to flatter barbarians—
such men have forgotten their ancestors."
Li Jing's seat was near the map.
He reached out, fingers tracing the coastline.
"Yi Province," he said thoughtfully.
"If we strengthen the navy, we should take Yi Province and Zhuya."
From Quanzhou to Yi Province—only four hundred li by sea.
Hou Junji followed the thought eagerly.
"From Yi Province northeast," he added,
"there are islands every few hundred li—perfect as relays toward the dwarf pirates' land."
Li Jing stroked his beard.
Ambitious—but not unreasonable.
Since the establishment of maritime administration last year, shipbuilders had been recruited nationwide.
Mingzhou, Dengzhou, and Laizhou had all received new orders.
The Ministry of Works had even added a new Maritime Directorate.
Du Ruhui nodded.
"The navy is new," he said.
"Taking Yi Province would be a fitting first test."
Chengdu
Zhang Fei, meanwhile, had a simpler takeaway.
"So," he said, squinting at the manuscript,
"people in later ages… write pretty damn well."
"I should practice calligraphy too."
Mi Zhu chuckled.
"The evolution of calligraphy," he said,
"seems to follow scientific principles."
"Better paper, lower cost—
only then can scholars afford the leisure to refine their art."
Zhang Song nodded deeply, flipping through a stack of paper.
"If not for my lord entering Yi Province," he sighed,
"how would we ever know such fine paper?
We'd still be shackled to bamboo slips."
Mi Zhu smiled.
"Paper," he said,
"assists the age.
It spreads knowledge, enriches the people, enlightens minds, strengthens the state—
and even helps destroy enemies."
Kongming exhaled slowly.
"The Tang had Yan Zhenqing," he said.
"What fortune."
Liu Bei shook his head.
"A hundred years of grace," he said sincerely.
"Yan Zhenqing was the man Tang deserved."
"And I," he added, gripping Kongming's hands,
"found you amid chaos.
What fortune is that!"
Kongming laughed.
"Why be modest, my lord?"
"In troubled times, heroes abound—but few preserve benevolence."
Liu Bei nodded gravely.
"That," he said,
"is my foundation—and why later generations favor us."
Fa Zheng smiled from the side.
"Now that we have good paper and mounting techniques," he teased,
"the Strategist should leave more authentic works for posterity."
Kongming spread his hands helplessly.
"I tried sending my calligraphy through the light screen," he sighed.
"They didn't believe it."
"Besides," he added seriously,
"writing is not my greatest skill."
"To open paths of science for later generations—
that is worth more than ten thousand autographs."
"And if, in my lifetime, we reclaim the Western Regions and eliminate the island menace—
I would die without regret."
Fa Zheng fell silent.
Then he remembered something.
"Oh—before returning to Chengdu," he said,
"Pang Tong accepted a disciple in Hanzhong."
"His name is Jiang Wei."
Kongming froze.
"…What did you say his name was?"