Across the Eastern Sea and the Southern Sea, order had finally been restored. Within the Ten Circuits of the Great Tang, the realm was quietly recuperating.
An ancestor of the Li clan once said that governing a great state was like cooking a small fish. One must not over-handle it. Li Shimin believed this deeply.
With no need for large-scale campaigns abroad, many long-delayed domestic policies could finally be pushed forward.
Education. Agriculture. Industry.
Irrigation works. Histories. Legal codes. Tax reforms.
For the past three months, Li Shimin had been so busy that his feet barely touched the ground. In previous years, he would have gone to Jiucheng Palace in the third month to relax and enjoy the spring. This year, even that had been canceled.
So when early April arrived and he once again sat inside Ganlu Hall, he felt, strangely enough, as if he had stolen a moment of leisure from the chaos.
At the same time, he found himself admiring Zhuge Liang more and more. The man who rose early and slept late for the sake of the state. The thought came unbidden that if such a figure could stand at his side as a pillar minister, what a blessing that would be.
The feeling would not settle.
So Li Shimin simply walked to the light screen, picked up a brush, and wrote.
As for the debates of later generations over the difference between Southern Ming and Southern Song, he felt little emotion. Having personally lived through the chaos at the end of Sui, and knowing that the Northern and Southern Dynasties were barely half a century removed from his own time, he understood all too well how much trouble narrow-minded men could cause.
Still, one question lingered.
How long had this Southern Ming even lasted?
He wrote:
Li Shimin: Is the Marquis Wu in good health?"
---
Liu Bei could not help but sigh in admiration.
"This Tang Taizong truly is humble and courteous. He carries the bearing of a gentleman."
The praise was completely sincere.
After all, by reputation the man was an emperor for the ages. In battle he could charge alone into enemy ranks. In letters he wrote elegant calligraphy and composed poetry. It was difficult to find any fault at all.
If Liu Bei had to name one small consolation, it would be that later generations kept insisting this great emperor should have replaced A-Dou and revived the Han.
If one twisted it a bit, that almost counted as this "Tang Sovereign" acknowledging him as a father figure. Not a bad deal, all things considered.
Zhang Fei curled his lip.
"Big Brother, you call him a gentleman. Did you ask his own brothers whether they agree?"
Watching his lord and Yide banter like affectionate siblings, Kongming could only shake his head with a helpless smile. While grinding ink to prepare a reply, he chatted casually with Lu Su.
"It seems that from ancient times, the fall of a state has always been a sorrowful thing."
Lu Su, however, did not dwell on the sentiment. Instead, he noticed something else and teased,
"It appears Kongming's reputation truly spans the ages. Even an emperor for the ages cannot escape admiring you."
Over there, Liu Bei, who had been busy lecturing Zhang Fei, suddenly remembered how often Li Shimin had addressed Kongming as "Wuhou." His heart skipped.
Kongming himself remained completely unconcerned.
"To Tang, we are all figures of the past. If the Tang emperor were to meet Zijing, he too would surely show proper courtesy."
---
[Lightscreen]
[The final Northern Expedition of Yue Wumu took place in the tenth year of Shaoxing.
That same year, in Licheng of Jinan, a man named Xin Zan, who served the Jin state, welcomed the birth of his young grandson.
As he looked at the crying infant, Xin Zan felt both joy and something far more complicated.
The reason was simple.
It had already been more than thirteen years since the fall of Northern Song.
In Jinan, the Xin clan was numerous and deeply rooted. For that reason, Xin Zan had not fled south at the time. Instead, he had stayed behind, hoping that one day the imperial army would launch a northern campaign and reclaim the land.
He had expected the court to make a grand effort.
What he got instead was Zhao Gou making an absolute mess of things.
With no other choice, Xin Zan ultimately entered service under the Jin to protect his clan.
As a low-ranking official, history leaves us no record of how many humiliations he endured from Jin soldiers, or how many times he witnessed the disgraceful scene described in the line:
"The Han speak in barbarian tongues, yet curse Han men atop the city walls."
This ordinary man, whose body lived in the Jin camp but whose heart remained with the Han, no longer dreamed of the old scenes outside Donghua Gate where names were sung in triumph. Instead, his dreams were filled with images of the Champion Marquis sealing victory at Mount Langju and watering his horse at the northern sea.
Perhaps it was these thoughts that led Xin Zan to give his grandson a name that answered that hero across the centuries.
Qubing had once driven illness away from the empire.
So the child was named Qiji.
Xin Qiji.
---
When Xin Qiji was three years old, Zhao Gou traded Yue Fei's life for peace with the Jin.
Song became a vassal.
The Jin formally invested Zhao Gou as emperor.
The Huai River and Dasan Pass became the boundary, south to Song, north to Jin.
Every year, Song would pay tribute: two hundred fifty thousand taels of silver, and the same number of bolts of silk.
From that moment, returning to the homeland seemed like a dream impossibly far away.
But Xin Zan did not give up.
As a minor official, he had time. So he kept the boy by his side and taught him personally.
At eight, Xin Qiji studied under the renowned scholar Liu Zhan of Bozhou. Later he studied with the poet Cai Songnian. Xin Zan himself taught the boy military strategy and martial skills.
Even that was not enough. During idle days, he would take the child to high places to gaze across the land, pointing out mountains and rivers as if sketching the future with his finger.
When Xin Qiji turned fourteen, Xin Zan simply sent him to Yanjing. Officially it was for the examinations. In truth, it was to gather intelligence.
Later, Xin Qiji himself described this time in a single line:
"Twice I followed the clerks to Yanshan, carefully observing the terrain."
The term "following the clerks" had been a refined name for examination candidates since Tang times.
Unfortunately, this spy mission also ended without result.
Xin Qiji's own explanation was simple: "The plan was never fulfilled."
The reason was that after he had taken the exams twice, his grandfather Xin Zan died of old age.
Xin Zan had forged that good iron into a sharp blade.
But he never lived to see it leave the sheath.
Fortunately, history does not rely solely on heroes shaping the times. Sometimes the times themselves push heroes forward.
In the thirty-first year of Shaoxing, Jin emperor Wanyan Liang marched south with six hundred thousand troops, boasting of a million. The army advanced in four columns.
"Raising a million soldiers upon West Lake,
reining in the horse atop Mount Wu."
It was clear he intended to crush Zhao Gou completely.
And in that same year, Xin Qiji stepped onto the stage of his own life.
Without hesitation.]
---
Inside the palace at Bianliang, Zhao Kuangyin looked far better than before.
For three months he had taken the initiative to stop drinking.
It was not that he believed abstinence from alcohol would truly save his life. The real reason was simpler. The date of his recorded death in later histories was approaching far too quickly.
It was now early April of the eighth year of Kaibao. Only a year and a half remained until the date the histories claimed the Song founder would die.
Northern Han had not yet been destroyed.
The Khitan were not subdued.
More importantly, the crown prince Zhao Dezhao was still immature.
Under such circumstances, Zhao Kuangyin did not dare imagine what turmoil would erupt if he suddenly died.
Still, even without wine, life was not unbearable. Especially when he looked at the situation of the Prince of Jin beside him.
No, not the Prince of Jin.
Now he was Master Kongjiong, a monk who still needed to eat vegetarian meals and chant sutras.
At this moment, Zhao Kuangyin turned his head first toward the shiny bald scalp beside him.
"Master, what do you think of this peace treaty?"
The monk clearly had no intention of answering. He turned away, leaving only the gleaming back of his head.
Zhao Kuangyin burst into loud laughter that echoed through the hall.
Then he sighed softly, a trace of sadness slipping into his voice.
"When a nation falls this far, only then do people remember the Champion Marquis."
"When a nation falls this far, they still kill Yue Wumu."
"How foolish can they be?"
At that exact moment, the bald monk suddenly turned back, his face full of defiance.
"The Emperor founded the state fifteen years ago and still has not firmly established the heir. What wisdom is there in that?"
By now Zhao Guangyi had nothing left to lose.
He had already been forced into monkhood. Was he not allowed at least a verbal victory or two? What punishment could his brother still give him?
So when Zhao Guangyi glared back at Zhao Kuangyin with that shining bald head, his eyes were filled with pure provocation.