Elio’s Notes: The title borrows the phrase “dare to make the sun and moon usher in a new heaven” from Mao Zedong’s 1959 poem Qilu: Returning to Shaoshan (《七律·到韶山》). Like several MR chapter titles, it is a deliberate later literary allusion rather than period language.
The candlelight before him wavered enough to set the heart pounding.
Zhao Guangyi rose, drew out the imperial robe, and shook it open in full. The brilliant yellow dazzled the eyes.
He considered the value of that imperial robe with unusual seriousness. Everything depended on whose shoulders it rested upon.
Obviously, he was not foolish enough to imagine that he himself could bear its weight. But if he immediately sent a secret report back to the palace accusing Zhao Kuangyin of privately hiding an imperial robe and plotting rebellion, the outcome might be entirely different.
Elder Brother would never suspect him, so for the moment he himself would be safe. The hand holding the robe trembled faintly. Whether he reported it or kept silent was the one chance capable of overturning Heaven and earth. If he waited any longer, no one would be able to reverse what was coming.
A soldier suddenly called loudly from outside the tent. Zhao Guangyi hurriedly hid the imperial robe. When he saw that the person entering was Zhao Pu, there was no need to conceal himself too carefully. He breathed out slightly. “How is it?” The moment the words left his mouth, he seemed to wake from a great dream. Zhao Pu’s sudden return had startled him out of that dangerous thought. He truly had gone mad. On a night this crucial, he had actually begun indulging in foolish thoughts of love and attachment.
Zhao Guangyi’s gaze shifted. Even now he was still thinking about Yunjie. Zhao Kuangyin held the tiger tally and commanded the Six Armies. Even if a secret letter reporting his rebellion reached the palace tonight, there were no troops left there capable of stopping him.
Besides, what protection could Zhao Guangyi possibly have today without Elder Brother? To have conceived such a stupid thought for the sake of that pale, tearful woman… Zhao Guangyi, you truly have lost your mind.
Zhao Pu noticed the strangeness in his expression and lowered his voice. “Has something gone wrong with the imperial robe?”
Zhao Guangyi shook his head. “Everything is secure.”
Zhao Pu suddenly smiled faintly and raised one hand in a gesture for silence. “Does my lord know that heavy troops are guarding outside the tent? Once you step out of this command tent, every movement is watched in secret.” Zhao Guangyi relaxed his hands and sat down. “You mean Elder Brother does not trust me?” His eyebrow lifted slightly. Perhaps from spending so long beside Zhao Kuangyin, even that small motion carried a trace of resemblance. Zhao Pu looked him over. “This is not the Inspector-General’s intention. It is…” Zhao Pu sat in the chair beside him. “I am the one who does not trust you.”
Zhao Guangyi gave no reaction. “And what if you do not?” He thought to himself that Zhao Pu was indeed utterly loyal to Elder Brother and sharp-eyed to a frightening degree. Better to have such a man as a friend and never as an enemy. Zhao Guangyi was considering how best to steady him when Zhao Pu raised a hand and motioned him closer. “Whatever else there may be, it cannot be tonight. Bianjing is an isolated city, and all Six Armies are in the Inspector-General’s hands. Even if one harbors some other design, it must wait until later.”
The words made Zhao Guangyi laugh aloud. “So I am not the only one with another thought.”
The two of them headed toward the central command tent. Zhao Kuangyin sat calmly inside, endless night behind him. Suddenly a violent wind rose.
The roar of sand and stones driven through the dark made the heart drift unsteadily. Zhao Kuangyin watched as the imperial robe was secretly passed to Mi Xin, the general most loyal to him. Once the third watch drum sounded, he would be able to overturn Heaven and earth with one hand.
After several men put their heads together and settled every detail, Zhao Guangyi and Zhao Pu left first. In the distance, a patrol of soldiers marched past in perfect order. Zhao Pu turned away toward Mi Xin. Zhao Guangyi slowed slightly and happened to pass beside the patrol. The angle of the moonlight was just right. He glanced over and saw that the bow on one soldier’s back was lighter in color than the others, its carved pattern visible in the reflected light. It was still that half-open lotus.
Zhao Guangyi had already taken one step beyond the line of soldiers. He looked up and saw Zhao Pu continuing forward without turning around. Zhao Guangyi half-turned, gave the soldier a slight nod, then quickened his pace to catch up.
＊
There had never been a night so long. Zhao Kuangyin pretended to lie down and rest.
Outside the tent, voices surged and footsteps moved in every direction. He waited for the drum. A small square of candlelight flickered on the table. Thinking back carefully, the road to this moment had not been easy. Yet now that the decisive instant had finally arrived, his heart was calmer than it had ever been. The great ambitions of his youth were finally about to bear fruit, and Zhao Kuangyin discovered that the feeling brought far less exhilaration than he had once imagined.
Because he still felt regret. And the regret had nothing to do with any grand design for the realm, which only made it more dispiriting. In his youth, he had grieved over being separated from his little brother. He had thought that if he never found him again, that would be the greatest regret of his life. After many twists and turns, he had finally found Guangyi and fulfilled that old wish. From then on, he had only needed to make up for all the lost years.
Zhao Kuangyin pushed himself half upright against the couch. He missed the scent of red sandalwood with an intensity that hurt.
It was the thing he least wanted to admit. Yet at this critical moment, he still missed Li Congjia. The deeper he buried the thought, the more frightening it became. Time did not wear it away. Instead it grew clearer.
＊
The tree at the mouth of the alley. Brocade robes in the night. Seeing the blood on his own shoulder reflected in those double pupils. Because of that man, even a wound seemed capable of becoming something unlike any other wound. Zhao Kuangyin touched his own arm. His body healed quickly, and through the cloth he could no longer feel where the injury had been. Yet he remembered every word Li Congjia had said that day: If you wish to remember me, then while this wound remains, so long as the red sandalwood has not gone out, neither have I.
“You must remember. So long as the red sandalwood has not gone out, neither have I.”
Zhao Kuangyin considered himself a man who kept his word. At least, looking at himself now, he truly did remember him. But Li Congjia? That figure where sky and water seemed one, that body stepping into the wind from a high pavilion, everything remained vivid before his eyes. Yet he had never imagined Li Congjia would be a man who broke his word. Never mind the teachings of Confucius and Mencius or the rites of a gentleman. Li Congjia had broken promises and betrayed agreements again and again. The sword mark on Phoenix Terrace still remained, but Zhao Kuangyin himself had long ago burned their agreement clean with one fire. Whatever Li Congjia’s reasons might have been, Zhao Kuangyin had given him a chance.
At Phoenix Terrace, the river flowed east.
Li Congjia suddenly turned toward Zhao Kuangyin. The double pupils in one eye looked utterly indifferent, yet the sight made Zhao Kuangyin’s heart jolt. The man before him lifted a hand, dew clinging to his fingertip, and suddenly touched Zhao Kuangyin between the brows. It struck straight into his heart like sudden enlightenment. Li Congjia had once asked him, “Even if I can surrender Jiangnan, can you surrender all under Heaven?” With one sentence he had blown apart every possible ending to their story. Such a heart-devouring demon had destroyed every strained consolation of that night.
The morning they went their separate ways had been clear and beautiful. Phoenix Terrace had gathered an entire night of splendor. The clear wind and night rain in Li Congjia’s very bones were enough to intoxicate a person into a dream from which even a hundred deaths could not call them back. Such a gorgeous state of heart had not even lasted long enough for memory to yellow with age before it already carried the power to wound seven parts out of ten.
On Flower Row Street, everything had been quiet. Li Congjia walked east, Zhao Kuangyin west. Zhao Kuangyin had called after him, “If you dare break our agreement again, I will burn Jinling to the ground.”
Li Congjia had inclined his head. “All right.”
＊
You were the one who promised me.
And in the end, you watched coldly. Has Zhao Kuangyin become no more than a shadow inside your verses, something you can recite with ease and cast aside without caring how desolate the listener feels?
The longer he thought, the angrier he became. Zhao Kuangyin rolled off the couch and began pacing the tent. In this life there was probably no second person who could toy with him this thoroughly. And that was precisely what made Li Congjia frightening: even after driving Zhao Kuangyin into such fury, the instant he saw Li Congjia stepping into the river, panic still seized him. If the surging water swallowed him, there would never again be a Li Congjia whose legend could be sung. That was why Zhao Kuangyin could not let go, why he could not bear it, why he had forced him back even at the price of destroying the bracelet.
One arrow loosed, and the score inside was given to you.
I still remembered your first wish. That peony-like woman said she wanted the score, and so it became your wish as well.
Enough. From now on, you and I owe each other nothing. I have fulfilled your wish.
＊
The drum outside the tent suddenly thundered. Its echoes rolled through the deep night, shaking the empty darkness with a force that seized the soul. Zhao Kuangyin’s scattered thoughts snapped apart. The light in his eyes sharpened at once. Drawing a deep breath, he heard shouts rise outside and strode toward the tent entrance. He lifted the flap and opened it onto ten thousand li of rivers and mountains.
The first sight before him was a dense mass of figures, torches snapping in the wind. Among the military officers, none was more loyal to Zhao Kuangyin than his subordinate general Mi Xin. Mi Xin brought his personal troops together and called loudly to the assembled soldiers. “In the past, only because the late emperor personally took command did we win merit in war. Now the new ruler is young and knows nothing of the world. We risk our lives fighting here while the Son of Heaven remains a carefree child. Inspector-General Zhao has treated us generously. If he becomes Emperor, he will surely reward us all with even greater favor.” At first the soldiers murmured among themselves, wavering. Then on the left, Zhao Guangyi led forward a body of men crying for a new sovereign, while on the right Zhao Pu and his trusted followers raised an imperial-yellow robe and called for Zhao Kuangyin to become Son of Heaven. Seeing where the tide of men was flowing, and knowing that Zhao Kuangyin held the tiger tally and all Six Armies were in his hand while the emperor in Bianjing was nowhere before them, the hesitant soldiers surged together and shouted from every rank, “Let the Inspector-General be Emperor!”
The roar spread across the four fields. Standing amid the men acclaiming him, Zhao Kuangyin watched the imperial robe settle over his shoulders. The image that flashed through his mind was completely unlike everything he had imagined in earlier years. He had waited far too long for this day. Yet now that the imperial robe truly rested upon him, he could not even summon the feelings of his wandering youth.
Why was he still thinking of Li Congjia?
Zhao Kuangyin frowned faintly, and for one instant something dimmed in his eyes. Li Congjia was already Crown Prince. Before long, perhaps he too would have to shoulder the lives and livelihoods of his people.
It was difficult to imagine. Zhao Kuangyin could not even remember what Li Congjia’s official robes had looked like on the day he greeted him by the river. It was as though he could remember him only in Tianshui Blue, as though Li Congjia could exist only in that clear blue-green radiance. No other color was worthy of him. Nothing could hide that translucent blue-green soul.
Zhao Guangyi saw his elder brother lose focus for an instant and glanced toward the soldiers Mi Xin had brought on the left. One man was quietly reaching behind himself for an arrow. Everyone’s attention was fixed on the imperial robe now covering Zhao Kuangyin. At such a moment no one else thought to look away. Only Zhao Guangyi locked onto that man without missing an inch. The instant he saw the arrow set to the string, Zhao Guangyi shouted and flung up a hand for men to stop him.
It was already too late. The soldier suddenly saw blades coming from both sides and panicked, never imagining anyone could react quickly enough to stop him now. His hand shook. The arrow veered, but it still flew.
The night was black and the wind fierce. Neither star nor moon was visible. Dozens of torches lit the space for several zhang around them bright as day.
Zhao Guangyi followed the arrow’s path toward Zhao Kuangyin. Elder Brother had only just come back to himself. It was too late to do anything. The arrow was already before him when a figure suddenly hurled itself into its path. Blood sprayed across the imperial robe, but Zhao Kuangyin was not the one wounded.
“Guangyi!” Zhao Kuangyin cried out. Someone in the ranks had loosed an arrow straight at him, and in that instant Zhao Guangyi had thrown his own body in the way. Blood welled at once. Fortunately, the archer had fired in panic and haste. His aim had been poor enough that the arrow missed anything vital. Zhao Guangyi frowned as strength slowly drained from him. The man in the imperial robe behind him immediately reached out to catch him. Pain tore through Zhao Guangyi’s abdomen. He secretly pressed his fingers hard against the wound. Thank Heaven. He could feel that none of his internal organs had been struck.
“Elder Brother…” Zhao Guangyi sucked in a breath. Before he could finish, he forced himself upright and looked toward the direction the arrow had come from. “Seize the traitor!” The soldier had already been restrained from both sides. At the command, they dragged him forward. The entire army, shocked by the sudden violence, opened a path. Zhao Kuangyin held Guangyi tightly and shouted for the army physician. Even with both hands covered in blood, Zhao Guangyi was still thinking of Elder Brother. He looked up at the anxiety in Zhao Kuangyin’s face and slowly shook his head. “Guangyi… Guangyi is fine.” He gripped the shaft of the arrow. Before Zhao Kuangyin could stop him, he ripped it out. Blood burst from the wound.
“Guangyi, careful!” Zhao Kuangyin did not yet know how serious the injury was and saw him pull the arrow out recklessly. Guilt flooded him. “Elder Brother lost focus just now and gave that traitor his chance. How do you feel?” Zhao Guangyi could not answer. His hand trembled. The sharpness in Zhao Kuangyin’s eyes suddenly flared. He turned to the captured man and demanded to know whose command the soldier belonged to. The man wore an ordinary soldier’s uniform with nothing unusual about it. Zhao Kuangyin was determined to force the archer to reveal who stood behind him. Zhao Guangyi braced himself against the ground as figures blurred around him. Blood still coated his fingertips, but his mind was perfectly clear. His gaze drifted toward the squad holding the assassin at swordpoint. After one sharp look from him, someone in the shadows kicked the kneeling man from behind. The prisoner pitched forward in confusion. One of the guards cried out that the Emperor must be protected, blades flashed, and the archer was cut down before everyone’s eyes.
Zhao Kuangyin roared, “Who gave you permission to kill him?”
Everyone dropped to their knees and begged forgiveness, insisting they had thought the traitor was trying to attack again and had lost their heads in the emergency. Zhao Kuangyin had no time to pursue it. Seeing the army physician arrive at a run, he took Guangyi back into the tent to have the wound treated first.
The injury was worse than Zhao Guangyi had thought. The arrowhead had originally missed his organs, but when he tore it out in haste he damaged his stomach. The pain was nearly unbearable. Zhao Kuangyin stayed beside him and flung the imperial robe furiously aside. His younger brother’s blood still stained it, horribly vivid. Zhao Kuangyin was visibly losing his composure. “It was Elder Brother’s carelessness. Guangyi?” Afraid he would lose consciousness, he kept calling his name. Zhao Guangyi had held himself taut with adrenaline outside and barely noticed the injury. Now, inside the tent and weakened by blood loss, the world was beginning to blur. He forced his eyes open and looked at Zhao Kuangyin. “Elder Brother, do not worry. Guangyi is fine.” He reached out, wanting Zhao Kuangyin to lean closer so he could speak. “That man must have been an old soldier loyal to the late emperor. Elder Brother declared yourself among the army tonight. There will inevitably be foolishly loyal men who cannot submit sincerely at once. You must handle this with the greatest care.” Zhao Kuangyin frowned and told him not to worry. Seeing Guangyi grievously wounded and still thinking of the army only made his heart ache more. “Rest. Elder Brother knows what to do. It is only a pity that man was hacked to death before I could deal with him.” Zhao Guangyi smiled faintly. “All the better. Hang his corpse beneath the army banner for three days. Kill the chicken to frighten the monkeys. If anyone else in the army dares harbor a second heart, let them see their fate!” He had spoken too forcefully and began gasping. Zhao Kuangyin hurried forward and told him to rest and think of nothing else for now.
After the bleeding was stopped, Zhao Guangyi sank into an exhausted sleep. Zhao Kuangyin went outside to calm the alarm among the troops. Before the army, Zhao Pu led the men in shouting together for the true dragon Son of Heaven and immediately knelt to perform the full prostration. Zhao Kuangyin ordered the traitor’s body displayed as a warning to all. In secret, however, he summoned Zhao Pu and instructed him to find the man’s family and give them compensation. Word quietly spread among those nearby. All were moved by his generosity, and the cries of acclamation rose even louder.
After one upheaval after another, the night was finally nearing its end. A pale light appeared at the horizon. Zhao Kuangyin once more put on the imperial robe and reviewed the Six Armies. Dust rose through a world transformed overnight, while the soldiers’ cries of support rolled like thunder and startled birds from the surrounding mountains into flight.
From horseback he looked across Heaven and earth, toward distant mountains and rivers. Everything he could see would one day be his. The person he could not see was at that moment sitting before a Buddhist shrine with his eyes closed in meditation.
The room remained dark.
Li Congjia could not sleep, so he had knelt alone before the Buddha for the entire night. Without warning, everything went black. The eternal lamp had gone out by itself though there was no wind. His double pupils slowly opened. In the darkness, his slender blue-green figure looked almost spectral. Li Congjia suddenly rose and pushed open the window. Dawn had not yet come. The river rolled broad and mighty below.
All under Heaven and you. I want both.
He did not know why remembering those words suddenly filled him with causeless alarm. He turned back, relit the eternal lamp, and only when light returned did his heart settle slightly.
＊
Too much had happened that night. He had remained in the Buddhist hall, unaware that Heaven and earth had overturned outside, finding for himself a corner of quiet seclusion. Beyond the Eastern Palace, carriages and horses suddenly fell into confusion, and palace lanterns flared up all at once, illuminating everything Li Congjia had deliberately avoided.
The Crown Princess had been ill lately and slept deeply at night, while the Crown Prince himself had vanished somewhere in the middle of the night. Piaopeng roused all the servants in the palace to search for Li Congjia. In the end they found him in that remote Buddhist hall.
They pushed open the door. One eternal candle flickered across a wash where sky and water seemed one. Red-sandalwood fragrance curled through the room without dispersing. The pure-gold Buddha sat in silence. Li Congjia, dressed entirely in pale blue-green, held his palms together in prayer, trembling faintly without realizing it. Even an emergency urgent enough to set ten thousand fires seemed somehow to soften when it reached him.
The stillness spilling from the hall made no one want to break it. Piaopeng called softly, almost afraid of startling him. “Your Highness. Someone has come from the palace in the Southern Capital.”
Li Congjia released his hands and turned abruptly. His profile was exquisitely clear. Seeing more than ten people outside looking lost and frantic, his heart sank, though his expression remained calm. “What happened?” Piaopeng suddenly threw himself to the ground. “Your Highness! Something is wrong in the Southern Capital.” Before he could finish, several palace attendants who had ridden through the night back to Jinling hurried to report. “His Majesty’s illness became critical last night. We were ordered to return at once. We still do not know…” Their voices fell lower. “We do not know what the situation is today…”
He rose suddenly. Whether it was the air stirred by his movement or truly some decree of Heaven, the eternal lamp went out again in that instant. Darkness swallowed everything once more. Heaven and earth fell silent. No one made another sound. The people standing frozen outside watched him walk out step by step, emerging from the fading smoke and fire and walking back into the life of mortal men.
Piaopeng’s heart ached unbearably. Looking at the Buddha’s compassionate face, he began to pray that this night might never end. If it did not, perhaps his master could remain forever drenched in night rain and never again attend to the burdens of the mortal world.
But unfortunately,
the morning bell sounded, and the sky brightened anyway.
Li Congjia returned to the bedchamber and gave orders for everything that needed to be done. He dressed and prepared to leave immediately for the Southern Capital to see his father. At such a moment everyone else was anxious and uncertain; only he was extraordinarily calm. Before leaving he could not stop worrying about Ehuang and decided to go in and see her. The moment he pushed open the door, Li Congjia froze.
Ehuang sat fully dressed and groomed upon the couch, staring directly at the wooden door. When Li Congjia opened it, she continued looking at him.
“Ehuang?” He was startled that she had risen so early. Every ordinary morning he came out of the Buddhist hall at dawn, changed his clothes, and went straight to the palace. He had always assumed she was still asleep.
A crimson peony mark rested at the center of Ehuang’s forehead. She wore a pale-pink dress beneath a luxurious outer robe of palace gauze, peacock feathers worked across it until the effect was almost unbearably vivid. Her vermilion lips parted, cutting open all those sleepless days and nights that had seemed never to end. “I did not wake early. I could not sleep either.”
Li Congjia’s hand fell heavily from the door. Her gaze dimmed with it. The man before her seemed almost untouched by mortal dust. The hand that had once taken hers with a smile looked extraordinarily pale today, and across the fine bones of his wrist ran a slanting scar.
A scar that had wounded the dream-drunk oblivion they had shared.