Metaphysics’ Public Enemy 77

Chapter 77:

Jiang Henian (Part 7):

“The East Palace Remains, But…”

In the twenty-eighth year of Jiang Wuwen’s reign, the King died. The following month, Jiang Li ascended the throne, proclaiming himself King Cheng of Jiang. He immediately issued an edict, stripping Yu Lin of his command and ordering his arrest. However, the tiger talisman, which had been searched for throughout the palace, was in Yu Lin’s possession.

Using the tiger talisman, Yu Lin mobilized the army, two hundred thousand strong, marching towards the capital, leaving eighty thousand troops under the command of his lieutenant to defend Yaque Fort. Local officials, sensing the shift in power, rallied to his banner.

“General Feiyu approaches! All who resist will be executed!”

The people heard the thunder of hooves, General Feiyu’s reputation preceding him, depicted in folk tales as a mythical warrior with three heads, six arms, and teeth of iron, his forced march swift and unstoppable, his presence like a storm. He arrived like a whirlwind, leaving just as quickly, the people awestruck by the sight of his army, their banners fluttering, their armor gleaming.

With the general leading the charge, who would dare to stand in his way?

The army reached Shanhaiguan, its officials appointed by the Crown Prince. The capital hadn’t yet mourned the prince’s death, the circumstances suspicious. General Feiyu, the prince’s loyal commander, wielding the tiger talisman, entered the city unopposed, the gates opened wide for his army. Jiang Li, upon hearing the news, was enraged, but the capital’s defenses were weak, only thirty thousand troops at his command.

He had laid a trap in the East Palace, but he had become a prisoner in his own palace, his authority an illusion.

One month after Jiang Li’s ascension, on a rainy night, the city guards, their torches illuminating the falling rain, heard the approaching storm, the rumble of thunder, then saw them, four hundred thousand soldiers surrounding the capital.

The guards surrendered without a fight. General Feiyu’s army entered the palace, deposing Jiang Li, imprisoning him in the Cold Palace.

Jiang Li, held captive, sneered at Yu Lin. “You, a mere slave, dare to usurp the Jiang throne! If my brother knew, he would never rest in peace!”

Yu Lin, his hand, clad in iron gauntlets, struck Jiang Li across the face, his voice a low growl. “Where is he?”

“Jiang Henian is dead!” Jiang Li struggled to his feet, only to be pushed down again, spitting blood, then, seeing the cold fury in Yu Lin’s eyes, he laughed. “You can kill me, you can torture me, but I won’t tell you! The more you search, the less you’ll find! You’ll never see his body! You might be king now, but for how long? The Jiang Dynasty is mine, and so is my brother!”

Beneath the helmet, Yu Lin’s face was devoid of anger or hatred, only a chilling indifference. “No food, no water, no one enters,” he commanded, his voice as cold as ice.

“I won’t believe your lies.” His gaze fixed on the closing palace gates, he turned to his men. “Keep searching. Jiang Li controls the palace, they must have taken him outside.”

Who was Jiang Henian? The King’s carefully chosen heir, intelligent and resourceful, a witness to countless court intrigues, Jiang Li’s schemes child’s play compared to his cunning. He would have escaped, his survival certain.

Yu Lin, his sword at his side, returned to the East Palace.

Jiang Li’s men had ransacked the palace, its usual tranquility shattered, the sight fueling Yu Lin’s rage, a fire burning in his chest. He struck the wall, his fist connecting with the wood, the peach tree uprooted, the courtyard empty, but he knew a secret, a hidden compartment Jiang Henian had shown him.

He walked to the bookshelf, pulling out a drawer, revealing a small hidden space, retrieving a small box. As he opened it, a flurry of letters, wrapped in yellowed silk, fell out, covering him like butterflies.

He knelt, picking up a handful of letters, recognizing his own handwriting, reports and letters from the border. He searched frantically, his fingers trembling, until he found an unopened letter.

Addressed to him, in Jiang Henian’s familiar script: Yu Lin, personally open.

He picked up the letter, his hand shaking, his vision blurring, his breath catching in his throat, tears welling in his eyes, a bittersweet ache in his chest.

He tore open the envelope, unfolding the letter.

Three characters, written in Jiang Henian’s hand, silenced him, his eyes darkening, his body turning cold, his voice lost.

Spare the Wang clan.

“Spare the Wang clan, spare the Wang clan…” he repeated the words, his confusion turning to shock, turning the letter over and over, his fingers clenching, crumpling the paper, his body trembling, the weight of his armor crushing him.

He had imprisoned the Wang clan after capturing the capital.

They had conspired with Jiang Li, their crimes deserving death, but he hadn’t acted, believing Jiang Henian would decide their fate.

But…

His hand clenched, not around the paper, but around his own heart, his shoulders shaking.

Jiang Henian had anticipated this, sparing the Wang clan to maintain stability.

Spare the Wang clan.

He understood. He stood there, lost in thought, a figure appearing at the doorway, and he rushed out, his reaction instinctive.

It was an old man, his hair white as snow.

“Who allowed you in here? Get out!” Yu Lin roared.

“General, you’ve deposed Jiang Li, but the court is in chaos, the officials are restless, the people are uneasy,” Scholar Chen Ke, his body frail, his steps slow, knelt before him, his voice pleading. “A kingdom cannot be without a ruler.”

Yu Lin recognized him, Jiang Henian’s former tutor.

“Ruler?” He walked towards him, his armor clinking, his voice filled with rage. “You were the Crown Prince’s tutor, and now you ask me to be king? What about him?!”

“The Crown Prince is dead!” Chen Ke’s voice was hoarse. “I watched him grow up, but he abandoned the Jiang Dynasty.”

“Who else can rule now but you, General? Only you can save us!”

“The Jiang Dynasty?” Yu Lin chuckled, a flicker of confusion in his eyes, his brow furrowed.

“It’s me.” A moment of realization, then laughter, a bitter, despairing sound, tinged with madness. “It’s me…” he repeated the words, his eyes hardening with resolve.

He tore the letter to shreds, the pieces falling like snowflakes.

The tiger talisman, the support of the local officials, allowing Jiang Li and the Wang clan to conspire, the three-character message, it had all been Jiang Henian’s plan, the throne a poisoned chalice, his own death sentence.

He finally accepted it. Jiang Henian was truly dead.

“The diviner’s prophecy has come true,” he murmured. “He believed it.”

“He actually believed it.”

His voice was a mournful cry, like a cuckoo weeping blood. He drew his sword, severing a lock of his hair.

He stood there, the night shrouding him in darkness, his armor dull and lifeless, the stone path cold and gleaming in the moonlight, his footsteps echoing as he walked away.

Scholar Chen Ke watched him leave, the severed lock of hair falling at his feet.

“Yu Lin is dead,” he heard the future king’s voice, heavy with grief.

Soon, General Yu Lin ascended the throne, his coronation a simple affair, his armor still on, no elaborate robes or ceremonies, the kingdom’s coffers depleted by war, his concern for the people overriding tradition.

The Wang clan returned to court.

Their treachery, a crime punishable by death for nine generations, yet Yu Lin only executed the elders, an act that angered the Chen clan. Minister Chen Zuolin, their leader, spoke before the throne, his voice filled with indignation. “The former Crown Prince was murdered by the Wang clan, Your Majesty. Your leniency dishonors his memory.”

“Minister Chen,” Yu Lin’s voice was cold and sharp. “Are you using the former Crown Prince to challenge my authority?”

“I wouldn’t dare, Your Majesty,” Chen Zuolin lowered his head, his voice trembling.

“Your insolence is unacceptable. Guards, remove his official hat, banish him to Lingnan,” Yu Lin said, his voice echoing through the hall. “Let this be a warning to all, I will not tolerate dissent!”

He punished the Chen clan, elevating the younger members of the Wang clan, crushing any attempts to form factions, his impartiality a surprise, his reputation as a warrior king preceding him, his ruthlessness a deterrent. He addressed the Wang clan, his voice cold and menacing. “Prove your worth, or you’ll join your elders in the underworld.”

He sat on the throne, the only emperor in the Jiang Dynasty not of the Jiang bloodline, his rule absolute, the officials bowing before him, the people whispering his name.

He ruled, mimicking the one he had lost, his policies just and fair, the palace spared from bloodshed, his focus on the kingdom’s welfare, punishing corruption, leading the army against the Beimu, their renewed aggression a test of his resolve, his body bearing countless scars, his survival a miracle, the court physicians relieved by his recovery.

His most trusted comrade, General Zuo, stood by his side. “Your Majesty, you shouldn’t fight anymore,” he said, his voice filled with concern.

“If you return to the battlefield, the Jiang Dynasty might lose you.”

General Zuo’s gaze was filled with sorrow, with pity, the emperor’s position, envied by all, a source of grief to his old friend, as if the valiant General Feiyu was truly dead, his spirit gone.

Yu Lin exhaled slowly, a sharp pain in his chest, a reminder of his mortality. He could still feel pain. “The Jiang Dynasty needs me. I won’t die,” he said, his voice low, his words a promise.

General Zuo took his place, leading the army to three victories, finally crushing the Beimu, their king surrendering, the war finally over.

Yu Lin’s hair was streaked with gray, the court physicians attributing it to his old wounds, his position as emperor granting him access to the best healers and medicines, but nothing could heal the ache in his heart.

The Jiang Dynasty, after years of endless war, finally enjoyed peace, the cries of the bereaved fading, replaced by the laughter of children. In his third year on the throne, he summoned the young members of the royal family, choosing a boy to be raised as his heir.

He had never established a harem, the boy’s presence a sign of his intention to choose a successor from among his relatives.

The older officials wept at the sight, a poignant reminder of the late King and his beloved Crown Prince.

One day, he commissioned a portrait of the former Crown Prince, speaking to the boy about his past, his gaze distant, his voice soft. “He brought me to the East Palace, a quieter place than I had imagined. He didn’t value martial arts, his wisdom his greatest weapon, rarely punishing his servants, the palace staff calling him the most benevolent master. There was a peach tree in the courtyard, he loved watching the blossoms…”

He didn’t notice the boy’s apprehension, his head lowered. He continued, “I would see him, and he was different from the rumors, his kindness a respect for life, his ruthlessness a necessity. I served him for years, thinking I understood him, but I was just a foolish, arrogant boy.”

“Your Majesty!” The scribe couldn’t continue.

Yu Lin, startled, saw the boy and the attendants kneeling before him.

“Your Majesty, you are the true dragon emperor, the most valiant, the most benevolent ruler, there is no one above you, no one worthy of being your master!” the boy’s voice was filled with fear and awe.

“Insolence!” Yu Lin roared, his anger echoing through the hall, the servants prostrating themselves. He walked towards the painter, his steps unsteady, his voice low and menacing. “Why haven’t you painted their faces?”

“I can’t, Your Majesty,” the painter’s voice trembled. “I was fortunate enough to see the former Crown Prince, but he is gone, and so are those who served him.”

“The East Palace remains, but no one can recreate its past.”

The Emperor was silent for a moment, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword, then realizing he wasn’t wearing his armor, his sword broken on the battlefield.

What year was this? He swayed, his hand on his forehead, his gaze fixed on the faceless portrait, a sudden, painful realization. There was no one left in the East Palace to share a cup of wine with, to talk to, to confide in.

He was the only one left, trapped in memories.