“With Liao Kingdom fallen, you do not take heed but gloat instead. When the Jin Army arrives at our gates, what then for Great Song? A year ago, in the Maritime Alliance with Jin to destroy Liao, our Song Army suffered a crushing defeat at the border! Does the Official Family not feel shame?!”
“Silence!” Zhao Ji could finally bear no more. The earlier exchanges were mere delusions he could overlook, but these words struck at him personally.
The Daojun Emperor overturned the cups and plates in fury. Ever since the Maritime Alliance was forged, many ministers had earnestly advised against it. When the allied forces struck north and south, the Song Army was routed by the Liao forces, shedding armor and fleeing in disgrace. Prime Minister Cai Jing had been dismissed in the ensuing wrath—a thorn in Zhao Ji’s heart. Now, with the court whitewashing peace to avoid offending him, Xiang Xian had openly torn open that wound before all the princes and princesses. It was intolerable.
“Take him away!” Zhao Ji roared.
“Imperial Father!” Crown Prince Zhao Huan seized the moment and hurried in. “Imperial Father, calm your anger!”
“No one’s pleas will help!” Zhao Ji bellowed.
Tong Guan sneered and gestured “after you.” Xiang Xian was unsurprised. He patted Zhao Gou’s shoulder, signaling, “I’ve said my piece; handle it from here.”
This gesture only further enraged Zhao Ji. “Throw him into the Heavenly Prison! We will interrogate him another day!”
Zhao Gou sighed deeply in his heart and wearily closed his eyes.
That afternoon, the Daojun Emperor lost interest even in his beloved odd stones. He tossed aside paper and brush. In the palace corridors, painting pigments lay scattered. An autumn wind swept through the courtyard, rustling the painting papers with a “whooshing” sound.
“Imperial Father.” Crown Prince Zhao Huan said.
Zhao Ji’s face darkened. He knew Zhao Huan had long awaited his abdication. Opposition in the court had grown deafening, and the one they championed was none other than the Crown Prince. He knew his sons’ temperaments all too well.
Zhao Huan explained, “Xiang Xian hails from Kuaiji. His clan has been a local magnate since the late Qin era, with flourishing descendants. Xiang Xian belongs to a branch of the Xiang Family. Many of their scions serve as officials in various places. Rumor has it Xiang Xian studied both martial arts and literature from childhood, with exceptional talent. He is the successor to the World-Suppressing Sword, and the bearer of this sword can summon the dharma form of Acalanatha upon themselves—the guardian of Shenzhou.”
“Guardian?! What nonsense!” Zhao Ji bellowed. “Did you not hear him curse the nation to ruin today?”
Zhao Huan did not reply. Once Zhao Ji calmed, he continued, “Xiang Xian was a disciple of Shen Kuo.”
“Shen Kuo?” Zhao Ji frowned. “Didn’t that fellow die long ago?”
“The details elude me, Father—perhaps he secluded himself for Immortal Cultivation.” Zhao Huan replied, “As for Xiang Xian, he is praised not only for his scholarly prowess but his martial skill. At fourteen, he was called the Martial God. At fifteen, he slew a Blood Jiao Dragon in the Miluo River, gaining early fame. In recent years, he resolved crises for the people in Jiangnan—exorcising evils, aiding the poor. The mountain demon case in Jiangyin and the extermination case in Hangzhou were both cracked by him.”
“Two years ago, Xiang Xian was summoned by Guo Jing, bringing only one family servant, to take the examinations in Kaifeng.”
“I remember.” Zhao Ji said coldly. “In the policy questions, this young man stood out. Their line—from Ouyang Xiu to Su Song, to Shen Kuo—speaks of cultivation yet pursues worldly honors without neglect.”
Zhao Huan replied, “It’s said Shen Kuo’s dying wish was for him not to abandon his studies. When he came to the capital two years ago, recommended by Guo Jing, he followed his master’s orders, emulating Su Song and Shen Kuo by sitting for the metropolitan and palace exams. His essays were excellent. Afterward, he casually told others, ‘Alas, I was careless and ended up as Tanhua Lang.’”
“Arrogant and ignorant of the heavens and earth!” Zhao Ji fumed.
“But he truly had no desire for court office,” Zhao Huan added, “preferring to serve as Chief Clerk in the Exorcism Division.”
Zhao Ji’s anger subsided slightly as he slowly exhaled.
“He well understands his responsibilities—inheriting Master Shen Kuo’s will to safeguard Great Song’s rivers and mountains. Thus, he was recommended as Exorcism Division Deputy Envoy.” Zhao Huan continued, “Since Guo Jing oversees the Gold Stone Bureau and pays little heed to the Exorcism Division, Xiang Xian resides there and effectively manages it.”
“The realm is at peace,” Zhao Ji said coldly. “There’s nothing needing his guardianship. This Exorcism Division…”
“Imperial Father,” Zhao Huan interjected, “This branch of the Xiang Family bears an ancient mission: to suppress the so-called ‘Heavenly Demon’ that emerges once every millennium, according to legend. No one knows when it will appear.”
Zhao Ji furrowed his brows, and Zhao Huan explained further, “From what I know, Xiang Xian’s outburst today before Your Majesty was not orchestrated. He truly believes it. The matter is complex; why not question him thoroughly again, Imperial Father?”
That evening, Xiang Xian was locked in the great prison west of Kaifeng City.
The prison buzzed with voices, lively as a marketplace. When Xiang Xian was escorted in, conversations halted, then turned to buzzing speculation.
“Ah, it’s Lord Xiang from the Gold Stone Bureau!” someone recognized him.
“Exorcism Division,” Xiang Xian politely clarified. “Though under the Gold Stone Bureau, we are not managed by it.”
“What happened?” another civil official asked. “Did something go wrong transporting stones from Hangzhou?”
Xiang Xian lowered his head and entered the cell. “I spoke bluntly and offended the Official Family.”
The prison held many from the Censorate and Central Military Department—mostly arrested for mocking Zhao Ji’s indulgences, a few as scapegoats for the Song-Liao defeats during the alliance with Jin.
