Countless fireworks bloomed in the night sky; another new year had arrived. Only at this time did the imperial capital of Great Tang show any lively spirit; at almost all other times, it remained lifeless and bleak.
Emperor Jing stood in the courtyard, watching the fireworks fill the sky. These fireworks were set off from within the palace, crafted using spiritual materials as their medium. Not only were they dazzlingly gorgeous, but they also burned exceptionally long; once a colossal bloom burst open, it could burn in the sky for a full minute before slowly dimming and extinguishing.
At this moment, blooms of fireworks mirrored one another in brilliance, illuminating the vast imperial palace as bright as day. The cascading light poured down, bathing the glazed roof tiles in splendid, shimmering radiance, as if breathing life into them. Immediately following, a second volley of fireworks rose—azure, violet, and cinnabar. The light slid from the hip-and-gable roofs down to the bracket sets, and flowed from the bracket sets onto the white marble balustrades. The entire palace city glistened brilliantly, until even the palace moat seemed like molten silver flowing past. The mica lanterns suspended beneath the corridors swayed with gentle glow in the night, illuminating the palace attendants' beaming, joyful faces.
Amidst such magnificent spectacle, Emperor Jing merely pulled his robes tighter around himself. A desolate chill settled in his heart, making the night wind feel exceptionally piercing.
In truth, the imperial palace of the Emperor of Tang possessed its own grand formation, of a grade far surpassing those of the Four Great Immortal Sects, so formidable that even immortals dared not trespass. It was not merely a matter of being able to enter and unable to leave; rather, merely stepping foot inside the imperial palace would leave an indelible mark, after which one would suffer all manner of bizarre, inexplicable calamities—calamities that not even an immortal could avoid.
Furthermore, beneath the imperial palace lay suppressed an unknown number of vicious fiends and ferocious specters, all held down purely by the grand formation's might. Regulating warmth against the cold was utterly negligible by comparison.
Yet back during the reign of Great Tang's Grand Ancestor, an ancestral rule had been established: the imperial palace's grand formation was forbidden to regulate temperatures. It must be hot when it was hot, and cold when it was cold, so that future generations, even upon the imperial throne, would continually contemplate the workings of the Heavenly Dao and the hardships of the common people.
The Grand Ancestor had naturally acted out of painstaking forethought, and this rule remained unbroken until the era of the Martial Ancestor. After the Martial Ancestor, however, favored consorts gradually began secretly setting up temperature-control formations in their private quarters, and the practice slowly spread. By Emperor Jing's generation, nearly every decently sized palace chamber possessed its own temperature-regulating array—used not only to keep people comfortable, but also to tend fish and nurture flowers. The Grand Ancestor's rule had long since been reduced to a hollow formality.
By all logic, the bedchamber's temperature was currently set to feel like a late spring evening, as comfortable as could be. Yet Emperor Jing felt an icy chill, and then a sudden buzzing filled his ears, faintly laced with countless agonizing shrieks.
These auditory hallucinations had plagued him for several years. Imperial physicians and immortal physicians alike were utterly helpless. An old imperial physician had once summoned the courage to speak up, stating that this ailment could only be relieved by an immortal's intervention. But from that day forth, Emperor Jing never saw that imperial physician again.
At this very moment, a sudden flash of intuition struck him. He looked down at the ground beneath his feet, faintly sensing that perhaps it had never been an auditory hallucination at all, but rather real sounds rising from deep subterranean depths.
He felt a touch of curiosity, wondering what on earth was hidden down there, what was being suppressed. Yet he also knew that even if he asked, nothing would come of it, and he would only get several more people needlessly killed.
The fireworks continued to bloom without pause. In accordance with ancestral institutions, seven days before the New Year, fireworks were to be set off for a full shichen; on New Year's Eve, they would be set off continuously for three full shichen until past the midnight hour of zi, thereby proclaiming the majestic prestige of Great Tang.
He gave a sudden, self-deprecating smile. What majestic prestige did Great Tang have left? Its directly governed lands were ostensibly quite extensive, theoretically capable of supporting an army of a million men. Yet where all its abundant resources and riches had vanished to, no one knew.
The entire Great Tang imperial house currently claimed to command two million elite soldiers, but as to how many troops actually existed, likely not a single soul knew—not even the Regent King, reputed to be unrivaled under heaven in scheming and statecraft.
Yet one could easily deduce how many troops remained in the barracks merely by watching the court ministers' faces every time Wei Yuan sent word that he wished to enter the capital for an imperial audience. Emperor Jing estimated privately that there might be around a million?
In the early years, the King of Jin, serving as regent, had assisted him diligently with all his heart and strength. But starting from when had he suddenly begun monopolizing state affairs, slowly reducing Emperor Jing to an empty figurehead?
Rumors circulated that the Regent King was his biological father, yet Emperor Jing had never felt the slightest hint of paternal warmth. Thinking back, from childhood to adulthood, there had never seemed to be any familial affection between him and his brothers and sisters either—only mutual suspicion and vigilance.
But when had the King of Jin's attitude noticeably cooled, to the point of turning him into nothing more than a court ornament?
A surge of headache struck Emperor Jing. Lately, he frequently suffered from throbbing headaches, and his memory was growing hazy. Yet this matter he remembered clearly: it was around the time his youngest son was born.
The arrival of this youngest son had been extraordinarily peculiar—even more peculiar than his first two sons... Emperor Jing suffered another wave of headache.
Suddenly, something crossed his mind, and a cold sweat broke out all over his body: did he have two sons, or three? Why was it that there were clearly supposed to be three sons, yet he could only remember two?
The cold sweat soaked through his heavy robes. A sudden gust of night wind struck him with bone-chilling frost. A flush rushed to Emperor Jing's face; he swayed, and abruptly lost consciousness.
...
He knew not how much time had passed when Emperor Jing opened his eyes once more. Before him flickered the dim light of shaking candles; several unfamiliar palace attendants stood around his bedside, staring down at him coldly.
Emperor Jing struggled to sit up, but his entire body was devoid of strength, his mind delirious with fever. Straining his divine sense to commune with the formation inside the bedchamber, he realized tonight was already New Year's Eve.
Reaching out to the formation was silent and traceless; with a mere stir of thought, the formation responded.
Emperor Jing felt a slight sense of comfort. He was, after all, the Emperor of Great Tang. The restrictive grand formation left behind by the Old Ancestor still acknowledged this truth, shielding and protecting him with utmost care. Perhaps, with the aid of this formation, he might somehow survive the impending catastrophe before him.
Right then, he suddenly overheard faint voices. The sounds were carried to him by the imperial palace grand formation from a palace hall not far away.
"...What do you intend to do with him? How about we just..."
This voice sounded both unfamiliar and familiar. Emperor Jing thought for a moment, and through a sliver of clarity that came from who knew where, he recognized it.
It was the voice of his Empress. Yet he had not heard it in years. Even at the grand annual state ceremonies of the past, she had never uttered a single word.
Who was she speaking to at this moment? Judging from the words, it sounded as though she wanted to kill someone...
Another voice replied, "That won't do! He is, after all, the True Son of Heaven of Great Tang, recognized by the ancestors. Not only can he not be killed, but certain matters can only take effect if he willingly cooperates. You do not possess imperial blood and do not understand the terrifying might of Martial Ancestor's grand formation. Do not utter such reckless words again."
"But there is only one shichen left! That venerable one said that if Ying'er cannot ascend the grand throne this year, he will never have another chance in the future!"
"Still, it is truly bizarre. By all reason, he should have succumbed early this year. How has he managed to hold out until now?"
The Empress seemed exceedingly anxious, suddenly saying, "I have a method..."
After a moment, that other voice sounded somewhat shocked: "This..."
"There is no time!" the Empress urged.
"...Fine. We'll do as you say!"
...
Emperor Jing lapsed into another haze. The other voice was naturally familiar to him—he heard it nearly every day. It was none other than his royal uncle, the Regent.
The two of them were plotting to eliminate him? His ailments in recent years—none of them had been coincidences after all?
Amidst his haze, Emperor Jing suddenly noticed that besides the palace maids guarding him, there was another person in the room! It was a genial old man, plump and round, dressed rather rustically like a wealthy squire from some remote countryside.
This old squire was actually sitting before the desk where the emperor usually sat, casually leafing through memorials awaiting imperial review. Those memorials only came to him as a formality, yet they were Emperor Jing's last shred of dignity.
He wanted to shout and stop him, but could make no sound whatsoever. Then he saw the old man look up, suddenly smile at him, and point a finger toward the opposite wall.
Hanging upon that wall was a painting titled Spring Mountains Travel. Amidst the mountains and rivers was a lone figure leading a gaunt horse, walking slowly along. In one corner of the painting were inscribed four sharp, imposing characters: Walk the Great Dao Alone!
The brushwork of this painting was mediocre, and the calligraphy was unremarkable, yet the reason it hung in the Emperor of Tang's bedchamber was that it was inscribed by the Martial Ancestor's own hand.
When Emperor Jing followed the old man's gaze toward the painting, the figure leading the horse actually turned his head to look back, meeting Emperor Jing's eyes squarely. Emperor Jing fell into a daze; he felt that the person in the painting was exceedingly familiar, as though he had seen him somewhere before, yet he could not be certain.
Just then, golden Buddhist light surged within the room. A waist token resting on the table beside the bed flared with brilliant radiance, the Buddhist light pouring out like flowing water, carpeting the entire chamber in the blink of an eye!
The four palace attendants remained standing, but their gazes grew vacant, serene and tranquil smiles surfacing on their faces.
The Buddhist light was like an ocean, and from this ocean emerged a handsome little monk, whose eyes nonetheless looked rather aged. Gazing at Emperor Jing, he smiled faintly. "Had I not used this method, it would have been difficult for me to meet Your Majesty like this. Your Majesty has treated others with benevolence your whole life, yet you have been betrayed by your closest kin time and again. Do you know why?"
Wave after wave of cold dread welled up in Emperor Jing's heart, but even more so, bitter sorrow.
That jade pendant had been a token secretly exchanged between him and the Empress at their wedding. For over twenty years, he had kept it close to his person, never once misplacing it. Yet never in his wildest dreams did he imagine that his deep affection would be turned into a conduit linking the inside and outside of the imperial palace, a tool used to smuggle someone straight into his bedchamber!
Who had done it went without saying.
The little monk continued, "Your Majesty loved too deeply, but alas, the falling blossom longed for the brook, yet the brook flowed on unfeeling. During these years you spent solitary upon a cold bed, nights of passion were all too brief in Fengkun Palace—for that is the Empress's true bedchamber. Your Majesty has three sons, yet Your Majesty can no longer remember the third, can you? It is perhaps a blessing that you cannot remember; at least it spares you that much pain.
"Yet tonight is the final hour. Once the midnight hour of zi passes, it will be the New Year. The New Year is the Year of the Dragon's Ascendance; only he who takes the grand throne and holds it firm in this year shall be the True Son of Heaven.
"Therefore, the King of Jin and the Empress will arrive shortly to have you abdicate the throne to that son of yours whom you have never met. Once you write down the edict of succession, they will bestow upon you a cup of poisoned wine, letting you die of heart failure."
The little monk spoke with utter serenity, as if recounting a trivial trifle. From where he knew not, Emperor Jing mustered a burst of strength, gritting his teeth. "And if We refuse to write it, what can they do?"
The little monk said, "Then those two real sons of yours will likely die slowly before your very eyes, and by her own hand."
Emperor Jing was furious. "How can she be so venomous! They are her biological sons as well!"
The little monk sighed softly. "The imperial house is the most heartless of all. Since Your Majesty yourself possesses little emotion, do not demand it of others."
"Who are you, and what are your intentions?"
The little monk smiled faintly. "This humble monk comes from Pure Land Spirit Mountain, walking forth to answer the tribulation. Because Your Majesty possesses an affinity with our Buddha, I have weathered untold hardships merely to seek this audience with Your Majesty, to deliver you into our Spirit Mountain. All mortals suffer, and the imperial house is no exception. At this moment, Your Majesty has merely a quarter of an hour of lifespan remaining. Why not accompany this humble monk to Spirit Mountain, that we may jointly achieve karmic attainment? How about it?"
Emperor Jing, drawing upon an unknown surge of strength, actually struggled upright, roaring in fury: "I am an Emperor of Great Tang, a scion of the ancestors! We may have had poor fortune, We may have been muddle-headed and incompetent, but never shall the imperial blood of Great Tang flee into the Buddhist order! The worst that can happen is Our death!"
The little monk looked slightly surprised, then smiled. "Indeed, bearing the imperial blood makes you exceptionally difficult to handle. But right now, you are merely experiencing a dying radiance; the ancestral emperors must have already deemed you dead. Thus, in this matter, you have no say. Forgive my offense!"
Dazzling Buddhist light abruptly flared in the little monk's eyes. Countless Sanskrit scriptures surfaced over his hands as he clawed a palm toward Emperor Jing!
Struck by the Buddhist light, Emperor Jing felt his mind swim in grogginess. Just as he was about to be seized by the little monk, a sudden instant of clarity pierced through! His vision was no longer subdued by the little monk, and he saw the scene inside the room clearly once more—and then he saw that old man again.
The old man remained in his original posture, pointing toward the painting hanging on the wall. Following the direction of his finger, Emperor Jing once again saw that figure and the gaunt horse.
As though sensing Emperor Jing's gaze, the figure turned his head once more to look out. Suddenly, wrath appeared on his face, and he bellowed: "What lowly ant dares crawl within the imperial palace?!"
In that instant, boundless domineering aura surged from him, as though above heaven and beneath earth, he alone stood supreme!
He reached out a large-knuckled, heavily calloused hand and struck downward with a palm. Sheer horror instantly washed over the little monk's face, yet he could not move in the slightest; in the blink of an eye, he was slapped into nothingness like a bursting bubble!
The man in the painting cast a glance at Emperor Jing and said indifferently, "Passable."
Immediately following, the scroll returned to normal, save that the four characters Walk the Great Dao Alone had faded slightly.
Hearing the word "passable," Emperor Jing felt a surge of hot blood rush to his chest, and warm tears rolled down his cheeks. He had lived such a pathetic, stifled life; who could have imagined that in the end, he would receive the evaluation of "passable"!
He had the urge to wail aloud, yet could not cry. All the events of his past life flashed through his mind in a single instant. He seemed suddenly to understand something; laughing heartily three times, he actually stepped down from his sickbed!
First, he bowed deeply to the old man and said, "My deepest thanks to Senior for saving my life! Now, what should We... no, what should I do..."
Halfway through his sentence, Emperor Jing watched as the old man vanished like a bubble as well, as if he had never been there at all. Stunned, he turned back to look at the painting on the wall. The four characters Walk the Great Dao Alone suddenly fell into his sea of consciousness like massive boulders!
In an instant, Emperor Jing understood something, and let something go. He then spread out a sheet of paper, lifted his brush, and finished writing in one sweeping flourish. In terms of calligraphy, he was far superior to the Martial Ancestor.
Afterward, Emperor Jing walked toward the painting, disappearing among the painted mountains in the blink of an eye, gone without a trace.
Just then, the door was slammed open. The King of Jin, serving as regent, entered together with the Empress. Seeing the utterly empty bedchamber, their expressions turned exceedingly foul. Suddenly, the King of Jin noticed the letter upon the desk. Picking it up to look, he saw written upon it:
"We hereby bequeath the throne to ___..."
This was actually an imperial edict of succession, and no name was written upon it—evidently meant for whoever came after to fill in themselves.
Staring at this edict they had coveted day and night, the King of Jin and the Empress were dumbfounded for a time, at a loss as to whether they should fill in the blank.
At this moment, tolling bells rang out. Sky-filling fireworks illuminated the millennia-old imperial capital. Amidst the utmost splendor and dazzling brilliance, the Hongjing reign reached its final curtain, halting at its nineteenth year.
Chapter 1193