General Changning— Chapter 4
The October sun shone brightly, yet Prince Gao felt his back turn cold, sweat beading on his forehead, and even his teeth chilled to the roots. The moment he saw that figure, everything became clear. He glared at his nephew standing before the hall steps, pointed at him, and laughed bitterly through clenched teeth.
“When the birds are gone, the bow is put away. Sanlang, do you remember when you were a child, I taught you myself how to shoot the eagle? And now, still wet behind the ears, you dare scheme against your own uncle! That I meet this fate today—is it not forced upon me by you!”
Dappled shadows from the cypress branches fell across the young man’s face, half in light, half in darkness. He did not answer the accusation, only spoke calmly: “Uncle, if my guess is correct, those men in the Marquis’ guardhouse who answered your call have already been executed. I respect your rank and acknowledge your past service. You may take your own life and spare yourself humiliation. Once you are gone, as long as your descendants remain obedient, I will ensure their wealth and honor remain untouched.”*
One guard stepped forward, kneeling before Prince Gao, presenting the bloodstained dagger that had moments ago pressed against his throat.
“Prince Gao, please.”
Prince Gao’s face turned ashen. “…I am the son of the Founding Emperor, your true uncle, holder of the Iron Pardon, exempt from ten deaths—”
The young man’s expression remained indifferent, as though he had not heard.
Prince Gao’s face twitched uncontrollably. His eyes tore away from his nephew’s face and fixed upon the blade before him. At last, trembling, he reached out inch by inch, grasped the dagger, raised it, and slowly drew it across his chest. He closed his eyes, feigning despair, as if to plunge it into himself—then suddenly opened them, twisted his wrist, and hurled the dagger straight at the Regent Prince.
With his skill, had the strike landed, the Regent would have been slain on the spot!
But in that flash of an instant, the kneeling guard sprang up, swift as an ape, fierce as a tiger, and struck the dagger down.
Immediately, another guard whipped a cord from his sleeve, looping it around Prince Gao’s neck. The two pulled tight from either side, the knot cinching fast.
Yet Prince Gao was no ordinary man. His reflexes were sharp; he thrust his hands into the cord, straining to tear it apart. But though he was strong, these guards were no common fighters. Even with all his skill, once the noose tightened around his throat, there was no room to fight back. The rope drew tighter and tighter. His palms pressed deep into his own throat, his eyes bulged, his face reddened, and he let out guttural sounds like a beast in its death struggle.
“Heaven’s gift not taken… brings its own curse… I was not ruthless enough. That useless brother of yours was never fit to inherit…”
The imperial uncle Prince Gao thrashed with all his might, feet kicking wildly, leaves and dirt flying, his massive body twisting like a catfish on the chopping block.
“…Sanlang… you plotted to kill me… dare you say… you have not the slightest ambition beyond your station…”
The rope tightened further. With the last of his strength, Prince Gao forced out his final words: “…Do not think you will meet a good end… My fate today will be your fate tomorrow…” His voice was venomous, a curse from the abyss.
The two guards looked toward the Regent Prince.
He still stood quietly, eyes lowered, gazing at his uncle, who refused to yield to death. In his eyes flickered a trace of pity. The guards pulled again—the bones of Prince Gao’s throat shattered. The once-mighty general of Great Wei ceased his struggle, his body collapsing into lifeless flesh, his head drooping to one side. The guards waited a moment, confirmed he was dead, then withdrew silently to the shadows.
The Regent Prince remained standing upon the steps. The wind rustled, shaking pine needles loose from the roof tiles. They fell soundlessly upon his shoulder, then drifted to the ground at his feet. He walked to the corpse of Prince Gao, looked down at the twisted face, and after a pause, bent to close the unyielding eyes gently. Then he rose and passed by. He returned to the Dharma Hall. Under the covert gazes of many eyes from both sides, he entered and calmly resumed his seat.
Empress Dowager Lan, hidden behind her fan, glanced toward the eastern hall at the figure who had just left and returned. As she lowered her gaze, the corner of her eye flicked toward a crimson-robed figure at the far western end, her lips curling ever so slightly.
Outside the hall, Liu Xiang was led to the rear court, where he saw the grim face of Commander Chen Lun. Only then did he awaken as from a dream, realizing disaster had struck.
On the ground lay several corpses—faces he knew all too well. One was even the squad leader he had entrusted with protecting the Regent Prince that very day. Never had he imagined that the Imperial Guards, which he believed sealed tight as an iron barrel, had long since become riddled with holes.
Prince Gao had planted men within the Guards when Liu Xiang first took command. That alone was not terrifying. What was terrifying was that they had survived the initial purges unnoticed. For years, Prince Gao had kept them hidden, and Liu Xiang had never suspected.
Prince Gao’s plan was simple: once the day’s Buddhist ceremony ended and vigilance relaxed, he would cast off his crown as a signal, and these hidden assassins would strike together to kill the Regent Prince.
These were warriors of extraordinary skill, one in a hundred, and they stood close to the Regent Prince. Archery and horsemanship were required training for royal scions, but the Regent was known more for his scholarly talents, and today he carried no weapon. If they had struck, he would have been doomed without question.
It was at this moment that Liu Xiang finally understood everything.
The Regent Prince must have long planned to eliminate Prince Gao. To pressure him into misstep, he deliberately spread the rumor that he was seeking Jiang Zuwang’s daughter in marriage.
In the days of the Emperor Shengwu, imperial prestige alone commanded obedience across the realm. But under the current emperor, that authority had waned. Men like Jiang Zuwang, stationed at the frontier with heavy troops, leading from the front and treating his soldiers like sons, often commanded loyalty greater than that owed to the emperor in the capital. Such figures were hidden dangers—perhaps the reason why so many great generals throughout history met tragic ends. Yet, if used well, such men were pillars of the state, anchors of stability.
By winning Jiang Zuwang’s allegiance, the Regent Prince had gained a powerful ally, strengthening his own position immeasurably.
Prince Gao must have sensed this threat and understood its implications. Perhaps before today, he had not truly intended to act. But he was a seasoned master of struggle, knowing better than anyone that when rivals meet on a narrow path, the one who seizes the first chance to strike wins. That was why he activated the men he had planted years ago, gambling everything on a preemptive move today. He did not realize that every step he took was along a path laid out by his opponent, leading him deeper into the net until he was trapped.
And now, with Prince Gao fallen, the Regent Prince could use this as a warning to all other generals who held military power—including Jiang Zuwang himself.
The young Regent was the archer; Shu Hui and even Jiang Zuwang were nothing more than old eagles waiting to be shot. This marriage proposal was truly a case of killing two birds with one stone.
Liu Xiang stared at the corpses at his feet, horror surging through him like a tidal wave. He dared not imagine what would have happened had Prince Gao succeeded—blood spilled in the hall, chaos unleashed. What fate would have awaited him then?
The blame would have fallen upon him, another scapegoat named as the mastermind, while Prince Gao would have risen to replace the Regent.
Though Liu Xiang had faced slaughter many times in the northern campaigns, never before had he felt such bone-deep terror. His legs weakened, and at last he collapsed to his knees, drenched in cold sweat.
Suddenly, music drifted into his ears.
The sermon in the front hall had ended. Amid the solemn chanting and graceful melodies, two rows of maidens in bright robes carried basins of flower petals, scattering them into the air. In the shower of blossoms, the Regent Prince escorted Empress Dowager Lan and the young emperor out of the hall.
The atmosphere was serene.
No one seemed to notice that one prince was missing from the procession. Or perhaps they did, but none could imagine that only moments before, in a secluded corner of this sacred ground, an event had occurred that would shape the empire’s future.
The assembly passed through the mountain gate.
The Regent Prince saw the Empress Dowager and the young emperor safely into their carriage. The noblewomen and princes mounted their own carriages or horses.
The Regent did not accompany them further. He bowed respectfully as the imperial carriage departed. When it was gone, he straightened, standing by the gate, watching until the canopy disappeared from sight.
Behind him, Liu Xiang fell heavily to his knees, bowing his head to the ground. “Your Highness! I am guilty! A thousand deaths cannot absolve me! Your Highness—”
The old general, once fierce on the battlefield, kowtowed again and again until blood seeped from his brow.
Shu Shenhui turned, his cold eyes falling upon him. “Loyalty, you have in plenty. Wisdom, you lack.” After a pause, he spoke again, voice icy: “Go clean your ranks. I do not wish to see such things happen again.”
Liu Xiang froze, then realized—he had been pardoned. He could hardly believe it, almost thought he was dreaming. When he came to his senses, gratitude overwhelmed him.
At that moment, he would have gladly given his heart and soul to the young Regent. His body trembled with emotion, and a fierce resolve rose within him to devote himself utterly. With reddened eyes, he kowtowed once more, teeth clenched, declaring word by word: “Your Highness, rest assured. Should there be another lapse, I will end myself first!”
Unexpectedly, the Regent laughed, his frosty expression softening. He pointed at Liu Xiang: “Your death matters little. But if you fail me again, that I cannot forgive.”
With that, he stepped through the gate and departed. “Yes, yes… I will remember…”
Liu Xiang felt that the Regent’s final words carried no true reproach—indeed, his eight-character judgment seemed almost a form of recognition. His blood surged hot. Face flushed, he remained kneeling, watching the Regent’s figure vanish, bowing once more in reverence. He knew the Regent had gone to deal with the aftermath.
Since Prince Gao had chosen to act today, there must have been accomplices in the capital—men of rank no less than himself. But with Prince Gao fallen, the rest would pose little threat.
Still, when this day ended, the capital would tremble. For some, it would be an upheaval like an earthquake.
Liu Xiang shuddered, realizing for the first time that the splendor of the capital was far more perilous than the battlefield. At least in war, death was clear and honorable. A gust of wind pressed his sweat-soaked robes against his back, chilling him. He steadied himself, wiped his brow, and was about to rise when he suddenly froze. He remembered something he had completely forgotten.
Hanyuan!
Where was she? After all that had happened, was she gone—or still hidden within?
Anxious, Liu Xiang peered inward, hesitating. At last, he sighed. With her abilities, she should be able to manage herself.
The young emperor’s carriage had already gone some distance. He could not attend to both matters. Rising quickly, he hurried away.