The first political division
The empire had barely stabilized, and the people felt reassured that the political upheaval would cease and that they could live their lives freely and peacefully. But misfortune seemed to follow the empire, for no sooner had the situation stabilized for 60 years than division returned, shattering the people's peace with renewed hostilities between North and South.
On the open northern plains, where the biting winds cut faces like blades, it wasn't just the frost that made people shiver, but also the frost of fear and anticipation. Six long decades had passed while the empire basked in the shadow of a fragile union; sixty years of peace during which the peasants believed the era of bloodshed was gone forever, that the walls were built to protect them, not imprison them. But the "periodic curse" of Chinese history refused to let them be, knocking at the doors once more.
The vast farmlands that once fed millions were suddenly transformed into military checkpoints and open slaughterhouses. The emperor of the south severed trade and supply routes to the north, causing grain prices to skyrocket until a loaf of bread became more precious than jade. In the villages surrounding the plains, farmers no longer feared nomadic raids, but rather the army of their Chinese emperor; soldiers stormed homes to confiscate crops and snatched young boys from their mothers' arms to throw them into a war in which they had no stake.
With the two capitals preoccupied with political intrigues and power struggles, authority on the borders weakened. Chaos reigned, and bandit gangs exploited this security vacuum to wreak havoc. Border villages became completely vulnerable, and the sounds of weeping at night became the familiar melody of the northern plains. The people, exhausted by poverty and injustice, regarded the banners of the rival emperors with contempt; they saw no difference between the emperor of the north and the emperor of the south, for both fed on the blood of the poor to secure their crowns.
In the clay fields stretching beneath the gray northern sky, men bent over to cultivate what remained of the parched earth, their backs exposed to the whips and the wind. Their conversations were now only whispers tinged with resentment, their eyes scanning the road, awaiting the appearance of the Imperial cavalry.
One of them slammed his shovel into the mud and wiped the sweat mixed with dirt from his forehead, saying in a choked voice: "Sixty years of peace we ate in one night... The emperors have returned to fight, and we are back to pay the price with our bodies." An old man, his back bent almost touching the ground he was tilling, replied, panting: "What peace is this they talk about in the capital? The South is withholding wheat from us, and the North is taking our men. Yesterday they dragged my young son, who is not yet sixteen, dressed him in armor too big for his shoulders, and took him to the front. I shouted at the commander, and he spat at me and said: 'He is dying for the glory of the emperor.'"
A young man turned and said with bitter sarcasm, "The glory of the emperor, which emperor? The one who sits in the north and allies with the barbarians, or the one in the south who sells us in the market of peace and marriage? Both of them drink wine from golden goblets, and we cannot find clean water to wash. If the Mongols came and stormed the wall now, I would not raise a sickle to defend their thrones." The old man said, warningly, as he looked around for fear of spies, "Be quiet, for the walls here have ears."
The governor's distress intensified over time after news reached him of the people's discontent and reluctance to work or pay taxes. "Ling... go with a message to the people: announce that whoever tries to rebel or revolt will be killed in front of the crowd as an example to others, and whoever does not pay their taxes will have their tax doubled... and all those who go on strike will pay 2,000 copper coins, and the merchants 7 cis, and imprison anyone who objects immediately."
Although this silenced the people, it worsened the situation in the southern region, and public anger grew due to the stifling political conditions and the increasing conflict between the north and south.
The Imperial Palace sprawled like a colossal stone labyrinth of twisted tiled roofs, resembling the wings of mythical birds frozen in mid-flight. Its massive walls, painted in crimson and jade, separated seven interlocking courtyards, each leading to the next through circular portals known as "Moon Gates." The rooms and halls were not mere enclosed structures, but vast spaces partitioned by light bamboo screens and heavy silk drapes embroidered with gold threads—designed deliberately to allow shadows to shift and voices to be heard as mysterious whispers. The floors were paved with meticulously polished black clay tiles, reflecting candlelight and daylight like a dark mirror that swallowed the footsteps of those who walked upon it.
As for the palace air, it was never natural; it was a suffocating, dense blend redolent of sandalwood incense and bitter musk, rising from bronze censers shaped like dragons and phoenixes. It was an air heavy with the scent of conspiracies, damp in the early mornings with condensation pooling on ancient pine pillars, and icy cold in the long corridors untouched by the sun. It was the kind of air that made you feel as though every breath you exhaled was being inhaled by someone behind the curtains, analyzing your intent.
In the furthest reaches of the rear wing, where the kitchens and laundries lay, the underworld began to awaken at dawn, long before the sun could shine upon the Emperor's throne. Here, the servants and lower classes woke to the creaking of wooden doors and the clatter of tin. Faces were pale, and hands were chapped from the cold and harsh water.Mornings never passed quietly; instead, they erupted into amusingly familiar squabbles. In the narrow kitchen corridor, one of the maids responsible for washing the imperial robes shoved a young boy carrying firewood, snapping in a harsh whisper:"Move it, you dried bamboo-head! If the hem of the Grand Concubine’s robe gets soiled by your ash today, I’ll make you scrub the kitchen cauldrons with your own tongue!"
Meanwhile, the court chef—a stout man wearing an apron dusted with flour—slammed his cleaver onto the chopping block, roaring at a young servant who had forgotten to light the stove:
"Are you asleep, dreaming of soldiers? If the water for the Crown Prince’s tea isn’t boiling before he opens his eyes, I’ll cut off your ears and stew them like hog’s broth for his brothers!"
Ducking to avoid a blow from a wooden spoon, the young servant laughed fearfully, replying: "Master, if you cut off my ears, I won’t be able to hear your sweet shouting tomorrow! Who else would wake the palace with such a beautiful voice?" The chef’s fury dissolved amidst the suppressed laughter of the kitchen assistants
On the absolute opposite side of this clamor, deep within the shadows of the Imperial Library, it felt like an isolated world. The room was filled with dust motes dancing in slim shafts of light, and the shelves groaned under the weight of ancient bamboo scrolls and silk manuscripts.
Crown Prince **Long Wei** sat on the raised wooden floor, a massive book laid out on a low table before him. He wore a simple, dark robe, and his hair fell untamed about his shoulders. He held a calligraphy brush, yet he wasn't writing; instead, he gesticulated with it in mid-air, talking to himself in a low, continuous stream of speech, utterly absorbed in analyzing the history of past kingdoms:
"Look at the previous Qi dynasty... Ruler Wu thought the Battle of Wolf Valley was decided simply because his army was thrice the size of his opponent's. What a fool, drowned in his own arrogance! He failed to analyze the psyche of the opposing commander. He knew the enemy general was a man raised in the mountains—a man as patient as a viper, who wouldn't strike until boredom crept into his adversary's camp. Wu wasn't defeated militarily; he was defeated psychologically, because his own anxiety drove him to advance blindly into the fog. The rulers of the past three eras managed battles using paper maps; they never realized that a starving soldier's doctrine isn't driven by an imperial banner, but by spite. Spite is the most successful policy, if only you know how to direct it."
Seated directly across the table was his closest friend, the son of a high-ranking army general and his inseparable shadow. Leaning his back against a heavy wooden pillar, he clutched the scabbard of his sword. He stared at Long Wei with wide eyes and genuine shock, his mouth slightly agape as he listened to this complex, chilling monologue.
To the general’s son, who lived in a world of clear-cut swords—where you either strike or get struck—Long Wei’s way of thinking and his psychological dissection of rulers dead for centuries felt like a form of black magic or brilliant madness.
Shaking his head slowly, his friend swallowed hard and said in a hushed voice brimming with awe:
"Your Highness... they are merely corpses in mold-covered books. How can you read their minds and know the causes of their anxiety and emotions when they've been under the dirt for a century? Anyone hearing you now would think you had been the grand advisor to every defeated emperor in history!"
Long Wei’s eyes fixed upon a dried ink stain on the manuscript; he did not blink. His tone was calm, yet it carried that chilling weight that made one feel as though the very walls were eavesdropping.
"The dirt does not conceal minds, my friend," Long Wei said, tracing the tip of his finger over the name of a long-dead emperor. "Look at the siege of Luo Yang a century ago. Everyone believes the battle was decided by the burning of the granaries. But the truth? Emperor Ming was a man who idolized order to the point of sickness; he changed his guards at the exact same hour every night and ate at the exact same minute. The general who besieged him didn't assault the walls; instead, he took two steps back and let time do the work. He merely intercepted his messages. A man like Ming cannot tolerate chaos and silence; he collapsed mentally long before his soldiers starved, opening the gates himself because he could no longer endure the waiting. The war was never a war of swords... it was a war of patience, and his opponent knew that Ming's patience was thinner than an eggshell."Long Wei winked, turning his body slightly toward his friend, pointing the calligraphy brush toward his own chest:
"And in ruling, the strategy is precisely the same. A clever ruler does not cut off his enemies' heads in broad daylight; that is stupidity that breeds martyrs. A true ruler feeds his enemies until they are bloated. He grants them positions and wealth, letting them believe they are deceiving him, until they grow claws they think are powerful. Then, the moment they raise their hands to strike the throne, they find that the ground beneath them has already been hollowed out, and they plunge into the well under the sheer weight of their own pride." Long Wei leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with a cold brilliance:
"Exactly as is happening in our palace right now. My father treats the people poorly, which could trigger a rebellion if we ever pass through a moment of weakness."
Across from him, the general’s son sat like a statue carved from pure astonishment. He did not move an inch; his mouth remained slightly agape in utter bewilderment, his eyes darting between Long Wei’s sharp features and the ancient map. His military mind, which had been taught that war was merely 'an army advancing, and an army retreating,' was now facing a tempest of complex psychological and political analysis.
Feeling a dull headache creeping into his temples, he slowly raised a hand to rub his forehead. He spoke in a voice that was barely a whisper from the sheer shock:
"Your Highness... you are not studying history. You are dissecting the corpses of kings and exposing their naked flaws. I swear to you, if one of your uncles or brothers heard you right now, they wouldn't think you are the Crown Prince; they would think you are a ghost returned from the past to take vengeance on the living."
