The faint tolling of a bell drifted through the door as Li Yuangui dozed over his writing desk.
Startled awake by the deep, resonant tones near his ear, he raised his head and straightened his back, rubbing his tired eyes. His palm brushed against the sparse, bristly beard on his face—he wondered how thick it had grown and what he must look like now.
The prison cell held no bronze mirror, nor did anyone come to groom his appearance. Not that it mattered—aside from the servants who delivered meals and emptied his chamber pot daily, no one visited him anymore. Ever since the Emperor had struck him across the face in fury and stormed out that day, he had been forgotten atop this towering city gate, left to keep company with the birds.
He couldn’t be bothered to keep track of the days either. Though paper and ink were never in short supply, he had long since carefully worded his confession regarding the chaos at Great Peace Palace, naturally taking full blame for everything. Bored out of his mind, he began copying passages from the Classic of Filial Piety from memory:
"The Master said: Among the three thousand offenses punishable by the five penalties, none is greater than being unfilial. To coerce one’s ruler is to show no respect for superiors; to defy the sages is to show no regard for law; to reject filial piety is to show no affection for kin—these are the ways of great disorder."
The main text of this classic wasn’t particularly long. After copying it twenty times in one go, he had practically memorized it. The lines that flowed most readily from his brush were those concerning the crime of unfiliality, naturally reflecting the thoughts that had weighed on his mind these past days... Li Yuangui smirked bitterly at himself, then with a surge of defiance, dipped his brush and wrote again:
"The Master said: In ancient times, when enlightened kings ruled the world through filial piety, they dared not neglect even the ministers of small states—how much less the dukes, marquises, counts, viscounts, and barons? Those who governed states dared not slight the widowed or orphaned—how much less scholars and commoners? Those who managed households dared not mistreat their servants—how much less their wives and children?"
How thorough and clear the sage’s words were, he mused, imagining himself gathering these lines and hurling them at the Emperor’s face while shouting: "If Your Majesties, as husband and wife, father and son, could rule the world with filial piety—neglecting no minor official and slighting no widow—how would we scholars and commoners dare recklessly stir rebellion?"
In the end, it was the Supreme Emperor’s lack of paternal kindness and the Son of Heaven’s lack of fraternal duty and imperial wisdom that had led to strife within the family walls. The more Li Yuangui thought about it, the angrier he grew, his brush flying like dragons and snakes across the page:
"In ancient times, when the Son of Heaven had seven remonstrating ministers, even if he lacked virtue, he did not lose his empire. When feudal lords had five remonstrating ministers, even if they lacked virtue, they did not lose their states. When high officials had three remonstrating ministers, even if they lacked virtue, they did not lose their households. When scholars had remonstrating friends, their reputations remained untarnished. When fathers had remonstrating sons, they did not fall into wrongdoing. Therefore, when faced with wrongdoing, a son must remonstrate with his father, and a minister must remonstrate with his ruler. To blindly obey a father’s commands—how can that be called filial piety?..."
At this point, he suddenly remembered last year in the Peach Blossom Garden Courtyard of the forbidden garden, when he had been ordered to bring his copied text of the Classic of Filial Piety to Ouyang Xun for calligraphy guidance. Back then, his request to join the front lines had been denied, and he had been seething with resentment. While copying this very chapter under Ouyang Xun’s instruction, he had lost focus, set down his brush, and vented his frustrations to the elderly man who resembled a monkey.
Ouyang Shuleng hadn’t seemed annoyed. Chuckling, he stroked his beard and listened patiently to the complaints before finally saying, "Fourteenth Young Master, being born in peaceful times is itself a blessing. It’s good for a young man to have ambitions, but he should also show more understanding toward his elders."
"The sage himself said that blindly obeying one’s father cannot be called filial piety—when faced with wrongdoing, a minister must remonstrate!" Li Yuangui had retorted indignantly. The octogenarian’s laughter lines deepened as he tapped his inkstone and replied leisurely:"Admonishing ministers, admonishing sons, admonishing friends—all are good, but only within the bounds of 'admonishment.' When faced with injustice, one should remonstrate directly. That is proper. But after admonishing? Whether to listen or accept—that is the sovereign's or father's affair, for they have their own judgment and considerations. If you remain dissatisfied, you can only continue to admonish..."
"Admonish endlessly?" Li Yuangui frowned and asked. "Do nothing else but circle around the sovereign or father, endlessly lecturing and remonstrating?"
"Exactly." Ouyang Xun grinned like an old monkey who had just plucked a handful of ripe peaches. "Admonishment means either nagging until the sovereign or father grows weary or fearful enough to yield, or until your voice gives out and your throat breaks. This is the way of a loyal subject. Beyond this, any rash action is nothing short of heresy."
Ouyang Xun's speech carried a thick southern accent. This was unsurprising—he was originally from Linxiang in Tanzhou, his father and grandfather both renowned generals of the Southern Dynasties. At thirteen, his father led a rebellion, and the entire family was executed, leaving him as the sole survivor. Later, he was adopted by Jiang Zong, the fallen prime minister of the Southern Chen, and lived in Jiankang for over twenty years. After the Sui conquered Chen, he eventually made his way north to serve as an official under the Sui. Amid the chaos of the Sui's collapse, he passed through the hands of Yuwen Huaji, Dou Jiande, and others before finally joining the Tang due to his past connection with Supreme Emperor Li Yuan and being granted a noble title. Over eighty years of countless dynastic changes, this ugly old man remained renowned for his literary and calligraphic talents, never involving himself in military or political affairs, never forming factions, content to adapt to the times and embellish the flourishing rule.
At the time, Li Yuangui harbored silent disdain for Ouyang Xun's doctrine of "only admonish, never act," feeling the old man fell far short of heavyweights like Wei Zheng and Wang Gui. No wonder he had spent his life serving rulers with his calligraphy, little better than an entertainer... Now, imprisoned in the Black Tortoise Gate tower, those words suddenly took on a different flavor.
For those in subordinate positions, remonstrating against perceived injustice from their superiors is righteous, and those superiors ought to be open-minded, willing to hear grievances. If the remonstrance is reasonable, they should issue decrees to rectify the matter; if not, they still should not punish words or block the path of speech. Yet this exchange is confined to the realm of "admonishment"—each may speak, but neither may act.
Ouyang He, Ouyang Xun's father, believed Emperor Xuan of Chen's demotion of him was unjust, so he raised an army in rebellion. The court sent troops to suppress him, and his entire family was executed. Emperor Wen of Sui, Yang Jian, believed the Southern Chen's division of the realm by the river was unjust, so he sent troops south to conquer Jiankang, capturing the last Chen ruler and unifying the land. Emperor Yang of Sui, Yang Guang, believed Goguryeo's defiance of imperial envoys and refusal to acknowledge the rightful calendar was unjust, so he conscripted a million soldiers and launched three campaigns against Liaodong, ultimately plunging the empire into chaos and meeting his own demise. At the end of the Sui, countless warlords and bandits rose in rebellion, each convinced they faced injustice, each compelled to resist—until corpses littered the fields, rivers ran with blood, cities stood empty, and smoke vanished for miles.
Li Yuangui sighed silently, poured water to grind ink, dipped his brush, and slowly blackened out the lines he had written.
After covering only a line or two, he suddenly realized something was amiss.
The bell outside was still ringing.
He had no idea what time it was now, but whether it was the Dusk Drum or the Morning Bell, neither should toll for so long.
Abruptly pushing himself up from the desk, he stretched his stiff limbs, staggered to the south window, and peered through the hole in the paper pane—then his eyes widened.On the surrounding walls of the square within his view, the Red and Yellow Banners that had once fluttered from the towers and battlements were being taken down one by one, replaced with White Linen Banners. Beneath the upturned eaves of the Gate of Double Mystery's tower, raw hemp cloth had been draped to conceal the inscribed plaque.
The tolling of bells grew ever more prolonged and mournful, echoing across the land. The Six Palaces lost their color, the capital fell silent, and the entire nation mourned as one.
Li Yuan, the founding emperor of the Great Tang and Supreme Emperor, had passed away.
End of Volume Three
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