The Son of Heaven and successor Emperor was not present in the Supreme Polarity Hall. The mourning descendants were led by the sixth brother, Prince Zhao Yuan-jing, while on the other side stood Crown Prince Li Chengqian. All were clad in coarse hemp mourning garments with white cloth wrapped around their heads. Together with the women's faces peeking from behind the plain curtains in the western chamber, their gazes were fixed upon Li Yuangui, who lay prostrate before the Imperial Bed without weeping.
They were waiting. The ritual officials from the Ministry of Rites and Court of Imperial Sacrifices standing behind them were also waiting—waiting for Prince Wu to knock his head against the ground and wail in grief countless times. Then they could step forward according to ritual to support and console him, guiding this son left behind by the Supreme Emperor into the ranks of the princes, where he would join them in observing mourning rites without further complications.
Of course, this still required a special decree from the Son of Heaven permitting him to mourn normally, rather than being returned to his prison cell after a single bow to continue his torment... But it didn't matter anymore.
He would not return to the Black Tortoise Gate tower, confined in that narrow chamber where day and night blurred together, staring blankly at the roof beams while his heart was gnawed by countless ants of speculation about his own fate and that of his loved ones. Nor would he join his brothers in their ritual wailing and straw-mat mourning. He simply couldn't cry—his heart held none of the filial grief, longing, or sorrow expected of a mourning son. Why put on such hypocritical airs?
If his own life ended here, closing its eyes in silence alongside his nominal father, whether bound for the Buddhist paradise or the Taoist Fire Hell, at least all earthly suffering could conclude this way. Both parents awaited him there, and his seventeenth sister was safe and cared for. With his death as the instigator, the troublesome rebellion case plaguing his imperial brother could be resolved. Accomplices like Yang Xinzhi and Chai Yingluo would likely be spared. As for...
There was still one... after all, the eldest daughter of a renowned minister and chancellor, born of noble lineage with dignified beauty. Freed from his burden, perhaps she would live better in the future...
Li Yuangui wasn't even certain if he had kowtowed to his sovereign father's remains, nor did he know whether he had stood up and stumbled out of the Supreme Polarity Hall or crawled out on all fours. Noise surrounded him—someone seemed to be saying something about "grief-stricken unconsciousness," but it concerned him not. His attention fixed only on the sacrificial table in the corridor where the imperial caterers were placing the Great Sacrifice Feast, the large chunks of beef still steaming, and the small knives protruding from... the shoulders.
The knives must be sharp enough, for large cuts of meat were often undercooked inside and difficult to carve. Offering the Great Sacrifice at the late Emperor's preliminary encoffinement was the highest modern ritual, though if memory served, ancient times had the more honorific "human sacrifices," and northwestern barbarian tribes still practiced live burials to this day...
The Supreme Emperor, Li Yuan of the Tang, successor to the Zhou and Sui dynasties' Dukedom of Tang, founding sovereign of Great Tang, father to all lands, whose virtue matched heaven and earth—was he not worthy of one sinful youngest son offering his life in sacrifice?
Step by step, Li Yuangui approached the sacrificial table in the corridor, his gaze now locked on those small knives. His prison cell had contained nothing for self-harm, but mourning sites didn't account for such considerations. One motion—pull it out, twist the wrist, plunge it into the heart—and all worldly troubles and fears would leave him, pain and torment dissolving into nothingness. Let it end here; he was far too weary.
Heaven and earth are the furnace, the Creator is the smith;
Yin and yang are the charcoal, all creatures the bronze;
Life is but floating, death but rest...Before the faint echoes of the singing could even finish buzzing in his ears, he had just lightly drawn his meat-cutting knife when a tremendous force surged from behind, sending him flying straight into the vermilion-lacquered pillar as thick as an embrace beneath the corridor.
Darkness swallowed his vision. Just before the pain consumed his consciousness entirely, the last image imprinted in his eyes was the frowning, furious face of Crown Prince Li Chengqian.
When he awoke in the darkness, the pain persisted. A spot on the back of his head sent waves of scorching agony radiating through his body, so intense he couldn't even muster the strength to open his mouth and moan or wail.
He didn't know how long he endured it before the torment gradually subsided enough for him to open his eyes. He found himself lying flat behind several layers of curtains. Light filtered through the fabric, and the world spun dizzyingly around him.
Someone had bound his head with linen strips, and the most painful spot felt damp, likely from bleeding. Li Yuangui struggled to turn his neck as his awareness slowly returned. He realized that just before he could take his own life, someone—probably Crown Prince Chengqian—had snatched the knife away and shoved him, causing his head to collide with the pillar, leaving him bleeding and unconscious.
Afterward, someone had tended to his wound and carried him here... Though he couldn't see beyond the curtains, judging by the high, ornate ceiling corner visible above, this was a small hall near the Supreme Polarity Hall. He didn't know what Li Chengqian and the others were busy with, but for now, they had placed Li Yuangui here.
His limbs and body could still move, but the headache was unbearable—his skull felt swollen to three times its normal size. Pushing himself up from the carpet, stars burst before his eyes, and nausea threatened to overwhelm him. His heart pounded as if trying to escape his chest, forcing him to remain still for a while.
Hugging his knees and leaning against the wall with his head bowed, he quietly regulated his breathing. Li Yuangui had no idea when—or if—someone would come for him. It didn't matter; he just needed a little more rest before he could move on his own...
But before he could rise, hurried footsteps sounded beyond the curtains. First came the announcement of palace attendants: "The Emperor approaches," startling Li Yuangui and making him hesitate. Before he could decide whether to reveal himself and pay his respects, he heard the voices of the Emperor and his ministers discussing and sighing as they entered the room—if he wasn't mistaken, the one speaking incessantly to the Emperor was Wei Zheng, Wei Shufen's revered father.
Perhaps... it's better to stay silent and hidden for now...
Li Yuangui shrank further into the corner, closed his eyes, and endured the throbbing dizziness as he listened intently to the sounds beyond the curtains. After the formal courtesies, the Emperor began with the customary phrases of grief—"wailing and beating my breast, my heart torn asunder"—while the ministers urged restraint and condolence. Once the formalities concluded, the Son of Heaven granted them seats, and the assembled officials settled into their places, finally turning to the matter at hand:
"Since time immemorial, when destiny bestows the throne, each sovereign selects their resting place, commissioning artisans to begin construction for eternity. The Supreme Emperor was the founding ruler of our Great Tang, yet amid the chaos of war and the pacification of the realm, he had no opportunity to establish the protocols for his mausoleum—a fact well known to all present. Now, as time hastens and the hour of the lesser encoffining draws near, we must rely on your counsel to determine how the Supreme Emperor's mountain tomb should be prepared."Li Yuangui could discern the implied meaning in the Emperor's words. Their father, the Supreme Emperor Li Yuan, had ascended the throne past the age of fifty, only to be forced to abdicate by his son less than a decade later—everything had been rushed. During his reign, he hadn’t had time to begin constructing an imperial mausoleum, and after his abdication, the succeeding Emperor Li Shimin found it awkward to broach the subject with his father, as if hastening his death... The result was the current predicament: the old man had already passed away, yet there was no plan for the funeral rites, the location of the mausoleum, or its specifications. No one even knew where to bury the body, leaving the court in complete disarray.
The ceremonial aspects were manageable—there were precedents from the state funerals of the former Sui Dynasty to reference, with adjustments to be made later. The urgent priority now was building the mausoleum. It was midsummer, and the sweltering heat meant that even with copious amounts of ice, the Supreme Emperor’s remains couldn’t be preserved for long. They needed to quickly enshrine the body, hold the funeral, and inter it in the mountain tomb.
But with such last-minute construction, the mausoleum of the founding Emperor of the Tang Dynasty was destined to lack grandeur and solemnity. Hastily thrown together, it would inevitably appear crude and unworthy—neither befitting the Supreme Emperor’s status and achievements nor reflecting well on the succeeding Emperor, who would seem unfilial and disrespectful. In truth, Li Yuangui thought silently, Your Majesty, you needn’t worry so much. Your reputation for unfiliality and discord is already set in stone.
Yet clearly, the Emperor didn’t see it that way. His tone betrayed anxiety, genuinely concerned about failing to achieve both speed and dignity. The assembled ministers—the chancellors, the Ministers and Vice Ministers of Rites, and the officials from the Directorate for Imperial Manufactories—debated for a while. Most agreed that if they followed the precedent of Emperor Gaozu of Han’s Changling Mausoleum, with a nine-zhang-high burial mound, or the cliffside tombs of Emperor Wen of Han and Emperor Wen of Wei, time would be insufficient. The only feasible option was to adopt the system of Emperor Guangwu of Han’s Yuanling Mausoleum, with a six-zhang-high truncated pyramidal mound, striving for as much height and beauty as possible.
As for the mausoleum’s location, the Bureau of Astronomy and the Ministry of Rites proposed three sites for the Emperor and his ministers to choose from. Ultimately, they settled on Xumuyuan in Sanyuan, naming it the "Xianling Mausoleum." The Director of Astronomy enthusiastically praised the site’s auspicious feng shui—its solid terrain, concentrated energy, dragon veins, and jade tableaus—but before he could finish, the voice of Wei Zheng, the Imperial Chancellor, cut in:
"Since the mausoleum has been decided, may Your Majesty promptly order the Secretariat to issue an edict, and the Chancellery will immediately process it to avoid delay. I have another urgent matter to submit for Your Majesty’s wise judgment."
"What matter?" The Emperor’s voice carried a hint of wariness. For some reason, Li Yuangui, hidden behind the curtains, felt his heart tighten.
"The Supreme Emperor’s passing has plunged the empire into mourning, with grief shared across the land," Wei Zheng said slowly. "In times of national mourning, the rites forbid military campaigns. May I ask when Your Majesty will issue an edict recalling the Grand Commander Dai Guogong and other generals from their campaigns, ordering them to withdraw their troops and cease hostilities?"
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