- Local time
- Today 6:09 PM
- Messages
- 1
In the tenth year of Emperor Tianze's reign, the younger brother of the current emperor, Pei Anzhi, usurped the throne after a violent coup rattled the capital. Brothers killed brothers, and their blood turned the river’s waters red. While families fled and swords clashed, Heaven’s Son shut himself in his chambers, unwilling to confront the war just behind his doors.
Two days and two nights later, the coup ended when Pei Anzhi forced his way into Emperor Tianze’s chambers. When the doors swung open, Anzhi found his older brother hunched over the bed, bloody dagger in hand, hair and robes askew. At that moment, the tyrant vanished. In his place stood the man who had once held his hand through storm-lit nights, fiery rebellions, and the deaths of their parents. He saw his older brother, protector, friend, and, at times, his father. Anzhi felt himself regress; his heart faltered and his eyes began to sting. His love made him falter, but the realm demanded his loyalty.
Yet, Emperor Tianze was not alone. His chamber maids, whom he had slain in an enraged fit, lay crumpled across silk carpets, their blood seeping into embroidered peonies. Two guards, tasked with guarding him, were slumped against the walls and bedside table. Emperor Tianze killed them, too.
In his craze, Emperor Tianze clumsily attempted to swing his dagger towards Anzhi, but Anzhi drove a sword through his heart. Emperor Tianze hadn’t resisted. Not even once. The blade had gone in too easily—like Tianze had been waiting for it. "Gēge¹...gēge, why… why would you leave me with this? Wuchen², oh Wuchen!" Anzhi wept, pulling the Emperor's corpse into his lap to cradle him.
In truth, if Heaven willed it, Anzhi would have switched places with the Emperor. He would have knelt in his brother’s place, taken the blade into his own heart, and spared him this end. But Heaven made no such mercy. Indifferent and unmoved, Heaven has chosen its son to carry the Mandate of Heaven. As Anzhi continued to weep and wail, cradling what remained of the man who had once been his world, the palace beyond those doors learned to bow to a new emperor. Wú huáng wànsuì, wànsuì, wànwànsuì!³
“Yéye⁴…you have told this story many times, and the ending changes each time—”
“—and you still listen.” The old man quipped, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. The smile reached his eyes, causing his weathered face to crinkle.
The young woman huffed and dropped down onto the steps leading to the inner chamber. The night air was cool, but not unkind, so they sat there together. She pressed a plain rice cake into his hand—one she had unceremoniously stolen from the kitchen—and the two sat in silence, sharing the quiet and moonlight.
“Last time, Emperor Tianze begged, but this time he did not.” She glanced sideways at him, taking a small bite out of her cake. “I am starting to believe you like one ending more than the other.”
The old man chuckled. “And which ending do you prefer?”
“I… I do not know.” It was the truth. She had never seen a palace nor brothers turning blades on one another. Everything she knew of coups and political intrigue lived only in her grandfather’s stories. “Perhaps, I would want him to fight back. So that Prince Anzhi would not have to wonder and suffer.”
The old man nodded in understanding and hummed in thought. His eyes left his granddaughter, looking beyond the courtyard; beyond the years, as if searching for something that has long been lost to time. “The records say Prince Anzhi, enthroned as Emperor Xuande, ruled with benevolence and that his people prospered. But—”
“—but what?” She watched as her grandfather stood, and she rushed to help him by gently grabbing his arm.
“Those records are written by survivors, and we owe them our gratitude,” the old man said, his gaze lowered. “Without them, the stories might never be carried on by those who remember.”
He exhaled slowly, a heavy and weary sound, as though something burdened his heart. “But when stories are left to fade,” he murmured, “so too does the truth.”
The young woman did not respond right away. Her gaze fell on her grandfather: an old man who was kind, strong, and fierce for his age. She could remember the days when he continued to train like the soldier he trained to be, even as his hair greyed and thinned. But now? She could see a glimpse into the heart of a man who the years have not been kind to; a man with many burdens and heartaches.
“Yéye,” she said after a while, “tell it again next time.”
The old man said nothing as his lips curved into a faint smile.
Footnotes
1. Gēge - "Older brother"
2. Wuchen - Emperor Tianze's given/first name.
3. Wú huáng wànsuì, wànsuì, wànwànsuì - "May my Emperor (live and reign) ten thousand years, ten thousand years, ten thousand of ten thousand years"
4. Yéye - "Grandfather"
Two days and two nights later, the coup ended when Pei Anzhi forced his way into Emperor Tianze’s chambers. When the doors swung open, Anzhi found his older brother hunched over the bed, bloody dagger in hand, hair and robes askew. At that moment, the tyrant vanished. In his place stood the man who had once held his hand through storm-lit nights, fiery rebellions, and the deaths of their parents. He saw his older brother, protector, friend, and, at times, his father. Anzhi felt himself regress; his heart faltered and his eyes began to sting. His love made him falter, but the realm demanded his loyalty.
Yet, Emperor Tianze was not alone. His chamber maids, whom he had slain in an enraged fit, lay crumpled across silk carpets, their blood seeping into embroidered peonies. Two guards, tasked with guarding him, were slumped against the walls and bedside table. Emperor Tianze killed them, too.
In his craze, Emperor Tianze clumsily attempted to swing his dagger towards Anzhi, but Anzhi drove a sword through his heart. Emperor Tianze hadn’t resisted. Not even once. The blade had gone in too easily—like Tianze had been waiting for it. "Gēge¹...gēge, why… why would you leave me with this? Wuchen², oh Wuchen!" Anzhi wept, pulling the Emperor's corpse into his lap to cradle him.
In truth, if Heaven willed it, Anzhi would have switched places with the Emperor. He would have knelt in his brother’s place, taken the blade into his own heart, and spared him this end. But Heaven made no such mercy. Indifferent and unmoved, Heaven has chosen its son to carry the Mandate of Heaven. As Anzhi continued to weep and wail, cradling what remained of the man who had once been his world, the palace beyond those doors learned to bow to a new emperor. Wú huáng wànsuì, wànsuì, wànwànsuì!³
“Yéye⁴…you have told this story many times, and the ending changes each time—”
“—and you still listen.” The old man quipped, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. The smile reached his eyes, causing his weathered face to crinkle.
The young woman huffed and dropped down onto the steps leading to the inner chamber. The night air was cool, but not unkind, so they sat there together. She pressed a plain rice cake into his hand—one she had unceremoniously stolen from the kitchen—and the two sat in silence, sharing the quiet and moonlight.
“Last time, Emperor Tianze begged, but this time he did not.” She glanced sideways at him, taking a small bite out of her cake. “I am starting to believe you like one ending more than the other.”
The old man chuckled. “And which ending do you prefer?”
“I… I do not know.” It was the truth. She had never seen a palace nor brothers turning blades on one another. Everything she knew of coups and political intrigue lived only in her grandfather’s stories. “Perhaps, I would want him to fight back. So that Prince Anzhi would not have to wonder and suffer.”
The old man nodded in understanding and hummed in thought. His eyes left his granddaughter, looking beyond the courtyard; beyond the years, as if searching for something that has long been lost to time. “The records say Prince Anzhi, enthroned as Emperor Xuande, ruled with benevolence and that his people prospered. But—”
“—but what?” She watched as her grandfather stood, and she rushed to help him by gently grabbing his arm.
“Those records are written by survivors, and we owe them our gratitude,” the old man said, his gaze lowered. “Without them, the stories might never be carried on by those who remember.”
He exhaled slowly, a heavy and weary sound, as though something burdened his heart. “But when stories are left to fade,” he murmured, “so too does the truth.”
The young woman did not respond right away. Her gaze fell on her grandfather: an old man who was kind, strong, and fierce for his age. She could remember the days when he continued to train like the soldier he trained to be, even as his hair greyed and thinned. But now? She could see a glimpse into the heart of a man who the years have not been kind to; a man with many burdens and heartaches.
“Yéye,” she said after a while, “tell it again next time.”
The old man said nothing as his lips curved into a faint smile.
Footnotes
1. Gēge - "Older brother"
2. Wuchen - Emperor Tianze's given/first name.
3. Wú huáng wànsuì, wànsuì, wànwànsuì - "May my Emperor (live and reign) ten thousand years, ten thousand years, ten thousand of ten thousand years"
4. Yéye - "Grandfather"