Chapter 2017: The Death of Li Yu

With the arrival and settling of the capital's dignitaries, the previously somewhat quiet garden villa district around South Bay Lake immediately became lively. Though there was inevitably some bustling chaos, the atmosphere was instantly filled with energy.

It was fortunate that the nobles all had servants accompanying them; otherwise, merely housing and receiving them would have overwhelmed Shen Prefecture. Shen Prefecture simply did not have enough service personnel—not a shortage of people, but a lack of sufficient "professional competence."

The garden estates built in Shen Prefecture were all standalone residences, built along the lakeshore, dotted across a dozen or more li. Though not as picturesque as the lake and mountain scenery by day, the dense lantern lights and colorful hues at night were still dazzling. In a residence within the small bamboo garden at the northeastern corner of the bay was the dwelling of the Marquis of Peace, Li Yu.

Among those accompanying the imperial southern tour were also some people of "special status"—the surrendered sovereigns of the separatist regimes that had been swept away during the Qianyou era. The world had changed through the vicissitudes of decades; the once-mighty foundations of kings and hegemons had long since vanished like smoke and clouds, and those emperors and kings had basically faded from the memory of the Great Han's officials and commoners.

The old Emperor bringing along Li Yu, Meng Chang, Liu Chang, and the others was clearly not because he still harbored any fear of them. More likely, it was simply a matter of showing off his might and prestige.

Speaking of these surrendered sovereigns, in the years since entering the Han, as long as one could let go of one's pride, life was never too hard—one could even live quite comfortably. Over the past thirty-odd years, the separatist rulers of the south had basically all met good ends, such as Gao Baorong, Qian Hongchu, and Chen Hongjin.

Some had even gone further, holding a place in the Great Han's military and political circles, even serving in important positions—such as the former Crown Prince of the Later Shu, Meng Xuanzhe, or Zhou Baoquan, who had risen to the post of Deputy Administrative Commissioner of the Southern Yan Mountains Circuit, having thoroughly integrated into the Great Han.

Of course, when it came to fame, Li Yu was still the most renowned. Those poems that had spread far and wide had carried his name throughout the entire Great Han—an influence far greater than his former identity as "Sovereign of Jiangnan."

Many people could hardly imagine that the gentle, delicate, sentimental great talent of poetry was now nothing more than a potbellied old man.

The residence faced the water, and there was but a single pavilion in the courtyard. Fortunately, it was situated high enough to enjoy the night view. Li Yu was still his old self—a jug of wine, a brush, and life could be "wonderful."

In the pavilion, Li Yu stood silently, belly thrust out, holding a wine jug. The small courtyard assigned to Li Yu was remote in location but quiet enough. The night breeze brought the coolness of the lake, and one could even sense the movements of fish and shrimp. From the northeast, the bell of the Xianyin Temple drifted over faintly. Experiencing it all firsthand, everything was so pleasant and beautiful.

But at this moment, Li Yu's expression was unprecedentedly solemn. Gone was his usual casual indifference. It had been nearly thirty years since Li Yu had been this serious.

Over the past thirty years, as a surrendered sovereign, Li Yu's freedom had not been overly restricted—it had even been continuously relaxed. However, Li Yu still had "awareness." He had always stayed obediently in the capital, never daring to cross the line by even a single step. Wherever the court was, there he was, confining himself within the capital city.

Therefore, this southern tour with the imperial entourage was the farthest Li Yu had traveled in thirty years, and also the closest to the south, the closest to his "homeland."

Past Shen Prefecture, east lay Guang Prefecture, south lay Qi Prefecture—these had all been Southern Tang territory, part of the fourteen prefectures north of the Yangtze that the Great Han had forcibly seized.

For a "man of the Southern Tang," especially a former ruler of the Southern Tang, mentioning the fourteen prefectures north of the Yangtze brought an inexpressible pain to the heart. After all, the Huainan Campaign was the beginning of the Southern Tang's decline and fall, and also the mark of the Northern Han court's complete rise.

Looking back, the historical significance of the Huainan Campaign could not be overestimated no matter how highly one praised it. Through the war itself alone, the Great Han court, which had been desperately poor at the time, squeezed vast wealth and resources out of the Southern Tang. And for a long time afterward, the prefectures and counties of the two Huai regions provided two-tenths or even more of the court's tax revenue.

Things were naturally not what they once were now—the two Huai regions suffered from frequent disasters—but they remained top-tier administrative circuits of the Great Han. Just the Huai salt alone was a source of immense profit nationwide, providing the court with massive tax revenue, the kind that yielded harvests whether in drought or flood. The value of Huainan, especially the eastern Huai region, to the court went without saying.

Of course, Li Yu's feelings at this moment were not entirely an eruption of nostalgia for his homeland; there was also a measure of "timid near home" emotion at play. After all, he had not breathed the air of the south in thirty years, and those long-sealed memories suddenly surging forth were somewhat unstoppable.

Unlike Liu Chang's carefree, oblivious-to-home attitude, Li Yu was after all a talented scholar of rich emotions, with more and finer thoughts. At this moment, he was rarely serious in contemplating what he had seen along the way. On that face long since divorced from handsomeness, a hint of mockery even appeared, the corners of his mouth half-raised.

Regarding the fall of the Southern Tang, Li Yu had once been heartbroken. After the pain subsided and years of reflection, he had finally arrived at an answer he could accept. He blamed both the Great Han for its overbearing brutality in seizing his Li clan's patrimony, and hated himself for his weakness and incompetence, lacking even the courage to die for his country.

When it came to politics, Li Yu truly was not cut out for it. Even his reflection could only remain at a superficial level. However, some shallow truths he had still managed to awaken to.

At the very least, he felt deeply ashamed of his father and himself for their indulgence in pleasure and disregard for the people's welfare. Those days of romance and frivolity still stabbed at his nerves as memories to this day.

And the object of his mockery at this moment was, naturally, the old Emperor high above who had extinguished his state. Throughout the years, Li Yu had never harbored deep hatred for the old Emperor—or rather, he dared not hate, for he still wished to live on in ignominious survival.

During the most prosperous decade of the Kaibao golden age, Li Yu, accustomed to life in the capital, had even developed a deep reverence and admiration for the old Emperor—somewhat akin to Stockholm syndrome.

But in recent years, this feeling had gradually begun to change. Though he could not access the upper echelons of the Great Han's confidential affairs, even as a common citizen, combined with his former perspective as "sovereign of a nation," he could still discern some problems.

Setting aside the great policies of state and campaigns of conquest, setting aside the people's suffering and commoners' worries—just speaking of personal enjoyment and scenic wonders, in these areas, Li Yu had some expertise.

Of course, because his reign had been too short and the state's fortunes had long been unstable, Li Yu as sovereign had not enjoyed much—at least not enough time. But following his father Li Jing, he had fully experienced the splendor of the southern palaces and the extravagance of their pleasures—these were the causes of the nation's ruin.

Only now, upon moving into this small bamboo garden by the shores of South Bay Lake, did Li Yu suddenly realize that the old Emperor's conduct today was truly no less extravagant than the pleasures he and his father had enjoyed in Jinling back then.

It was just that the old Emperor did not wallow in women, did not care for song and dance, and did not love poetry and prose. But whenever he did something, he did it big. Matters that exhausted the people and drained the treasury were hardly rare with the old Emperor either. Banquets and gatherings—he also held them frequently.

And in terms of ostentation, he and his father were far inferior. This was only natural—how could a minor separatist king compare with the emperor of a unified China? This entourage of over twenty thousand people, with dignitaries gathered in clouds, servants trailing like shadows, and over ten thousand elite soldiers guarding—such a spectacle could only be described as extravagantly ostentatious.

As for the Taikang Palace, though he had not yet seen it, from past rumors and what he had witnessed along the way, one could well imagine what a magnificent and splendid palace wonder it must be.

Traveling with twenty thousand attendants, spending a month to cover over seven hundred li, journeying south on a pleasure tour to escape the heat—such a thing, he and his father had never done either.

With such a comparison, Li Yu's eyes reddened—with excitement. After thirty years, he had finally discovered that the old Emperor was not so sacred, not so wise. He too grew old, and in old age grew senile. His selfish, vainglorious demeanor was hardly any better than their own extravagance and dissipation.

It was somewhat absurd, but Li Yu actually felt a sense of having attained enlightenment. He felt as though heaven and earth had become clear and pure, the world lucid, and his heart infinitely broadened.

As his emotions surged, Li Yu could not help but burst into loud laughter at the lake bay outside the pavilion. Laughing, he poured wine into his mouth, repeatedly exclaiming "What a delight!" The servants attending him were not surprised by such behavior, merely assuming their master was having one of his spells, or was greatly honored by the imperial tour, or that his poetic inspiration had struck again.

The servants had actually guessed partly right—at least Li Yu's poetic inspiration had indeed arisen. Words in his mind arranged themselves automatically, combining into beautiful lines. However, amid his excitement, he still managed to maintain a sliver of sobriety, forcibly suppressing the urge to chant by the lake.

After all, the words in Li Yu's mind at this moment were all taboo things—even more direct than that "The Beautiful Lady Yu" from back then, with even more swollen emotions.

Unspeakable, unspeakable. Li Yu suddenly dropped the wine jug. The sound of shattering was somewhat sobering. With an itching look in his hands, he rubbed them together, and even his smile receded.

Silently reminding himself to be careful, not to be careless—he should not even smile, at least not like that. With such thoughts, Li Yu's expression gradually turned serious, his gaze once again solemn. But the joy surging in his chest was hardly something that could fade in a moment.

In just a moment, Li Yu felt at a loss—sitting was wrong, standing was wrong. His hands "itched" and trembled, his mouth dry, his tongue parched.

"Someone, bring me wine!" Li Yu could not hold back, bursting into another bout of laughter as he ordered the servants outside: "Tonight we shall drink to our hearts' content!"

What dispels sorrow? Only fine wine. What heightens joy? Only fine wine.

Li Yu's drinking problem had long been developed—one might say he was never happy without wine. If he did not drink a few ounces daily, he felt miserable. On this southern tour with the imperial entourage, he could leave his wife behind, bring only three attendants, and pack few clothes and valuables—but wine, he had brought a full cartload.

Tonight, riding on his high spirits, he would drink fine wine—the imperial vintage that Lord Wu, Liu Hui, had once gifted him. Li Yu drank cup after cup, his cheerful laughter echoing through the pavilion from time to time, until he drank himself to death.

Even in death, the corners of Li Yu's mouth were smiling—a cheerful, relaxed smile he had not worn in thirty years. That smile even carried a hint of smugness.