Chapter 2057: Final Chapter

To hasten the return to the capital, the old emperor chose to travel by water. To accommodate the entire field headquarters entourage, the Jiangnan Circuit Administration Bureau urgently requisitioned over a hundred large vessels for transport, while the Jiangnan Circuit Military Command also dispatched naval forces to escort them.

The truth was that the old emperor's body had grown so frail that he could no longer endure the rigors of overland travel. Moreover, with several thousand people in the field headquarters entourage, accompanied by a great deal of cumbersome baggage and supplies, traveling by boat was a relatively suitable means of improving the efficiency of the march.

Yet even so, under such rushed arrangements, from packing up, boarding, to setting sail, the entire field headquarters column could hardly avoid being mired in a chaotic, tense atmosphere. Add to that the blazing sun overhead, and the mood grew even more oppressive.

At the same time, relying solely on sails and oars was far from sufficient to guarantee speed. Thus, from the Liang-Huai region to Henan, the local authorities along the route that received the directives urgently conscripted trackers, as if preparing for war, to haul the field headquarters fleet along the towpaths.

And so, upon the canal, the scene from many years ago when the old emperor had made his southern inspection tour was recreated. The spectacle was quite magnificent—along the canal banks, thousands of trackers, chanting in unison, step by step pulled the heavy vessels across the water.

Between the ships, oars churned the water; on the hulls, banners fluttered in the wind. Along the gunwales, some of the accompanying nobles, officers, and palace attendants, holding parasols and sipping cold tea, gazed down at the straining trackers on the shore with a mixture of pity and curiosity, as if watching a play.

Unlike that time long ago, on this occasion the old emperor no longer rode in the extravagantly luxurious "dragon boat," and the number of trackers hauling him was not as absurdly large as before. But the dragon banners planted all over the vessels still gleamed brilliantly and dazzlingly in the sunlight.

It was high summer, the scorching sun like fire. The bright orb overhead released its heat without restraint, treating all living beings with the most fair and impartial attitude.

Aboard the three-story vessel, the old emperor was still dressed in a light single-layer robe. His shoulders were slightly hunched, his spirit listless, his expression numb as he stared at the trackers straining on the shore.

The summer heat was fierce, the swelter extraordinary. The trackers, some in short jackets, some bare-chested entirely, all bent over at the waist, buried their heads in their labor, silently enduring the sun's wanton roasting.

Every chant, every step, was solid and forceful, yet also carried a heavy, leaden weight. The bloody welts cut into their shoulders could be clearly discerned even from over a hundred feet away. Of course, the old emperor could not see them—he merely felt them with an indifferent heart.

The trackers were of varied builds—tall or short, sturdy or weak. Who knew whether the authorities had conscripted them at a uniform price, or perhaps not paid them at all? The local officials surely would not be so bold, would they?

The old emperor did not hold an umbrella, exposing himself directly to the sunlight. This was perhaps the first time in decades he had so resolutely faced the sun. Hardly any sweat even beaded on his forehead; he simply sat calmly, immersed in this "scenic view" of the summer canal.

The old emperor's state was clearly abnormal. The imperial grandson Liu Wenhuan, who had been attending at his side the whole time, felt most ill at ease, finding the sun's scorching nearly unbearable. He could not help but urge: "Grandfather, the sun here is harsh and could harm Your Majesty's person. Please return to the cabin and rest."

The old emperor heard the advice but remained lost in his own world. Raising his hand to point at the trackers on the canal bank, who looked like ants, he said: "When Emperor Yang of Sui made his tours, was the scene along the Grand Canal like this as well?"

The old emperor was always like this—always raising such difficult questions to handle. Liu Wenhuan, upon hearing this, quickly set his mind to work, still deliberating on how to answer with proper measure, when he heard the old emperor speak again, unhurriedly:

"In this life of mine, I cannot claim great virtue or grand words, but the great achievements and great deeds I have accomplished—looking back a thousand years, and forward ten thousand—I dare say they are not inferior to those of any emperor.

I have known great joy and great pleasure; I have borne great sorrow and great pain; and of course, I have committed great sins and great evils. But I neither rejoice in goodness nor feel guilt over ugliness. It is not that my realm of understanding is so elevated—it is simply that I have self-awareness. I am not a perfect man, still less a sage!

Since ancient times, those who accomplish great things do not stand on ceremony; any ruler of action can hardly be called a good man!

These trackers before me, toiling in hardship, exposed to the scorching heat by a single edict, bleeding and sweating—this should be the last evil deed I commit."

The old emperor's rambling left Liu Wenhuan momentarily speechless. He truly could not comprehend his grandfather's state of mind at this moment. It seemed he pitied those trackers—if so, he could simply issue an edict letting them go home. What was the point of saying all this?

"Wenhuan!" As he was pondering, the old emperor called out to Liu Wenhuan, then instructed: "Take this as a warning! Do not be like your grandfather, placing personal desires above the realm.

Loving the people as one's own children—easy to say, hard to do! If even the Son of Heaven does not love his subjects, who can still expect the nobles, the bureaucrats, and the corrupt officials to do so?"

The old emperor still wavered between hypocrisy and sincerity, his empty talk exceeding his actions. Though his mouth uttered words of great enlightenment and reflection, he gave little pity to the trackers hauling under the blazing sun. A brief respite for breath and water was probably already a grace.

Setting out from Yangzhou, passing through Hangou into the Huai River, then heading west and turning north into the Bian River, under the efforts of tens of thousands of trackers from the prefectures and counties along the route, the field headquarters fleet sped along the canal toward the Eastern Capital.

The pace remained fairly steady throughout the journey, but let alone the hauling trackers—even the accompanying ministers and officials grew oppressed and restless under this relentless, unreasonable continuous sailing. There was no pleasure to be found. It was not merely the weather; the entire field headquarters' atmosphere had long been steeped in a strange tension, like the oppressive stillness before a mountain storm.

It was not until they reached Songzhou that a torrential rainstorm finally gave everyone's taut nerves a chance to relax, allowing their weary bodies brief respite.

The rain poured down in sheets, straight into the Bian River. The raindrops fell in visible threads, and the hissing sound of the rain completely filled their ears. For a moment, it seemed as if all the sounds in the world had unified into this summer rain.

The fleet anchored at the docks southwest of Songcheng. Even the thousand-ton vessels rocked violently in the tempest.

The old emperor once again stood at the gunwale, in his old spot, only this time wearing a leather raincoat and with a large umbrella overhead. Even though the old emperor had already adopted an attitude of indifference toward all worldly affairs, there was no need to get drenched.

Through the curtain of rain, what the old emperor numbly observed was still the trackers at the dock. Throughout this journey back to the capital, batch after batch of trackers had been rotated, but in the old emperor's eyes, they were all the same—all the lowest class of common laborers in the Great Han, all worthless as ants.

Moments ago they had been drenched in sweat under the blazing sun; now, under the violent storm, they shivered uncontrollably. Though there were shelters on the shore, they provided little real protection—most of the men were soaked through.

The dry rations meant to stave off hunger had largely been soaked by the rain, yet they still gnawed at them with relish. Overseers wearing rain gear patrolled; two or three men could suppress a hundred. Even when beaten with fists and kicked, no one resisted. However heavy the rain, they dared not wander far, huddling together, waiting for the storm to pass so they could continue hauling for His Majesty the Emperor. For laborers such as these, this was a blessing bestowed by heaven.

As time wore on, the rain showed no sign of letting up, and the scene before him gradually blurred. In his field of vision, there was nothing but the dim, murky darkness—no other color at all.

Even with the support of his bamboo staff, the old emperor could not stand for long. When fatigue flooded his entire body, he had no choice but to return to the cabin. The bamboo staff in his hand had been repaired several times already. Last year in Guangzhou, when he had smashed it over Zhang Ji, it had broken again—but perhaps precisely because it was covered in cracks and held together by patches, the old emperor was unwilling to replace it with a new one.

"Transmit the edict!" Before stepping into the cabin, the old emperor called out to Hu De: "Once the rain stops, abandon the boats and go ashore. Head northeast—we are not going to the Eastern Capital!"

Hu De was momentarily stunned by the order, clearly unaware of what new scheme the old emperor was up to. He could not help but ask: "Where does His Majesty wish to go?" The old emperor was silent for a moment before speaking in a low voice: "To Mount Tai!"

In late June, at Yanzhou, Mount Tai—unlike the previous frantic haste, the field headquarters arrived smoothly in a relatively composed and steady manner.

The last time the old emperor had come to Mount Tai was during the Fengshan sacrifices, nearly twenty years ago now. Even for the old emperor, that was long enough. Though he was only sixty-two years old, forty-five years of imperial reign could well be called lengthy.

He did not go to the prefectural seat. His objective was clear—straight to Mount Tai. The field headquarters camped at the foot of the mountain. Compared to the Fengshan sacrifices of that year, this time was clearly far less grand. Even the Five-Colored Altar, where the old emperor had personally ascended to offer sacrifices, had fallen into disrepair and faded.

The summer night was still sweltering. Beneath the dark canopy of night, the field headquarters was brightly lit by scattered points of lamplight. From the imperial camp, to the guards, to the rear units, all were bustling with activity.

Yet it was busy without being chaotic—everyone, from top to bottom, was packing and settling in an orderly fashion. Everyone seemed to have a premonition that at Mount Tai they would be able to rest properly for a while. And if His Majesty, in a fit of inspiration, should decide to hold another Fengshan ceremony without considering it too hasty, then there would be even more time to adjust. That matter truly could not be predicted.

Many things truly defy reason. Take Mount Tai, for instance—the old emperor had never thought it particularly towering or majestic, hardly worthy of bearing the weight of his extraordinary achievements. Yet back then, he had still followed tradition and chosen Mount Tai as the site for the Fengshan sacrifices.

He clearly harbored some prejudice against Confucian doctrine, yet in actual governance he could not avoid employing some of its ideas and concepts. Otherwise, could anyone have actually twisted the old emperor's arm to hold the Fengshan sacrifices elsewhere? If someone wanted to die for their convictions, the old emperor would gladly oblige them. And to this day, recalling the glory of those years, the old emperor still could not forget to return to Mount Tai, to the place where he had once carved inscriptions and offered sacrifices to heaven.

Though he had come with great fanfare, upon ascending Mount Tai again, the old emperor appeared quite plain and unassuming. He did not set up an honor guard, did not wear ceremonial robes—just casual clothes, accompanied by only a few attendants, revisiting Mount Tai like an outing in the countryside.

Without a doubt, the Fengshan Platform was his ultimate destination. That heavenly stairway—he gathered his spirits, mustered his strength, and walked it once more. Twenty years later, the old emperor was aged and frail, no match for his former self, but walking the stairway again, he still displayed his stubbornness, refusing to allow anyone to support him, even if he walked slowly.

The monument of merit standing atop Mount Tai's summit had absorbed nearly twenty years of the sun and moon's essence, and had endured wind, sun, and rain. The added sense of age it bore was perhaps the sediment of history.

Standing before the monument for a long while, the old emperor tilted his head back, silently gazing at the eulogy praising his virtues and achievements. That heart of his, which rarely stirred, finally gave birth to a warmth that even the summer could not bring him.

He stepped forward, reached out, and gently touched the monument's surface. The old emperor said nothing more, turned around, and like an old steed, lowered his head and made his way toward the Fengshan Platform. Once again, the old emperor ascended the platform alone. The climb was exhausting. When he stood upon that so-called "place of communion between heaven and man," the old emperor had expected to be flooded with boundless emotion. Yet in truth, his mind was a complete blank—as if all past events were but smoke and clouds, and all his achievements and fame had turned to dust.

The weather of the dog days was so muggy it was hard to breathe. At this mountain summit, facing the great sun hanging in the open sky, the old emperor's mind grew somewhat dazed. He even felt a little cold.

At night, in the field headquarters, within the imperial tent, several dozen oil lamps illuminated the modest space brightly. But the flames flickered somewhat—the tent curtain was open, and under the night breeze, they flickered quite frequently.

Before long, four figures entered the tent under Hu De's guidance: Duke of Shouguo Li Shaoyou, Earl of Ding'an Li Jian, and the two imperial grandsons Wenhuan and Wenji. All four looked at the old emperor with some anxiety. His condition was far too abnormal—that state of weakness, as if he had lost nearly all vitality and spirit, was something those familiar with the old emperor had never witnessed before.

Without a moment's hesitation, all four knelt down. In that instant, a heavy shadow fell over everyone's hearts, and all were enveloped by an inexplicable dread. It was a piercing, soul-shaking impact—one could not articulate the panic and bewilderment until truly facing such a moment.

The old emperor waved his hand, dismissing the attending eunuchs and palace attendants, leaving only six people in the tent besides himself. Hu De, as the chief of the palace eunuchs, was naturally among them, as was the imperial diarist the old emperor rarely used.

Slowly turning his head, the old emperor looked at the Earl of Ding'an, Li Jian, and said feebly: "Yuanhui, you have served as my bodyguard for forty-five years. Some even jest that you are a gatekeeper noble, a guardian earl. These years have been a hardship for you!"

Upon hearing this, Li Jian immediately kowtowed, his emotions bursting forth all at once. Choking back sobs, he said: "Your Majesty, this is this old minister's supreme honor. What grievance could there be!"

"Then stand your final watch for me! After escorting me back to the capital, lay down your post and retire!" the old emperor said weakly.

"This old minister, receives the edict!" Tears welled in Li Jian's aged eyes as he kowtowed.

The old emperor then looked at Li Shaoyou, maintaining the same rhythm in his voice: "Brother You, between you and me, no words are needed. My affairs after death, I entrust to you! Bring a message to the Crown Prince—tell him I am very satisfied with him."

"Yes!" Li Shaoyou struggled to control his emotions.

Finally, the old Emperor looked toward the two brothers Liu Wenhuan and Liu Wenji, who were already at a loss, and with a sudden struggle, mustering his strength, said: "You brothers—conduct yourselves well!"

The two brothers stared blankly at the old Emperor, unable to speak, their eyes growing redder and redder. The diarist recording at the side had trembling hands, his gaze constantly drifting toward the old Emperor, yet the old Emperor seemed to have already said everything he wished to convey.

Lying on the couch, his aged eyes gradually grew hazy, gradually lost their focus. None knew how long passed, when the atmosphere in the tent was completely shrouded in grief, the old Emperor stirred once more, his voice broken and intermittent, murmuring in a low tone:

"They say... before death, one can review one's entire life. Why can I see nothing? No—I do see it. Is this the Great Han Empire? This—"

Suddenly, the old Emperor's eyes flew wide open, the whites shot through with blood vessels, as if he had seen something horrifying. By the time the ministers before the couch reacted, the old Emperor no longer made any sound at all.

On the twenty-ninth day of the sixth month of the thirtieth year of Kaibao (992), Emperor Liu Chengyou of the Han passed away at the field headquarters at Mount Tai, aged sixty-two, having reigned for forty-five years—his merits and faults beyond measure!

The End.