Chapter 2103: Taizong Chronicles 45: The Succession Struggle Rekindles

Liu Wenhuan returned to court and, unsurprisingly, missed the Mid-Autumn Festival. However, the moment he arrived in the capital, he was summoned to the palace to report on his work. Emperor Liu Yang wanted to personally hear his "first-hand" understanding and views on the peninsula war.

The conversation between father and son lasted a full hour. Liu Yang was as serious as usual, revealing little emotion, and his attitude showed only slight encouragement. But not long after receiving Liu Wenhuan, he sent someone to issue an edict, promoting Liu Wenhuan to Commandery Prince of Ruyang for his achievements in Annam.

At the same time, the Hall of State Affairs was ordered to begin evaluating the meritorious officials of the Annam campaign. No matter how much controversy the war in the south stirred in court, with so many sacrifices made, the soldiers' contributions could not be erased. Strategic decisions at the top were settled at the top; what should be given, what treatment was due—not a bit could be lacking.

Thus, while the court paid out a large sum in pensions, the Great Han Empire also produced several new military nobles. Leading the list was naturally Hou Yanguang, the deputy commander. The court was well aware that he was the actual commander of the Han army. The coordination and deployment of over a hundred thousand troops was truly not something Liu Wenhuan, with his insufficient experience, could handle.

Therefore, although Hou Yanguang yielded the title of "first merit," he gained real benefits. Liu Yang conferred upon him the title of Marquis of Pingnan. After five years, the marquisate that had originally belonged to the Wang Quanbin family was continued through Hou Yanguang.

At the same time, Kou Zhun was also commended for actively raising grain and supplying provisions during the war, efficiently and orderly dispatching men and resources, ensuring the army's supply lines were never lacking.

Of course, since he had just taken office as Administration Commissioner of Annam, he could not be promoted in rank, and ennoblement was not easy either. Thus, he was granted a gold fish pouch, ceremonial robes, saddle and horse, along with a modest increase in administrative treatment, and one major merit recorded in his dossier.

Not long after receiving his rewards, Kou Zhun summarized the peninsula war situation from his own perspective and submitted a memorial to Emperor Liu Yang—a text of ten thousand characters.

The point he made was but one: he earnestly begged the Emperor to sheathe the sword and cease hostilities, not to lightly open the door to war again. Fighting was simply too expensive, especially in these frontier regions. It could almost be said with certainty that it was not worth the cost.

Taking the war against Chenla as an example, if the men and resources spent on fighting were used to build bridges and roads and construct water conservancy works, the agricultural conditions of all Annam could be considerably improved.

Of course, if it were merely a plea to stop the fighting and let the people rest and recover, such platitudes would hardly bring surprise or delight. Moreover, all peace rests on one great premise: the court's dignity must not be profaned, and the empire's territory must not be violated.

Where Kou Zhun was clever was that while declaring his "civil governance" political stance, he focused on explaining how to stabilize the frontier. Still using Annam as an example, he presented ten recommendations to Liu Yang. In summary, they came down to five: settle Han civilians on the frontier, divide and weaken the barbarian tribes, build water conservancy, develop transportation, and encourage agriculture.

Not one of these required no investment. The court had always had preferential policies for frontier circuits and prefectures, but they could absolutely not satisfy Kou Zhun's "Ten Articles for Pacifying the Frontier." And the true purpose behind Kou Zhun writing such a long memorial seemed about to surface.

Thus, after reading the memorial, Liu Yang issued an edict exempting Annam Circuit from one year's taxes. Note that this exemption did not mean the localities stopped collecting taxes—rather, one year's regular levies need not be remitted to the court, and that portion was to serve as Kou Zhun's "startup capital" for pacifying Annam.

Of course, this process inevitably involved the court dispatching censors, secret envoys, and similar officials to investigate openly and secretly. As for the integrity of local bureaucrats, Liu Yang no longer believed a single hair of it—Kou Zhun included.

Take Jiannan for example: after the rebellion was suppressed, the court also exempted taxes for the severely damaged prefectures and counties as appropriate. And what happened? Several dozen officials were executed, and the court sent over a dozen more envoys down to the circuits and prefectures to investigate thoroughly before the corrupt practices were somewhat curbed.

Liu Yang had also discovered that some local bureaucrats were especially fond of scheming over the court's "benefits for the people" policies, as if the court's grace and favor were not meant for the common folk but for bureaucrats like themselves—as if they itched unbearably unless they reached out their hands and got a cut.

At the same time, after some consideration, Liu Yang also temporarily placed the four new prefectures Liu Wenhuan had established in Northern Chenla under the jurisdiction of Annam Circuit. To put it precisely, he was adding burdens to Kou Zhun—wasn't he fond of making a fuss? Give him a place to exercise his talents.

Of course, this was not to let Kou Zhun stir the situation into chaos; otherwise, he would bear primary responsibility. Kou Zhun was not stupid—compared to Liu Wenhuan, at least, he had far more sense.

"Congratulations, Your Highness." At the palace gate, Zhao Kuangyi "happened to run into" the newly elevated Commandery Prince of Ruyang, Liu Wenhuan, who had just finished paying respects to Consort Zhao. His expression slightly complicated, he offered his greetings.

Liu Wenhuan was clearly in a good mood. Though he did not let himself go entirely, the spring breeze of complacency on his face could not be restrained no matter what.

However, upon seeing Zhao Kuangyi, he immediately resumed a serious demeanor, bowed respectfully, and addressed him as Grand-Uncle. Toward Zhao Kuangyi, this grand-uncle of his, Liu Wenhuan showed far more respect than his mother did. He understood better how much help Zhao Kuangyi could bring him—unlike Consort Zhao, who would occasionally maintain her reserve and agonize over inexplicable "prejudices of family standing."

Perhaps due to Liu Wenhuan's attitude, the stern expression on Zhao Kuangyi's face softened somewhat. He took the initiative to invite Liu Wenhuan for a chat over "family matters," and Liu Wenhuan naturally had no reason to decline.

The two did not return to their residences but instead sat down at an unremarkable tavern outside the Purple Gold Temple, ordering a pot of warm wine to accompany their talk. It was not that they were unconcerned about prying eyes and ears—rather, their respective residences were probably even less "private" than this small tavern.

"Your Highness's leading of troops to counterattack Chenla was still somewhat rash." After a cup of warm wine went down, Zhao Kuangyi could not help but point out.

Upon hearing this, Liu Wenhuan's brows immediately furrowed. "That matter is past. Why does Grand-Uncle bring it up again now?"

Noting Liu Wenhuan's reaction, Zhao Kuangyi sighed inwardly, poured two cups of wine, and said, "Forgive this old servant for speaking out of turn. I only wish to remind Your Highness of one or two things—elation that leads to carelessness does Your Highness no good!"

Hearing Zhao Kuangyi say this, Liu Wenhuan's brows furrowed even tighter. Lectures of this sort were not easy for a hot-blooded young man who had just achieved something to accept. At the very least, Zhao Kuangyi did not possess the authority and status to suppress Liu Wenhuan.

Thus, Liu Wenhuan's expression immediately fell, and he said with some indignation: "I know full well what Grand-Uncle means! But speaking of the matter on its merits—Chenla violated the prohibitions without cause, and I led troops to counterattack and exact retribution. What fault is there in that?

How can the glorious Great Han tolerate provocation from a petty little state? 'Those who offend the mighty Han, though distant, shall surely be punished'—that was the powerful declaration of the chaotic Later Han. Is the Great Han of today inferior even to the previous dynasty? Had this been the era of Shizu, would the army have withdrawn without destroying Chenla to the point of extinguishing its people? And who would have dared to utter a word of objection?"

"What Your Highness says is reasonable!" Liu Wenhuan's speech was forceful and resounding, and Zhao Kuangyi nodded in acknowledgment, then immediately followed up: "If not for that justification, does Your Highness think you could have smoothly counterattacked and conquered Northern Chenla? To strike out rashly, deep into enemy territory—even if you had taken the entire kingdom of Chenla, without your status as the eldest imperial son, does Your Highness believe the court would have tolerated it?"

Hearing Zhao Kuangyi say this, much of the arrogance on Liu Wenhuan's face faded. He bowed his head in thought, but could not find a way out of it. Finally, he looked up directly at Zhao Kuangyi and said, "What exactly does Grand-Uncle want to say! If the Murong clan and the court officials are dissatisfied, they will be dissatisfied regardless. If Your Majesty has objections—the merits of the southern campaign have already been settled, and I have been elevated to Commandery Prince. What is there to worry about?"

Liu Wenhuan's tone carried a hint of challenge, his gaze fixed intently on Zhao Kuangyi. Zhao Kuangyi was silent for a long moment, then asked with some melancholy: "Does Your Highness think His Majesty can be deceived?"

"His Majesty sees through everything with keen perception and sees ten thousand li ahead—how could he be deceived? Precisely because of this, he cannot be taken advantage of by petty schemers!" Liu Wenhuan replied stubbornly.

Zhao Kuangyi took a gulp of wine and said, "Let Your Highness search your own heart: when you led troops to attack Chenla, was it out of righteous indignation to display our nation's might, or was it to seek fame and merit?"

At these words, Liu Wenhuan's face immediately could not maintain its composure. He even stood up directly, and only when he noticed people around casting glances his way did he pretend nothing was wrong and slowly sit back down.

Looking at Zhao Kuangyi, who sat there raising his cup for a small sip, he took a deep breath of the autumn chill, hesitated briefly, then lowered his voice and said, "The Third Brother is already twelve. My time is running out, and my opportunities are running out. If I do not press forward, how can I break this deadlock?"

Liu Wenhuan revealing his true feelings so openly took Zhao Kuangyi somewhat by surprise, but hearing his words, his expression grew even more solemn. He replied, "Since Your Highness has such ambition, all the more reason to plan for the long term. Impatience will only make things go against your wishes." "Does Your Highness know how much money and grain this war in Annam and Chenla cost the court, and how much civilian labor the localities were conscripted for?" Zhao Kuangyi said with some earnestness: "If even these are not considered, how can you win the Emperor's heart?"

"His Majesty is a man who considers the overall situation. Ennobling you as a prince also contains a father's love for his son! Having Your Highness lead troops to repel the enemy was itself a test. Does Your Highness believe your performance in the southern campaign can move His Majesty?"

Zhao Kuangyi said: "If Your Highness wishes to contend for the succession, you must adapt to the times and follow the current. What is the great trend of the realm today? It all rests with His Majesty!

Has Your Highness carefully studied and pondered His Majesty's governing policies and principles? If you do not recognize this, then no matter how much you do, no matter how hard you strive, it will only be climbing a tree to catch fish—going south while heading north."

For Liu Wenhuan, Zhao Kuangyi's words were not pleasant to hear—not just unpleasant, but somewhat verbose and nagging, enough to irritate. In the end, however, Liu Wenhuan indicated that he would pay attention in the future, study his imperial father's governing policies and principles more, and no longer rush forward impatiently, and so on. But how much of it Liu Wenhuan actually took to heart was unclear.

No matter how Zhao Kuangyi advised, at least on the surface, the eldest imperial son was currently in favor and favored. Zhao Kuangyi's bucket of cold water was, to some extent, ill-timed.

Liu Wenhuan took his leave first. Zhao Kuangyi sat alone in the tavern, pouring and drinking by himself, swallowing all his worries down with the wine.

Zhao Kuangyi was now fifty-nine, approaching sixty. His years were advanced, and the political ambitions of his youth and prime had been gradually worn away by the erosion of time.

To be honest, Zhao Kuangyi's desire for power was no longer as strong as it had once been. In court, aside from fulfilling his duties as a minister and cultivating himself in governance, all his effort and hopes were placed on Liu Wenhuan—only to help Liu Wenhuan ascend. That way, he would have achieved success and fame, and could die content.

However, after all these years, given the performance of Consort Zhao and her son, Zhao Kuangyi's confidence could not help but waver. There were truly too many things beyond his control.

Consort Zhao was but a woman of limited vision; Zhao Kuangyi could overlook that. But Liu Wenhuan—whom he had previously regarded with great favor—now also gave him a sense of powerlessness.

For no particular reason, Zhao Kuangyi suddenly thought of Zhao Dezhao. Even in supporting Consort Zhao and her son, he had not been as active as Zhao Kuangyi himself. To be sure, the one who held authority in the Zhao clan now was Zhao Kuangyi himself, but Zhao Dezhao and Consort Zhao were full siblings. Thinking back now, this eldest nephew of his seemed to see things more clearly than he did.

But things had come to this point—Zhao Kuangyi had no path of retreat left. There was only the road forward, however dark. Of course, he had no intention of retreating either.

While Zhao Kuangyi was criticizing Liu Wenhuan's impatience, in the palace there was someone even more anxious, unable to find peace.

"Empress, I still say the same thing: at this time, inaction is better than action. As long as the Third Prince remains humble and filial, prudent in thought and diligent in conduct, learning propriety and cultivating virtue, then his position cannot be shaken by anyone. Otherwise, the pillar-of-the-state nobles will not agree, and neither will the full court of ministers!" Inside the Kunming Hall, Minister of Personnel Murong Defeng was earnestly persuading Empress Murong.

But the Empress would not listen. She immediately rebuked: "You always have this same argument, speaking with such certainty. But look at the situation in court now! Liu Wenhuan has already been made a prince!

Back then, you said my son was too young to bear the state, and I endured it. Now my son has grown—yet he still cannot be established in his rightful position. What is the reasoning behind that?"

"You always say time is on our side, but these five or six years have passed, and His Majesty has shown no indication—while the Zhao mother and son receive ever greater favor.

The eldest legitimate son—has His Majesty ever treated Wenpeng as his legitimate heir?"

"Empress!" Hearing Empress Murong's complaints, Murong Defeng grew somewhat anxious, his tone even turning a bit stern as he said loudly: "You must not blame His Majesty!"

Noting Murong Defeng's serious expression, the Empress also realized she had misspoken. A hint of embarrassment flashed across her dignified bearing. She turned and sat down, took a deep breath, and said with a dejected air: "Rixin, tell me—what is His Majesty truly thinking? When the late emperor enfeoffed His Majesty, His Majesty was only eight years old, and his status was settled early. Thus for over thirty years, even the dragon-and-tiger brothers could not contend with him.

Now my son is already twelve. If his status is not settled, will it not make the nobles wait and see, make the court officials suspicious, and give the Zhao clan delusions?

If this continues, with the foundation of the state unsettled—setting aside how my son and I fare—what benefit is there for the rivers and mountains of the Great Han?"

It was rare to see the Empress analyze the succession dispute so calmly. Murong Defeng listened, thought for a moment, and also tried to speak as evenly as possible: "Times change, and the situation is different now. Regarding the matter of the Crown Prince's succession, Your Majesty has his own considerations; at present, he is likely still observing. However, your servant speaks from old experience, and still believes that as long as the Empress and the Third Prince make no mistakes, Your Majesty cannot possibly set aside the legitimate heir in favor of a concubine's son."

"The system of succession by the eldest legitimate son was established by an agreement between Shizu and the high ministers, and it is also the great principle of righteousness by which Your Majesty smoothly ascended the throne. To violate this system in appointing an heir would be the path to chaos. Your Majesty cannot possibly fail to understand this."

"Even so, it is precisely because of this that I am uneasy!" Empress Murong said with a grave expression: "The sovereign's heart is unfathomable! With His Majesty's current power and prestige, if he is determined to install the eldest, which of the court's meritorious nobles and ministers could stop him? Could you?"

This question from Empress Murong truly stumped Murong Defeng. He furrowed his brow in thought for a few moments, then clasped his hands and said: "Your servant humbly begs Her Majesty the Empress to maintain patience and respond as usual."

————

It was clear that the Empress had not taken Murong Defeng's counsel to heart. In the autumn of the sixth year of Yongxi, a group of civil officials from the Three Halls, censors, and ministry officials vied to submit memorials, citing the instability of the state's foundation, requesting that the Emperor formally establish a Crown Prince to reassure the hearts of the realm's subjects.

And so, after an interval of more than five years, the question of the heir apparent was once again placed before Liu Yang. This time, however, Liu Yang handled it far more decisively, refusing to let the two factions struggle against each other and disrupt the court, destroying the harmony and stability that the Great Han had only just managed to restore.

All the officials who had submitted memorials were demoted or dismissed from office. More importantly, Empress Murong was also reprimanded by Liu Yang through an oral decree on some pretext, and from the autumn of the sixth year of Yongxi onward, he almost never set foot in Kunming Hall. Unless at formal occasions, the Emperor and Empress could not even meet.

Of course, Consort Zhao received the same treatment. The two women ordinarily dared not defy Liu Yang, but when it came to their beloved sons, when it came to the position of Crown Prince, they cast aside all caution, which caused Liu Yang considerable vexation.

The "succession dispute" of the autumn of the sixth year was suppressed by Liu Yang's decisive and resolute handling. However, Liu Yang himself knew well that such situations would only grow more frequent, and the pressure and contradictions would only grow heavier — this was almost inevitable.

The merit of supporting a sovereign's rise to power is the foremost achievement in any era. There will always be those who rush forward one after another to strive for it; as long as a breath of life remains, they will throw themselves into it without hesitation.

And this time, Liu Yang also seriously pondered the question of the heir apparent. On the one hand, he was compelled by the surging undercurrents of the succession struggle; on the other hand, it was because Liu Yang himself was no longer young.

In the sixth year of Yongxi, Emperor Liu Yang was already forty-nine years old.