Chapter 2113: End of the Taizong Chronicles: The Close of an Era

At the outer harbor of Shanghai, overlooking the sea and commanding the Yangtze, Port No. 1 was a military port—the home port of the Great Han's East Sea Fleet. Sailing out of the Yangtze and across the open sea, one could always glimpse the mighty, imposing warships, whose every movement struck awe into the foreign merchants arriving from distant voyages, especially after the East Sea Fleet completed its replacement of cannon-armed vessels.

Port No. 2 lay at some distance from Port No. 1 and was Shanghai's largest civilian port—vast in scale, with numerous berths capable of accommodating over a hundred large vessels at once. Unlike the inland river docks spread along the Song River, Port No. 2 mainly served large ships plying coastal and ocean routes, and in late autumn, it was the busiest time of year for the port.

Because berths were in short supply and ships could not enter the harbor, quite a few merchant vessels were still cruising outside Shanghai's port, all behaving very "obediently." They had no choice but to comply—not long ago, an Arab merchant ship had arrived at Shanghai, and whether because it was the captain's first visit and he lacked experience, or because he had been blinded or lost his wits, he dared to ignore the regulations and refuse to heed instructions, attempting to force his way into port to take on water and unload cargo.

The customs patrol boats issued several warnings, which went unheeded—until two cannon-armed warships of the East Sea Fleet were summoned, and before the eyes of all the foreign vessels, they fired over a hundred shells, blasting that Arab merchant ship to pieces. It gave a great fright to a great many people.

Under normal circumstances, Shanghai's response would not have been so drastic, and the navy would not have been deployed so readily. But this time, Shanghai was in a special period—the Emperor was about to grace the city with his presence. How could mere barbarians be permitted to run wild? The Great Han's rules had to be obeyed to the letter by the foreign barbarians; otherwise, the Great Han's heavenly majesty would be diminished and national dignity lost. If word of it reached the throne, it would be hard to explain.

The Emperor's arrival brought joy not only to Shanghai's gentry, commoners, and merchants, but also to tens of thousands of foreign traders—to some extent, they were even more excited than the Great Han's own subjects. After all, although the Great Han's coast had opened many trading ports, the interior—especially the capital region near the heart of imperial power—had become increasingly difficult to enter.

For the many barbarian merchants who had come from across the seas, the entire Great Han remained shrouded in a veil of mystery. The open windows were certainly bright and splendid, prosperous and developed, eye-catching—but compared to the mysterious and authoritative Emperor who ruled over ten thousand li of rivers and mountains and hundreds of millions of subjects, at least for the moment, their appeal was not quite as strong.

So how could the barbarian merchants who had arrived in Shanghai this season not flock to the city in droves? Some merchant ships that had been preparing to leave port even changed their schedules, all for a glimpse of the Great Han Emperor's peerless bearing—even if only to join in the excitement.

Emperor Liu Yang's inspection of Shanghai began, as always, with basic political and livelihood matters. Of course, for a commercial city that had already become the Great Han Empire's largest trading port, the affairs he inquired into naturally leaned somewhat toward commerce.

In this regard, there were several figures that even Liu Yang found astonishing. By the thirteenth year of Yongxi, the total cargo capacity rotating through all of Shanghai's ports and docks over a ten-day period had reached 320,000 shi. With cargo throughput on such a scale, Shanghai had truly become the Great Han's number one port in name and in fact.

At the same time, the annual total commercial tax revenue from the River and Maritime Customs alone approached three million strings of cash. Thanks to the court's low tariffs on grain imports, the grain shipped annually from the South Seas into Shanghai's port exceeded 300,000 shi—enough to supply the food needs of Shanghai's 400,000 residents, gentry and commoners alike, for two full months.

Beyond grain, the throughput of all manner of goods and materials also reached new heights in the thirteenth year of Yongxi.

When those strings of polished figures were laid before Liu Yang, he could not help but feel somewhat dazzled. Against the immense bulk of the old empire, Shanghai's achievements were nothing much—and yet, it had only been a few decades. What had once been fishing villages and farmland had developed to such a degree.

For a moment, Liu Yang, as the empire's supreme ruler, felt it all rather surreal, his heart filled with a sense of unreality. He could not resist the curiosity to investigate just how such a metropolis had come to be, and upon reflection, for the first time in his life, Liu Yang truly accepted and affirmed the driving power of "commerce."

Shanghai already had no small number of foreign merchant establishments, and the foreign merchants and barbarians residing there year-round numbered in the tens of thousands. As for these, Liu Yang did not, like Emperor Shizu, find them an eyesore to be purged—though this was also because the foreign merchants in Shanghai were, for the most part, quite law-abiding.

Including merchants from "friendly states" such as Goryeo and Japan, Liu Yang ordered that a number of representatives be selected from among the merchants of various countries and regions, to dine with him.

And so, twelve foreign merchants became the "lucky ones," granted the opportunity to converse up close with the Son of Heaven of the Great Han. Of course, these twelve shared one common trait: they were wealthy, famous, long-resident in Shanghai, and literate in Chinese characters, fluent in the Chinese language, and versed in Chinese rites.

While in the capital, Liu Yang had more than once come into contact with barbarian merchants who had arrived overland, learning from those land merchants about the religions, politics, military affairs, economies, languages, and cultures of Central Asia and even more distant regions.

But as for those who came by sea, in the past Liu Yang had mostly met early native state envoys. As the Great Han had carved up and dominated nearly all of Southeast Asia, that diplomatic state of affairs had gradually transformed into the present "new Han vassal system." As for maritime merchants, to be honest, this was the first time Liu Yang had conversed with them in his capacity as Emperor.

The content of the conversations was largely consistent—mainly allowing Liu Yang to learn about the countries, peoples, cultures, and customs that interested him, deepening the Emperor's understanding of foreign lands. To be fair, the overseas expansion initiated by Emperor Shizu had greatly broadened the horizons and vision of a portion of the Great Han's gentry and commoners. Not to mention the navy, nobles, and maritime merchants who had long been traversing the seas—even Emperor Liu Yang, while harboring doubts, also held a strong spirit of inquiry.

At present, the Great Han Empire's overseas maritime trade was mainly directed at Goryeo, Japan, and the vassal states of the South Seas. Goryeo and Japan needed little discussion—they were "traditional" trading partners. At Shanghai port alone, no fewer than a thousand merchant ships plied between the two countries each year, and their gold, silver, and copper were the most sought-after commodities in the Great Han.

As for the South Seas states, after nearly two decades of development, they had become increasingly respectable and were able to feed more resources back to the Great Han—especially spices and grain, which could hardly fill the Great Han's market no matter how much arrived.

In comparison, the Arab merchants, who had once served as the "main force," had become somewhat subdued—on the one hand, the empire's rejection and even prohibition of their religious beliefs; on the other, the chaos of the Arab region itself.

Another dramatic upheaval was unfolding there, and the accession of the three Anxi states had intensified the local turmoil and disorder. Frequent wars not only disrupted production but also affected trade. In the past, only the overland Silk Road had been intermittent; now even the maritime Silk Road was being obstructed.

In fact, due to the chaos of the Arab world, the Great Han's exchanges with the entire West had nearly ground to a halt by the thirteenth year of Yongxi. Therefore, in recent years, the expansion of Han influence had in practice been concentrated mainly in the South Seas and the Indochinese Peninsula—and, of course, one other target: the Indian region.

Learning about foreign lands from the mouths of South Seas maritime merchants was, for Liu Yang, still a rather novel experience—there were, after all, vastly different perspectives between land and sea. This novelty even stirred in Liu Yang an impulse to go out and see for himself—though that was as far as it went. Setting aside whether it was realistic, his age and body could no longer accommodate his greater thoughts and ambitions.

In the end, Liu Yang concluded this banquet—not grand, yet of great significance—with thanks and praise for the maritime merchants in attendance. Liu Yang affirmed the benefits these commercial exchanges had brought to the Great Han, while also encouraging foreign merchants to come and strengthen the ties between them. As long as they operated lawfully and with integrity, the Great Han welcomed them all. Before the feast dispersed, each guest also received a set of exquisite porcelain ware bestowed by the Emperor.

When the proceedings and results of this banquet spread abroad, the merchants of Shanghai—regardless of origin, Han or barbarian—were all filled with jubilation and encouragement, their enthusiasm for commerce rising further. Liu Yang's act of feasting the barbarian merchants was the first time the empire's supreme ruler had truly affirmed the contributions of merchants.

Even though such a practice was debatable within the Great Han's official-centric system and its culture of suppressing commerce, and was liable to provoke criticism, Liu Yang still chose to do it, delivering some groundbreaking remarks.

What the future held was as yet unknown, but at least for the merchants and people of Shanghai in late autumn of the thirteenth year of Yongxi, it was as joyful as a festival.

The Emperor's arrival brought an extremely positive, vibrant, and enthusiastic effect to the entire city of Shanghai. Yet amid all the jubilation, there were always those who were dejected, depressed, and troubled—such as Prince Ruyang, Liu Wenhuan.

Liu Wenhuan, in his thirties, was in the prime of life and ought to have been full of vigor and high spirits. But at this moment, he exuded an air of decadence from head to toe, his face practically written with the character for "mourning." Judging by his appearance, calling him past fifty would not have been an exaggeration.

Clearly, the affair three years ago had dealt him too great a blow. The Emperor had thoughtfully brought him along to travel and see the world, to heal the wounds of his heart—but the effect was evidently poor.

Liu Wenhuan's body had come along, but his soul knew not where it had wandered. All day long he was absent-minded, never letting the wine cup leave his hand. In the field headquarters, in a clean and elegant room, the night was not yet deep, and Liu Wenhuan's eyes were already bleary with drink.

"Your Highness!" A concerned voice sounded at his ear. Crouching beside the food table was a beautiful woman, her face bearing worry, her gaze full of deep feeling, watching Liu Wenhuan. Liu Wenhuan raised his head and glanced at the woman, but did not acknowledge her—instead, he picked up the wine flagon again and poured more into his mouth. Seeing this, the woman could finally no longer hold back. She leaned forward, both hands gripping Liu Wenhuan's tightly, and pleaded tearfully: "Your Highness, please stop drinking! If you go on like this, your health will collapse!"

By rights, a woman's tears should no longer hold much power over Liu Wenhuan—but this woman was different. Her name was Liu E. She had entered the marquis's residence when Liu Wenhuan was still the Marquis of Wannian, rising step by step from a lowly maidservant to Liu Wenhuan's personal concubine. Through the more than three years of Liu Wenhuan's decline, she had stayed by his side, serving him throughout, and was one of the very few people who could pry open even a crack in Liu Wenhuan's heart.

Liu E's concern was written plainly on her face, and Liu Wenhuan could feel it. He raised his head, his bleary drunken eyes regaining a trace of clarity, and spoke, his voice full of dejection: "What use is there in my keeping this shell of a body?"

"Your Highness is a fine man, standing tall between heaven and earth—how can you abandon yourself like this! In this state, how can you face the earnest teachings of Emperor Shizu, how can you face the fervent expectations of His Majesty the Emperor?" Seeing Liu Wenhuan so dejected, Liu E could finally hold back no longer, speaking with sincere urgency: "Your humble concubine presumes to beg Your Highness to rouse yourself!"

That a woman could speak such forceful, resounding words—Liu Wenhuan seemed to be called back to his senses by her. He was startled for a moment, then turned his head to look toward the door, a trace of bitterness surfacing at the corners of his mouth, and said mournfully: "What expectations could His Majesty still hold for me?"

At this, Liu E spoke perhaps the boldest words of her life: "To sink to such depths over a woman—how can that be called a true man!"

Hearing this, Liu Wenhuan's gaze instantly turned fierce, staring at Liu E, his eyes reddening, even a flash of cruelty appearing within them. Yet, noticing the sincerity in Liu E's eyes, Liu Wenhuan slowly calmed down.

But the wine flagon in his hand was still not set down; he continued to pour another mouthful into himself. Just as Liu E was about to offer further counsel, he suddenly hurled the flagon against the wall. The flagon shattered, liquid splashing everywhere.

For a moment, the room fell utterly silent, leaving almost only Liu Wenhuan's heavy, ragged breathing. And noticing Liu Wenhuan's heaving chest and cold, sharp gaze, Liu E was not afraid—on the contrary, a slight smile hung at the corners of her mouth.

As luck would have it, just as Liu Wenhuan was beginning to rouse himself under Liu E's "provocation," a palace eunuch arrived to report that the Emperor had summoned him.

Under the night sky, the field headquarters were brightly lit throughout, and especially where the imperial residence was located, many torches and oil lamps were burning. With Liu E's help, Liu Wenhuan, having been simply tidied up, walked slowly over, and happened to run into Prince Linzi, Liu Wenji, emerging from the imperial residence.

Seeing Liu Wenhuan, Liu Wenji was first surprised, looked him over twice, then hurried forward, clasping his hands in salute: "Elder Brother!"

Looking at Liu Wenji, who wore a respectful expression, Liu Wenhuan's face was full of indifference. He said not a word, merely nodded at him, and went inside.

Liu Wenji did not feel embarrassed, but as he watched Liu Wenhuan's retreating figure from behind, he let out a faint sigh. The relationship between the two brothers had always been restrained, and they had had no small number of clashes in the past—but those had mostly been conflicts of philosophy and style. Yet those arguments and quarrels of old, compared to the present "facing each other without a word," still contained at least a little brotherly affection.

The Emperor's chamber was lit with dim, scattered lamplight. Liu Yang was far from his bedtime, still bent over his desk, reading through the memorials submitted from all quarters—though, as the autumn night was cold, he had added a robe over his shoulders.

Only when Liu Wenhuan entered and performed his rites did Liu Yang set down the memorial in his hand, looking with complex eyes at his dejected eldest son. Liu Wenhuan, too, knelt there like a block of wood, not moving—though this was perhaps the first time in three years that Liu Wenhuan dared to raise his head and meet the Emperor's gaze directly.

The father and son looked at each other for a long while, silent for a long while, until finally Liu Yang spoke first, in a wistful tone: "I know that these three years, you have been wronged."

On this autumn night, Liu Wenhuan stayed with Liu Yang for a very long time. The father and son talked by candlelight deep into the night—the first time in more than three years that they had opened their hearts to each other, and together faced that past affair, that ugly business, that neither had been willing to mention.

Liu Wenhuan's heart-knot was clearly not so easily untied, but on this autumn night, he wept more than once—more tears than he had shed in the past thirty-odd years combined.

The very next day, Liu Yang issued an edict, enfeoffing his eldest son, Liu Wenhuan, as Prince of Annam, granting him nearly the entire Annam Circuit, along with the four prefectures of Chenla that he had captured with his army in years past. With this, the pattern of three princes sharing the Indochinese Peninsula was established.

The four prefectures of northern Chenla aside, the key lay in the Annam Circuit—over the past three years, under Kou Zhun's administration, it had developed quite well. Clearly, this was a generous enfeoffment. Liu Yang was very protective of his eldest son, and this was almost the only time in Liu Yang's imperial career that personal feeling had outweighed public principle.

At Dianshan Lake, located at the junction of the three prefectures of Su, Xiu, and Shang, before winter arrived, accompanied by Wang Xuanzhen, Emperor Liu Yang personally came to this place.

Standing by the lakeshore, letting the lake wind blow his white beard about, Liu Yang gazed at the water, silently listening to Wang Xuanzhen's account of his plan from years past to cut a new canal, linking the three rivers and the sea—the very proposal he had once presented to Prince Zhao, Liu Fang, now being relayed to Liu Yang.

As for this matter, Liu Yang, while approving of his attitude and vision, also remarked that a man's life has its limits; some things cannot be finished in one lifetime and must be left to later generations.

The southern inspection tour of the thirteenth year of Yongxi was perhaps the longest journey Liu Yang ever undertook—altogether, he spent more than a year in the south, going down through Jiangsu and Zhejiang, passing through Jiangxi, Fujian, and Guangdong, then returning north to the capital via the two Hu circuits. Like Emperor Shizu in his later years, he personally measured the southern realm and its boundless scenery with his own two feet.

At the same time, this was also the last inspection tour of Liu Yang's life. Not long after returning to the capital, he took to his sickbed.

In the tenth month of winter in the fourteenth year of Yongxi, Liu Yang, the third emperor of the Great Han Empire, passed away with no small regret, dying of illness in the Qianqiu Hall of the Ziwei Palace in Luoyang at the age of fifty-seven, with the temple name Taizong.

The entire Yongxi era, within a nation of autocratic monarchy, was a period that could be called glorious. Building upon the foundation laid by Shizu, Liu Yang served as chief architect, further perfecting and refining the institutions of the Great Han, resolving a series of political, military, economic, and livelihood problems arising from Shizu's governance.

The politics of the Great Han, beginning with the Yongxi dynasty, trended toward rationality and harmony; productive forces continued to rise, the economy developed at high speed, society was stable and orderly, and culture was brilliant and flourishing.

Liu Yang was gone, his departure somewhat sudden, but what he left behind was a central empire approaching its zenith, a dynasty innovative beyond its predecessors and full of vitality. And after an entire Yongxi era of cultivating internal strength and recovering development, the foundation Liu Yang left behind was far more substantial than what had existed when Shizu passed away.

And the one receiving this inheritance was, without question, the nineteen-year-old Crown Prince Liu Wenpeng. Supported by a host of veteran Yongxi ministers, Liu Wenpeng ascended the throne in the Chuigong Hall, and the Great Han Empire once again welcomed a young Son of Heaven.