Chapter 445: Rebellion Must Flow With Blood

Wang Yan deliberately timed his arrival in the capital, sending messengers back and forth along the way. What should have taken two days on horseback took him four; only on the fifth day, at dawn on the first day of the fifth month, did he stand beneath the eastern Xincao Gate of Bianjing.

That day, Bianjing was no different from usual: people streamed in and out of the city gates, peddlers carried their wares through the streets, large caravans hauled goods to feed the needs of this supercity. Children with topknots bounced beside their parents, just like children in villages centuries later waiting for the market day, hoping to buy something tasty or fun to show off to their friends. Officials arrived in carriages, lifting their curtains to gaze at the bustling morning scene, marveling at the splendor of the Great Song's capital.

They knew nothing—and even if they had known, they could do nothing.

As Wang Yan stood beneath the gate, the city's overseer, who had been waiting there, ran over, his wide grin impossible to suppress: "Master, the inner and outer cities, as well as the palace's Xihua Gate, were taken last night. In addition, we have three thousand troops still available in the city, all hidden in various locations; as soon as they see the signal, they can assemble outside Xihua Gate in half an hour. An hour ago, I sent a fast rider under your name to the Beibei Army, ordering them to march full force to Bianjing. By now, they should already be on the road, fully armed. They'll be at the city gates within an hour."

Wang Yan glanced at the soldiers on guard at the gate—standing rigid as spears, yet unable to stop glancing his way—and scanned the shadows on the gate tower. His men were unlike Great Song soldiers; all trained under later military manuals, their movements and postures rigidly regulated, instantly recognizable.

Bianjing had many troops: twenty thousand on city guard duty, over twenty thousand more stationed outside, rotating to defend the capital. He had quietly replaced the guards on the tower, so the original palace guards must have been thoroughly infiltrated. There must have been turmoil yesterday—no matter how deep the infiltration, not every soldier could be his own. But their speed and secrecy had kept it from boiling over.

He couldn't infiltrate everyone, but he could ensure his men held key positions within the palace guard. Those who cooperated would be dealt with later; those who didn't would be killed first. He didn't know the exact details, but he suspected many had already died. Zhao Ji might be weak, but he still had loyalists. Even Song Jiang, a bandit chief, had served the state with loyalty—how much more so those who had climbed the ranks within the system? Who, aiming for rebellion, wouldn't risk everything? If the rebellion succeeded, they'd rise to power and glorify their ancestors.

He nodded, glanced at the eunuch who had been beside him all along—eyes wide, mouth agape, utterly speechless with terror—and waved his hand casually. The guards stepped forward, seized the eunuch, and shoved him into a carriage brought by the city overseer nearby.

Such eunuchs running errands were pitiful souls; no need to target them.

"Wait here for the Beibei Army. Have them encircle Bianjing and maintain order inside and out. Temporarily control the gates—no entry or exit. Send patrols through the city; anyone causing trouble, execute on the spot."

"Yes, Master."

"Send the signal. Have the men assemble." Without waiting for the overseer's bow, he leapt onto his horse. No longer the gentle mount of old, he spurred it through the streets, shouting, sending the city into chaos—chickens flew, dogs barked.

After he left, the overseer waved over a subordinate standing at a distance, took the firework he offered, lit the fuse with a flint, and, amid the puzzled stares of onlookers, raised it high. With the smell of gunpowder in the air, a sharp *shoooom! *—a white trail shot skyward, then exploded in a brilliant burst.

Immediately, several more fireworks detonated across the city.

Wang Yan glanced up, then kept riding. He knew it was because Bianjing was so vast—one firework wouldn't be heard everywhere; they'd added more to spread the message.

Riding hard, he soon reached the Xihua Gate amid the crowd's cries of alarm.

There, fully armed troops stood in perfect formation, silent, expressionless, their eyes brimming with killing intent. They were battle-hardened veterans from the Liao frontier, disciplined, experienced. To say one could fight ten was exaggeration—but in formation, three thousand could easily defeat ten thousand. That was against soldiers from Liao or Jin, who fought daily. Against Great Song troops? Even twenty thousand wouldn't stand a chance.

As Wang Yan rode up, a man at the front bowed: "Your servant, Liang Wu, Commander of the Second Brigade, First Division, Liaodong Weiwu Guard, greets… uh…"

Wang Yan chuckled, clapped his shoulder, and gestured for him to stand straight: "You were going to call me Emperor, weren't you? Wanted to flatter me, but couldn't say it?"

Liang Wu grinned awkwardly, stood stiffly.

"How old are you? Song, Jin, or Liao?"

"Your servant is Song. Twenty-three. Five years ago, I fled to Yanggu County and was sent to Suzhou to enlist. Originally a long-handled saber squad leader, I later acquired a warhorse and was transferred to the Weiwu Guard as a camp commander. Marshal Lu was fair in rewards and punishments; last year, I was promoted to commander for merit."

With so many troops, there had to be organization, ranks, status. Wang Yan modeled the structure on the Ming Dynasty's Seventeen Guards: one guard fully manned held fifty thousand. The army was organized into divisions, brigades, regiments, battalions, plus a hundred-man unit called a *du*, with three deputy commandants beneath it—so the smallest combat unit was thirty-plus men.

Why model it on the Ming's Seventeen Guards? Simple: it sounded good.

Liaodong now had fewer than three hundred thousand troops, organized into six guards: Wu De, Longxiang, Bao Tao, Feixiong, Weiwu, Guangwu. The full complement of seventeen guards would be eight hundred fifty thousand—more than enough.

Wang Yan nodded. This boy was honest. He said nothing, took a long blade wrapped in cloth from his saddle, strapped it to his belt. It was his own famed *Hanfeng* Xiuchun sword—long buried, too illegal to draw in this era; pulling it out would invite trouble.

He held the hilt of the sword in one hand, the other behind his back, waiting for his troops to assemble, watching the chaos behind the wide-open Xihua Gate—the palace in turmoil.

Today was the monthly Shuo-Wang grand court; all eligible officials were inside the palace. They'd report matters, or if none, praise Zhao Ji's literary and martial virtues, marvel at auspicious omens.

Now, with troops openly assembling outside the imperial city, word had surely reached the palace. He'd only taken one gate—the others remained unsecured. The main reason? Zhao Ji had replaced the palace guards—correct move, since the old ones were thoroughly infiltrated.

At the same time, the inner city gates closed. Thinking back on the troop assembly, those who had been nervously watching the spectacle now scrambled home in panic.

The palace guards at other gates received orders: rush to defend Great Qing Hall; others assembled behind Xihua Gate to block Wang Yan.

A sound decision. One gate was lost; they couldn't stop his troops from entering the palace. So they kept minimal forces at the gates to prevent feints, concentrated their main strength to protect the ministers and strike Wang Yan directly. They weren't waiting for reinforcements—the inner gates were shut. They only hoped the palace guards could hold out. If they couldn't crush Wang Yan, all was lost.

Wang Yan knew Great Qing Hall must already be in chaos. Great Song had capable ministers—but Zhao Ji's reign still fell short.

Soon, the three thousand troops assembled. Liang Wu shouted: "Report, General: three thousand men fully assembled. Awaiting your orders."

His superior hadn't said his title—he'd thought hard, finally settled on "General."

Wang Yan grunted, waved his hand casually: "Kill anyone who resists. Go."

Liang Wu drew his sword, raised it slantwise: "General's order: kill all who resist. Follow me!"

Instantly, the three thousand drew their blades, held them tight, and sprinted after Liang Wu into the gate.

No stirring speeches, no promises of promotion. They entered the palace in silence. They'd been promised before; in their military lives, officers' words were law. They doubted nothing—only killed, killed, killed.

Though the Zhao Song palace was small, its guards numbered around three thousand, patrolling its many gates. That's why he brought only three thousand to storm it.

Outside, with the Beibei Army, the two thousand he'd recruited, and other miscellaneous forces, he had over seventy thousand. That number was already great respect for the current Zhao Song. This wasn't the peak Song era, when hundreds of thousands of imperial guards garrisoned the capital. With seventy thousand, he could defeat over a hundred thousand in open battle—more than generous.

The defending troops coming through the gate numbered only a thousand. Before the first clash ended, half were dead; the rest threw down their weapons and surrendered.

Liang Wu and his men didn't pause—they ran straight toward Great Qing Hall.

Wang Yan mounted his horse, followed by twenty guards, and strolled slowly through the gate. He glanced at the corpses beneath him, the blood pooling on the ground, and pointed at the surrendered palace guards: "Clear these bodies. Clean this ground."

"Yes, General."

Ignoring them, Wang Yan kicked his horse's flanks. The animal ambled slowly toward the sound of battle.

When he arrived, the fighting at Great Qing Hall had ended. This wasn't children brawling—it was real combat, where one slash meant life or death. A battle of thousands lasted mere minutes.

Corpses lay scattered across the steps, blood flowing down them, everything stained crimson. As expected, many surrendered soldiers had dropped their weapons and crouched quietly, eyes darting nervously. They feared their fate—imperial succession always meant countless deaths.

Wang Yan rode his horse up the steps. They were long and gently sloped; the horse climbed effortlessly.

At the wide-open doors of Great Qing Hall, he dismounted. To Liang Wu, who rushed forward to take his reins, he said: "Have those palace guards clear the bodies. This mess is disgraceful."

Liang Wu nodded and went to give orders.

Watching the morning sun shine on Great Qing Hall, Wang Yan turned and walked slowly into the silent hall.

Zhao Ji still sat on the dragon throne, trembling, pointing at Wang Yan, face flushed with outrage—as if to say, "Why rebel against me? Haven't I treated you well?"

But he couldn't utter a single word.

He was an artist of extraordinary talent, but not a good emperor, nor a strong man. His nature was cowardly, lacking true imperial bearing. Captured by Jin, his wife and daughters violated—he survived. That alone said everything.

Now facing Wang Yan, he still couldn't speak. Not even a promise of high office or riches dared escape his lips. He wasn't insane—he knew such words were useless now. If he angered Wang Yan, a single slash would end him.

The ministers stared at Wang Yan. They hadn't expected such a man to plan so meticulously, to succeed so effortlessly—it was too smooth.

Yet they weren't truly afraid. Even if Wang Yan became emperor, he'd still need them to govern. They were the pillars of the state—how could he kill them all?

As Wang Yan stepped deeper into the silent hall, someone finally couldn't hold back.

"Wang Yan, you have a wolf's heart and rebel's bones. The Emperor granted you high rank and favor—how much trust did he show? Even if you took the throne, the world's tongues would condemn you. History will label you a traitor."

"Audacious! Zhao Ji neglects virtue, indulges in excess, and his rule has left the people impoverished and all industries in decay. Now General Wang has the ability to govern the world and ascend the throne—how could it not make our Huaxia nation prosperous and strong? How dare you corrupt Confucians bark like dogs?"

These two men—one cursing Wang Yan, the other fawning over him—had set the tone. Instantly, the entire Great Qing Hall erupted into chaos, easily splitting into three factions: one cursing, one fawning, and one silent, eyes closed, indifferent to whatever happened.

As the protagonist, Wang Yan had said not a single word since entering; yet these people had already begun fighting—truly fighting, punching, kicking, even biting—mass brawls, throngs of them, wildly boisterous.

This was normal. At this point, there was clearly no chance of reconciliation. During the prior period, they had confirmed that all inner city gates were shut. And considering the rebellion—Wang Yan had brought only three thousand men—combined with his past conduct, it was certain he had prepared thoroughly, leaving them no chance to flee.

So the current situation was clear: these three factions could be further divided into those who did not wish to die, those who wished to die, and those who didn't care. Though they were needed to govern, they were not beyond killing. After all, the Song had nurtured scholars for one hundred and fifty years; bureaucratic bloat had nearly drained the state dry—how could there truly be no officials left? Many were merely masters of empty talk, lacking practical ability, unfit for serious duty.

In this highest seat of Song power, the farce continued. Wang Yan watched as someone's teeth were knocked out—evidence of the ferocity.

He had always disliked noise and commotion, but he said nothing, only standing in the center, tilting his head slightly, raising a finger to dig in his ear.

He was the focal point. Though the brawl had turned deadly, all attention remained fixed on him. As he moved, the hall naturally quieted—those who had been beating each other's brains out were pulled apart and forced to stand on either side.

Wang Yan looked at the man who had been the first to fawn over him—his once handsome face now swollen and bruised—and asked, "Who are you?"

"Your Majesty, I am Qin Gui, jinshi of the Zhenghe Fifth Year, currently serving as Xuezheng of the Imperial Academy."

Qin Gui. Wang Yan understood. Xuezheng was roughly equivalent to a headmaster; at this time, the Imperial Academy held considerable status, hence Qin Gui's right to attend the grand morning assemblies. He hadn't expected that while those with higher ranks remained silent, this man had been the first to raise his banner.

This is not whitewashing Qin Gui. In original history, when the Jin army advanced south, Qin Gui advocated against timidity, warning that showing weakness would embolden the Jin. When the Jin besieged Bianjing, he submitted memorials urging stronger defenses and proposed ceding only the Yanshan region. Emperor Qinzong promoted him, but Qin Gui believed the appointment was solely for negotiating territorial surrender and submitted three memorials requesting resignation.

Of course, these deeds meant little against what followed—his capture by the Jin and the subsequent events. They merely illustrate human complexity. At that time, what Qin Gui truly sought—sincerity or deceit—no one knew, not even Qin Gui himself.

Regardless, Qin Gui orchestrated the death of Yue Fei, a mighty general who had defeated ten thousand with three thousand, the very commander pushing for northern recovery—this was real, undeniable. Such an act could never be justified, under any circumstances.

And now, Qin Gui stood here with this groveling, cowardly grin—what more needed saying?

Wang Yan smiled pleasantly, returning the smile—before Qin Gui's grin could fully bloom, a flash of blade, and Qin Gui's head flew upward; pressure imbalance caused his blood to spurt instantly, then he crashed heavily to the ground. His head rolled several times, sending court officials scrambling to avoid it, terrified of being splattered. On the face of the severed head, the same expression remained—triumphant, ready to burst into laughter…

Wang Yan was highly skilled in decapitation.

After the strike, he had already sidestepped with perfect agility—not a single drop of blood touched him.

Zhao Ji, seated on the dragon throne, and the hundred officials in the hall were startled into a shudder, their faces pale. They could not understand why the first to express support—even calling him "Your Majesty"—had been so swiftly beheaded.

Some stared at the headless corpse, marveling at the smoothness of the severed neck, unable to suppress admiration for how swift, precise, and brutal the blow had been. Truly, fame is never undeserved…

Not everyone was so oblivious. Others watched Wang Yan, now standing aside, sword in hand, proud and still. They gazed at the crimson blood dripping along the exquisite grooves of the blade, yet the steel itself remained spotless, gleaming brightly—and murmured in awe: truly a divine weapon…

Some furrowed their brows, confused, unable to comprehend Wang Yan's action.

Wang Yan absorbed every reaction.

Qin Gui had simply been unlucky enough to step forward. In truth, today, whoever had been the first to fawn over him, Wang Yan would have drawn his blade without hesitation.

His action had no other purpose—simply to establish authority. One must kill someone to quell unrest. After all, rebellion—without bloodshed—would be unjustifiable.

The cowardly surrender faction might possess sufficient administrative skill, but they were almost never decent people, lacking professional integrity. And capable officials were not scarce—cutting them down was no great loss.

He sheathed his blade, stepped forward to stand before the ministers, looked at the still-trembling Zhao Ji on the throne, chuckled softly, then turned to face the court and spoke slowly…