Chapter 297

…

He had to admit that Xiao Sesai had given Zhao Yu a completely new idea—one that was highly feasible.

Historically, Yelu Chun, after being enthroned as Emperor of Northern Liao, reigned for only three months before dying.

Before Yelu Chun’s death, with the Liao Dynasty on the brink of collapse, his rule was merely a desperate attempt to hold together the remnants, and his performance was, in fact, quite mediocre.

At the time, Yelu Yanxi was fleeing from Jin forces, the Liao regime had shattered, and officials and nobles in the Nanjing region (i.e., Yanjing) rallied behind Yelu Chun to establish the Northern Liao regime, though its territory was confined to parts of Yan and Yun.

Externally, it faced fierce attacks from the Jin army, while the Northern Song Dynasty also seized the opportunity to launch a northern campaign aiming to reclaim the Sixteen Prefectures of Yan and Yun; Northern Liao found itself trapped between two fronts.

Faced with such a political environment, Yelu Chun made only limited responses, mostly out of helplessness. After ascending the throne, he swiftly appointed ministers like Li Chuwen, attempting to consolidate the remaining forces and maintain order in the Nanjing region, temporarily uniting the remnants of the Liao. He adopted a hardline stance toward the Zhao Song regime, repelling the Song army led by Tong Guan, briefly easing southern pressure; he also tried to negotiate peace with the Jin, but his overtures were rejected, leaving him virtually no diplomatic space.

Lacking legitimate support from Yelu Yanxi, his regime suffered severe internal divisions (some generals still remained loyal to Yelu Yanxi), and its military strength was too weak to resist Jin offensives.

Yelu Chun’s rule was a brief interlude in the Liao Dynasty’s collapse. Though he tried to salvage the situation, he was constrained by objective circumstances—the overwhelming strength of the Jin army, the massive Song force pressing to reclaim Yan and Yun, and the disintegration of Liao’s foundations—and ultimately could not turn the tide. His actions during his reign were largely reactive and failed to alter Northern Liao’s inevitable downfall.

Overall, Yelu Chun’s conduct reflected the desperate struggle of a regional power in turbulent times. Though he made efforts to sustain his rule, he was limited by his era and strength, ultimately becoming a footnote in the history of the Liao’s fall.

In short, based on Yelu Chun’s historical performance, even with Zhao Yu’s support, it was uncertain whether he could pose any real threat to Wanyan Aguda.

So Yelu Chun was not, in fact, the best candidate.

But before this, Zhao Yu had no better option, which was why he considered Yelu Chun.

Now, however, Xiao Sesai had offered Zhao Yu the new idea of empress dowager rule, and Zhao Yu’s mind came alive. He developed a better, more feasible plan based on Xiao Sesai’s suggestion.

At the same time, Zhao Yu shook his head at Xiao Sesai, rejecting her self-recommendation.

Seeing this, Xiao Sesai was utterly devastated, even beginning to harbor resentment toward Zhao Yu. She had believed that with her intelligence and deep insight into the situation, she could become a pivotal figure shaping the future of Liao—and even the broader world order. Yet Zhao Yu’s simple shake of the head was like an icy blade in a cold wind, instantly shattering all her passion and hope into fragments.

Crucially, to achieve this goal, Xiao Sesai was willing to sacrifice her own elder sister, younger sister, and even her entire family to Zhao Yu.

Even more crucially, if she failed to persuade Zhao Yu, she might never save her son, Yelu Ao.

Moreover, no woman in the inner palace did not hope her son would become emperor; and since the two sons Xiao Sesai bore Zhao Yu could never inherit his throne, Yelu Ao was her only chance.

Added to that, her feelings for her homeland.

Xiao Sesai’s emotions fluttered like autumn leaves caught in the wind—drifting, yet filled with unwillingness. She gazed into Zhao Yu’s deep, complex eyes, searching for a glimmer of hope, but found only resolve and cold calm.

Zhao Yu knew that the game of power admitted no trace of feminine sentiment, nor could emotional entanglements become burdens on decision-making. Though he admired Xiao Sesai’s wit and courage, on this treacherous political chessboard, every move had to be precise, with no room for error.

Moreover, Xiao Sesai had made him kill her former husband—even though Yelu Yanxi was truly beyond redemption and had inflicted immense suffering upon her, and even if one could say she bore him a grudge, this still revealed her utter ruthlessness and unyielding heart, far beyond ordinary people’s capacity.

Zhao Yu silently pondered: ‘This woman is undoubtedly a ruthless one. If I place her at the core of power, will she, when circumstances shift, betray me to protect herself or seize greater gains?’

This doubt, like a shadow in the dark, quietly settled over Zhao Yu’s heart.

Zhao Yu had another, greater concern: if he sent Xiao Sesai back to Liao and let her seize its highest power, would she take lovers?

‘If she does, won’t I be wearing the green hat?’

Zhao Yu didn’t think he was overthinking.

Didn’t Li Zhi treat Wu Zetian well?

Wu Zetian had once been a concubine of Li Shimin, serving him for over a decade. Li Zhi disregarded social conventions, bringing her back from the monastery and later making her empress—what a radical break from tradition at the time?

In his later years, as Li Zhi’s health declined, he allowed Wu Zetian to participate in state affairs, calling them ‘The Two Holy Ones,’ even entrusting her with governance, granting her unprecedented power—how much trust and tolerance was that?

Overall, Wu Zetian’s status in the harem remained secure thanks to Li Zhi’s support.

Could any emperor have treated a woman better than that?

But what did Wu Zetian do?

After Li Zhi’s death, she usurped the Li family’s throne, openly kept lovers like Xue Huaiyi and the brothers Zhang Yizhi and Zhang Changzong, who indulged freely in her harem, wielded power arrogantly in her Zhou court, interfered in state affairs, and trampled the dignity of the Tang Empire underfoot.

Worse still, to cover up her own disgrace, she ruthlessly murdered her own children born to Li Zhi; Li Xian and Li Dan trembled under her tyranny, and the Tang imperial bloodline nearly perished in her hands.

Wu Zetian’s actions were the ultimate mockery of Li Zhi’s deep affection, trust, and tolerance.

And this was no isolated case. History offered countless similar examples proving that when women gained power, they often did astonishing, insane, cruel things—treating authority as their private plaything, squandering it to satisfy their own desires.

Zhao Yu knew that power was like strong liquor—it could intoxicate, and it could corrupt; and when women entered its grasp, they were even more easily corrupted, becoming unrecognizable.