Chapter 458: Doujin 10: Dream of Jinghua — Chu Ming Huai Li

Doujin 10: Dream of Jinghua — Chu Ming Huai Li

Doujin 10: Dream of Jinghua — Chu Ming Huai Li

On the night of the formal relocation of the capital to Yanjing, Yang Yizhong had a very, very long dream.

The Jin state had been annihilated, the treaty had been concluded, the northern border was pacified, and after several more years of planning, construction, and a gradual move of the capital here, once the dust had settled, His Majesty held a banquet in the palace, which had been renovated and rebuilt using the old structures of the former Jin imperial city, and he drank nearly to the point of utter intoxication. As Yang Yizhong and Shao Chengzhang, one on each side, helped His Majesty back from the Da'an Hall, where the feast had been held, to the Zhaoming Palace (Note 1), they clearly heard His Majesty muttering nonsense under his breath, things like "just an ordinary college student," "Capital, I'm back," "The imperial capital is just this, just this," "Should I build a Forbidden City? Forget it, too expensive..."

Shao Chengzhang looked utterly bewildered, while a thousand thoughts raced through Yang Yizhong's mind, but he said not a single word. He only held his breath and listened quietly as His Majesty's sleep-talking gradually gave way to snoring. Only then did he return to his own quarters, where he was suddenly overcome with emotion.

The relocation of the capital was settled, the Yan and Yun regions were fully recovered, and the foundation for a thousand years of achievement had been laid. The wine made his head swim with drowsiness. Now, thinking back to the old dreams of Dongjing before the Jingkang Incident, the precarious days of the first year of the Jianyan era, and the national enmity and familial hatred on Bagong Mountain, it only left his mind in a daze, unsure of what day or year it was, or where the dream began.

In a daze, Yang Yizhong was jolted awake by the glare of lights. He opened his eyes and found himself standing before a building so tall it defied imagination. In front of him was a huge box with six wheels, and a dozen or so young people in their twenties were lining up to get inside. Their clothing was quite strange—the men all had short, shaved heads, and the women dressed rather boldly, with their shoulders, necks, arms, and thighs exposed. Judging by everyone's demeanor, this seemed unremarkable to them.

"Zhao Jiu, get on the bus!" After everyone had entered the box, an older man leaned out from the opening: "We're waiting for you!" His accent was quite similar to the northern dialects, and though there were subtle differences, Yang Yizhong could barely make out a few words.

Yang Yizhong was not too startled at first hearing the name "Zhao Jiu," assuming it was just a coincidence of sounds. But the familiar voice that followed immediately gave him a fright, and he instinctively wanted to call out "Your Majesty."

"Coming, coming!" A young man carrying a backpack came running over in a short sprint, covering three steps in two as he leaped into the box. Yang Yizhong instinctively followed. This person was not short in stature, but still appeared somewhat thin and frail. His features did not resemble His Majesty's, but the manner he displayed was somewhat similar... No, as Yang Yizhong's gaze fell on the big-headed duck on the other's clothes, clutching its head with a dazed expression, he suddenly doubted his own eyesight—how could he think this duck even slightly resembled His Majesty?

Yang Yizhong also entered the box, but the people inside seemed not to see him. Zhao Jiu, clutching his backpack, ran to the last row and sat down. The older man waved to the middle-aged man at the very front, who was holding a strange round disc, and said, "We're all here, driver, let's go."

The box suddenly started moving. Caught off guard, Yang Yizhong pitched forward. He instinctively reached for a seat to steady himself, but saw his hand pass right through it without any resistance. After he steadied himself, he realized his feet were also hovering just above the floor.

This must be a dream. Yang Yizhong moved to the back row and waved his hand in front of the young man named "Zhao Jiu," who showed no reaction at all. He immediately felt relieved—since it was a dream, nothing mattered; he could just follow his whims.

He turned his gaze out the window and could not tear his eyes away. Though it was nighttime, the streetlights still blazed brightly. On the wide road, a bridge soared overhead, though he had no idea what purpose it served. At intersections, lights that changed color automatically directed traffic—red, green, orange, yellow—all in perfect order. Tall buildings lined the streets in close array, and though the various shops were not open, colorful lanterns flickered in front of them, looking from a distance like a rainbow. Though the streets were dim, he could still make out shady green trees and blooming flowers—a scene of splendor.

Truly a wondrous sight. Yang Yizhong wondered if he had stumbled into some world of gods and monsters, but on a street sign he spotted some familiar names, such as Yuyuantan, Lianhuachi, and even a "Jinzhongdu Road" (Note 2). "What you think about by day, you dream about by night," he told himself. These past few days, following His Majesty as he studied maps of the Zhongdu area, he had nearly engraved those place names into his brain, so it was only natural they would appear in his dreams.

This "wheeled box" sped along the road for who knows how long, when Yang Yizhong suddenly saw the gate tower he had pictured in his mind a thousand times. It leaped out from that small coin, suddenly gaining color. In the faint light of dawn, he saw a golden roof and red walls, large red lanterns, and a hanging portrait with a dignified and benevolent face. Wasn't this His Majesty's hometown?

Dazed, he followed this group as they got off the vehicle. Looking around, he found that though it was early morning, the vast square behind him was packed with a sea of people. There were also a few scattered individuals dressed in what seemed like Han-style clothing—he could vaguely make out short jackets, pleated skirts, and beizi-style garments—but they didn't quite resemble the fashions of the Great Song.

What were so many people doing crowded here so early in the morning? Preparing to enter the city? But here, only the gate tower was visible, not the city walls. Not far off, towers and pavilions stood in close array, clearly indicating they were already inside the city. This kind of city within a city... His heart stirred. Could it be the imperial palace within the capital? Before he could guess further, everyone from the box had already gotten out. The older man leading the group counted heads, raised a small flag reading "XXXX University Summer Cultural Heritage Practice," and headed toward the towering monument in the center of the square.

This was His Majesty's place of origin. Yang Yizhong walked beside the young man named "Zhao Jiu," his mind churning with a thousand thoughts. Could this person be His Majesty? Though his appearance was different, the voice and name were too much of a coincidence.

He decided to continue observing. At this moment, the fact that the other could not see him was actually convenient. Yang Yizhong followed the yawning student group as they made their way toward the center of the square. This group of young people included both men and women, chatting and laughing freely among themselves. The women here seemed quite unrestrained, able to go out freely and converse with men. And the so-called "university" on that flag seemed to permit women to study as well... He wondered what kind of institution this "university" was. Was it similar to the Imperial Academy? Or perhaps like an academy? Regardless, it was a place for studying and understanding principles.

Lost in these random thoughts, Yang Yizhong had already followed the group to the cream-white monument in the center of the square. He watched as they scattered, pulling out all sorts of flat, square objects and pointing them at the monument, tapping away.

"People's Heroes... Immortal Glory." Yang Yizhong could recognize the characters on the monument, but their meaning was unclear to him. Who were these heroes? His gaze fell on the exquisite, life-sized reliefs at the base of the monument, but he still couldn't tell what they depicted. Just as he was feeling lost, another group of children approached from a distance, all wearing red scarves around their necks. Their teacher pulled out something like a loudspeaker and began explaining loudly.

"Classmates, what we are seeing now are the eight reliefs on the base of the Monument to the People's Heroes. Can anyone guess what they depict? Would any child like to say? Please raise your hand—that's right, it's the Humen Opium Destruction..."

Yang Yizhong listened intently. Due to the differences in pronunciation, he had to strain to understand. Fortunately, the teacher speaking to the children used simple language and explained in a gentle, narrative style, so he could barely grasp some of it. It seemed that about a hundred years ago, His Majesty's homeland was in a precarious state, beset by internal strife and external threats, suffering immense humiliation. The court was powerless to resist foreign invaders, losing sovereignty and bringing disgrace to the nation. Internally, there was constant turmoil, with many uprisings...

Wait—these uprisings, weren't they just rebellion? Yang Yizhong shuddered. Rebellion was justified, and they could openly erect a monument to commemorate it? Did the rebels later take the realm? But the teacher clearly said that this "Taiping Heavenly Kingdom" was pacified within a few years... And then the later Wuchang Uprising, the Nanchang Uprising—their level of treason and rebellion grew ever more intense, leaving him utterly bewildered. What was this about opposing imperialism and feudalism, overthrowing the decadent and backward feudal dynasty? A state cannot be without a ruler for even a single day—if there was no emperor, how could the realm function? Did the children here learn these things from a young age?

Yang Yizhong's head was buzzing. He could barely understand the later parts about founding the Republic and the revolutionary wars, but the War of Resistance Against Japan... Japan? Which Japan? Yang Yizhong nearly choked on his breath. A moment later, he was confused again—if it really was Japan, how could His Majesty, as a person of this country, still keep Ping Qingsheng and the others around? Wouldn't he have found a way to pacify Japan like he did the Western Xia?

He was completely at a loss, but the teacher didn't wait for him to figure it out. Following the reliefs, she explained that the Japanese were eventually driven out, and after a few more years of fighting, the smoke of battle finally cleared from this land, and peace was restored. It was only when the group had made a full circuit around the monument that Yang Yizhong saw the inscription on its reverse side.

"Eternal glory to the people's heroes who laid down their lives in the People's War of Liberation and the people's revolution in the past three years! Eternal glory to the people's heroes who laid down their lives in the People's War of Liberation and the people's revolution in the past thirty years! Eternal glory to the people's heroes who laid down their lives in the struggles against domestic and foreign enemies, for national independence and the freedom and happiness of the people, from 1840 onward!"

People's heroes. Those two words again—"people." What exactly did these two words represent? Yang Yizhong rubbed his eyes. On those eight reliefs, there were men and women, old and young—farmers with cloth wrapped around their heads, students holding books, warriors with swords and clubs, and commoners in plain clothes. But nowhere did he see emperors, kings, generals, or ministers in splendid attire, nor any of those famous figures recorded in history. Even the teacher, who had spoken so fiercely, had not mentioned a single name among those depicted.

While he was lost in thought, the group of schoolchildren, under their teacher's guidance, had already placed a bouquet of white chrysanthemums still bearing dewdrops before the monument. Then they lined up neatly, raised their hands above their heads in salute. Zhao Jiu and his fellow university students, who didn't need a teacher to explain each relief, had finished taking photos and touring on their own. Led by their class monitor and league branch secretary, they also presented flowers and bowed together in tribute. Besides the flowers, visitors had also placed fruits and lit candles before the monument, coming and going to pay their respects.

Watching this scene, Yang Yizhong suddenly recalled the little orange lanterns drifting away on the Huai River, the densely packed spirit tablets on Yaoshan, and the huge, nameless spirit tablet that had stood at the center of the grand sacrifice at Yuetai! At that moment, he vaguely understood something.

Night was fading, and rosy clouds were spreading across the eastern sky. The teacher raised the flag again and led the students toward the city gate tower. Yang Yizhong followed them to the bridge built of white marble. He saw three city gates but no guards. Just as he was wondering whether, in his current state, he could simply walk inside, the vermilion city gates suddenly swung open. A squad of young men in dark green short uniforms and tall black boots marched out in formation, their steps perfectly synchronized, their boots striking the ground with a resounding clang. The leader held a red flag aloft, flanked by guards bearing weapons on either side. With a majestic and spirited air, they crossed the jade bridge amid the cheers of the crowd and halted before the towering flagpole.

An elite squad. Yang Yizhong made the judgment immediately. In terms of physique, formation, steps, and bearing, this mere dozen or so men displayed a spirit no less impressive than the finest of the Imperial Guard. Before he could figure out what this small elite squad was doing, a grand musical piece began to play from somewhere, startling him. The red flag unfurled, and the five golden stars, which seemed familiar, sent a shock through his mind. A chorus of humming, like the tide, surged from behind him, embracing the red flag as it slowly ascended toward the sky, facing the rosy dawn.

The few young children in front of Yang Yizhong raised their hands above their heads, while more people simply stood upright, their eyes fixed on the gradually rising red flag. When the morning wind fully unfurled the flag at the top of the pole, the first ray of sunlight pierced through the layered clouds in the east and spilled onto the vermilion city tower.

Gazing at the flag embroidered with five golden stars, Yang Yizhong suddenly realized the meaning of this ceremony. He also understood why so many people had gathered in the square before dawn—they were waiting for this red flag to rise together with the morning sun! And the music that played—from the elderly with white hair to children with tied-up hair—everyone could sing along. This struck him as utterly incredible.

This was indeed an extraordinary nation.

The sun was gradually climbing higher. The sky was fully bright. The student group for the cultural heritage practice turned out of the square, crossed a road, and said they wanted to grab some breakfast before the museum opened (Note 3).

Yang Yizhong truly could not understand how so many long-wheeled boxes had appeared on the road—some big, some small, some black, some white. Though they had no oxen or horses pulling them, they ran much faster than warhorses. And the road itself was incredibly wide and smooth. Compared to it, the roads of Dongjing City were like the grassy paths of a country market.

After crossing the road, Zhao Jiu and a few classmates said they wanted to eat "Kaifeng cuisine." Yang Yizhong looked repeatedly at the bright red shop sign, but no matter how he looked, it read "Jideken." The diners inside were eating things like fried chicken, meat pies, and meat rolls, as well as common breakfast items like soy milk and fried dough sticks—nothing at all resembling the dishes of Dongjing.

In any case, there were already so many things here he couldn't understand; one more didn't make a difference. Yang Yizhong gave up trying to figure it out, then noticed another peculiarity. When Zhao Jiu and the others ordered, they didn't go to a counter or call for a waiter. They just tapped on a large screen a few times, found a table to sit at, and then someone called out a number for them to pick up their food. Yang Yizhong stood to the side, sniffing, and found that he too felt somewhat hungry.

Zhao Jiu ordered a box of fried chicken, eating it with relish along with some things called "french fries." After wolfing it down, he took a few satisfying gulps of a brown-black, fizzy drink called "cola," and sighed, "Still, the original recipe fried chicken is the best!"

Once again, Yang Yizhong couldn't help comparing this young man to His Majesty. His way of eating was exactly the same as His Majesty's. But the foods His Majesty usually enjoyed didn't seem to include fried chicken. At Bagong Mountain and Nanyang, they ate whatever was available. After returning to Dongjing, they first ate wild hare for several months, then started eating fish and duck they raised themselves. They did keep chickens, but frying things used a lot of oil, so it was rarely made specially. Still, this young man clearly loved it, and the dish was nothing more than marinated chicken, coated in flour, and deep-fried...

If this young man really was His Majesty... Had His Majesty given up even this small luxury in food for the sake of the Northern Expedition? Yang Yizhong let out a long sigh. With a ruler like this, how could the Northern Expedition fail?

After breakfast, the students gathered in twos and threes, crossed a "horse road" where not a single horse was to be seen, and returned to the vermilion city gate tower. By now, all three gates were wide open, and a steady stream of tourists flowed in and out. Yang Yizhong followed the crowd through the city gate, and only then looked up to see the plaque on the inner gate.

The Palace Museum. This name made Yang Yizhong's heart flutter. "Palace"—which dynasty's palace? Was it really as the schoolchildren's teacher had said—that this country had no emperor, and the imperial palace could be freely entered and exited by anyone? And what did "Museum" mean? Moreover, that small elite squad—after the flag-raising, they had disappeared back into the inner city. Who were they? Whose soldiers were they? Since that red flag was raised in front of the imperial palace, it must have been significant. A red flag with golden stars—which country did it belong to?

Countless question marks swirled in Yang Yizhong's mind, but there was no one to answer them. Zhao Jiu and his classmates swiped their ID cards to pass through security, crossed the Meridian Gate, and hurried forward, running down the slope behind the Meridian Gate. At the Hall of Supreme Harmony, they dispersed for free time.

There were too many people on the central axis. Zhao Jiu, who was not visiting the Palace Museum for the first time, directly avoided the three main halls and turned west to the Hall of Literary Brilliance to look at paintings and calligraphy. Yang Yizhong followed Zhao Jiu into the painting and calligraphy hall. The lighting in the exhibition room was soft, and the cultural relics lay quietly in display cases, once again stunning the Grand Commander of the Imperial Guard of the Great Song.

So many precious paintings and calligraphy works... Yan Zhenqing's "Bamboo Mountain Hall Linked Verse Album," Gu Kaizhi's "Wise and Benevolent Women," Zhou Fang's paintings of ladies, and many other works whose authors he did not know. But those who could be placed alongside Yan Zhenqing and Gu Kaizhi could hardly be mediocre talents. And the labels beneath the exhibits all noted the era, author, and a brief introduction.

Yang Yizhong could not recognize all the characters, but he did know the character "Song." What was intriguing was that these exhibits were divided into Northern Song and Southern Song... This irritated him somewhat. His Majesty had already fought all the way to Zhongdu and recovered the old Yan and Yun lands that even the founding emperor had failed to take. Where did this "Southern Song" come from? Wait—how did His Majesty's homeland also have the histories of Qin, Han, Tang, and Song? And this painting... He looked at the author, and his heart clenched.

"'The Hibiscus and Golden Pheasant,' Song Huizong's bird-and-flower painting." Zhao Jiu stared at this painting and curled his lip. "The painting is good, but the man was a real piece of trash."

A classmate said contemptuously: "The two emperors Huizong and Qinzong—the shame of humanity. Who agrees, who disagrees?"

"Ha, the Jingkang Humiliation—it shattered the backbone of the entire nation. Their relatives were seized, killed, and humiliated. If it were me, I would have hanged myself long ago. But they could still live on in Wuguocheng for all those years." Zhao Jiu said with a cold laugh.

"He did think about suicide, but in the end, he didn't dare," another female student cut in coolly. "He was an excellent calligrapher and painter. As an emperor, all one can say is that it was a pity for the Great Song realm."

Everyone chimed in, cursing the Zhao father and son to high heaven. Yang Yizhong's ears were filled with treasonous and ferocious words. He could only stand there and think: cursing the Two Sages so eloquently—truly, these were His Majesty's countrymen. These young students showed no regard for imperial dignity, each word more piercing than the last. Just as he was sighing in admiration, he heard them start cursing someone called "Song Gaozong."

"Wanyan Gou? That guy is even worse," Zhao Jiu said casually, not knowing that the surname Wanyan nearly made Yang Yizhong fall over in fright.

"Otherwise? Even a dog made emperor would be more useful than him."

"At least a dog wouldn't use twelve golden plaques to trick Yue Fei back and kill him."

"And a dog wouldn't write 'Your subject Gou says' to the Jin."

At first, Yang Yizhong tried to comfort himself—that this "Gaozong Wanyan Gou" might be a puppet emperor set up by the Jin, like the Liu father and son of Jinan. But when a student cursed out, "The three Zhao Ji father and sons are each worse than the last, and Zhao Gou is the worst of all," he could no longer deceive himself. He felt that heaven and earth were illusory, and everything was absurd!

His Majesty cherished Yue Fei as if he were his own limbs—how could he kill him? His Majesty, with the White Horse Oath at Shaoxing, would rather die than make peace—how could he submit to the Jin? His Majesty had pacified the north and routed the Jin—how could he have lost all the land north of the Yangtze and contented himself with a corner of the south?

Or rather, if His Majesty had not come, if it were still that His Majesty who never forgot to seek out laundry maids even while fleeing, that His Majesty who lived in a drunken stupor, only wanting to reach Yangzhou safely, would the Great Song, as these scholars claimed, have its backbone shattered, never to recover, good generals left with no place to use their skills, loyal ministers illuminated by the bright sun of justice, and thus slowly march toward destruction?

He shuddered, suddenly understanding. The people, the language, the script—all similar, a continuous line of history, and they all considered themselves descendants of Huaxia China…

"So that's how it is…" Yang Yizhong murmured to himself, nearly shedding tears. Heaven had not abandoned their Great Song—they had this His Majesty, how fortunate!

Yang Yizhong silently recited those few words: Song, Yuan, Ming, Qing, Republic, People's Republic. From fragments of information displayed on exhibits, a primary school history lesson beneath the monument, and even place names like Yuyuantan, Lotus Pond, and a "Jin Zhongdu Road," he pieced together an answer.

So that was it. This was where His Majesty lived—a thousand years later.

No wonder I came here. He felt relieved. Though times were different, Yanjing a thousand years later was still the Huaxia realm, and moreover, so magnificent, so prosperous. No wonder His Majesty came from such a country, such a world—no wonder, no wonder.

He slowly opened his eyes. A good night's sleep left him refreshed and clear-headed. "Did Zhengfu sleep well last night?" Zhao Jiu had clearly drunk too much the night before and still looked a bit listless. Seeing him enter full of energy, he was slightly surprised.

"Your Majesty should know, I had a wonderful dream last night." Yang Yizhong clasped his hands.

"Dream of what?" Zhao Jiu asked casually.

"Your servant dreamed of touring Yanjing with Your Majesty." He paused, then added as if casually: "Beijing was prosperous and magnificent, the people wealthy and at peace, like a celestial realm."

Zhao Jiu stood frozen. After a moment, he laughed: "Is that so? I also had a dream."

"What did Your Majesty dream of?" Zhao Jiu looked at him without speaking. The lord and his minister gazed at each other for a long time, then slowly both began to laugh.

Manjianghong

A night tour of the capital, briefly fulfilling the bond between lord and minister. Gazing at the city walls, red flags fluttering, the azure sky like a painting. Ten years sharpening the sword to test the frosty blade, a thousand years of vicissitudes pondering Huaxia. A child before the monument listens to old tales, holding plain white flowers.

These matters, ended at Huanglong; over there, the storm at the waves has ceased. Counting emperors, generals, and ministers, who bears the greatest guilt? The common people march north, blood staining their robes; rivers flow east, tears without end. Later generations share a dream in books, recording idle talk.

Note 1: All are names of Jin Zhongdu palaces in this timeline. In the Shaosong timeline, the Fourth Prince completed the capital relocation earlier. In this timeline, Jin Hailing Wang Wanyan Liang moved the capital to Yanjing and established Zhongdu in 1151, and Jin Xizong Wanyan Dan established Wanning Palace in 1140. In the Shaosong timeline, Taiyuan fell on the 29th day of the 12th month of the 9th year of Jianyan (1135), and they entered Yanjing the following year. But by the time the Fourth Prince moved the capital to Yanjing, the Jin Zhongdu palace complex should have been built, so I borrow it. Building the Forbidden City would take more than three or five years.

Note 2: The Jin Zhongdu ruins are in present-day Fengtai District, not far from Lotus Pond and Yuyuantan. The Lotus River existed in the Jin Dynasty, and Yuyuantan was also a famous Jin Dynasty scenic spot.

Note 3: The flag-raising ceremony at Tiananmen Square varies by season, but the Forbidden City opens at 8:30 at the earliest, and the National Museum at 9:00, with a gap in between. I originally wanted to write about the National Museum, which has a complete Song history exhibition. However, except for "Hibiscus and Golden Pheasant" which is in the Forbidden City, most of Song Huizong's representative works are either in the Taipei Palace Museum or abroad, so I set the scene as a tour of the Forbidden City.