Chapter 533

Jiang Wanshang’s words, as if an act of supreme treason, seemed to shatter and sweep away the dignity and order of the eight-hundred-year Red Emperor dynasty; the very air between heaven and earth instantly grew heavy, solemn, and deadly.

The assembled ministers and officials, all those grand lords, dared not speak a word.

On the old man’s person, as if borne upon his back, was a vast, visible momentum.

It was not so much that they felt overwhelming pressure, as that they sensed an unspeakable, immense terror—a terror transcending the threat of life and death.

It was the fear of a centuries-old order, long taken for granted, about to be utterly smashed and trampled underfoot.

This terror gripped their hearts, rendering them speechless.

Except for Ji Zichang.

Ji Zichang stared at Jiang Wanshang before him.

Even though he had long anticipated this moment, when Jiang Wanshang finally spoke those words, he drew a deep breath and slowly exhaled, feeling the quiet flow of blood through his body.

Had it been the Ji Zichang of ten years ago, he would have erupted in fury—cold and wrathful on the outside, panicked and trembling within.

But Ji Zichang found that, when this day truly arrived,

his heart held no ripples.

Was it because he had foreseen it? Or because he had long been waiting for it?

He appeared unusually calm and detached. Today, Ji Zichang had not donned the imperial dragon robe; his strong hand gripped the hilt of his sword, holding himself upright, preserving at least the barest semblance of imperial dignity.

This sword was not the Chi Xiao, the legendary blade wielded by his ancestor, the Red Emperor, who slew all rivals with its three-foot edge to seize the realm—it was merely an ordinary ceremonial sword, the only thing Ji Zichang could now rely upon.

He looked at the withered old man, his cheekbones sharply protruding, and said softly:

“Are you plotting rebellion?”

Jiang Wanshang replied: “I merely seek to free Your Majesty.”

“And to ease my own heart.”

There was no murderous intent in these words—no treacherous minister threatening to force his sovereign to death—only a quiet resignation born of age and exhaustion.

At last, some ministers of the Red Emperor’s lineage came to their senses—they realized this was the moment the heavens truly shifted, the moment the old order collapsed.

Others realized this was the true chance to overturn the world, to reshape their own status.

The chance to change their lives lay before them—in this scene, destined to be written into history.

Someone gave a subtle glance.

A fierce general from Zhongzhou suddenly roared: “The Emperor of Ying is the true heir! The Red Emperor has listened to traitors, repeatedly murdering loyal ministers—unpopular, deserving death at the hands of all!”

Before he finished speaking, he drew his weapon and lunged toward Ji Zichang’s back.

He was a Sixth Heaven cultivator, hardened through years of struggle. His sudden attack, so close and so brutal, caught everyone off guard. Ji Zichang’s cultivation was low; by the time he realized the danger, the terrifying rush of force was already upon him.

His heart turned cold.

He understood: this was a blood oath to Jiang Wanshang, and also because, earlier, he had used the Qin Prince’s authority to eliminate the civil and military ministers—those ministers’ loyalists and enemies alike had long resented him, but the Qin Prince’s power had suppressed them.

The Qin Prince’s longevity lock was not merely for the young princess.

It was their death sentence.

Now that Jiang Wanshang had appeared, momentarily dispelling the Qin Prince’s threat and pressure, their accumulated hatred erupted. Jiang Wanshang drew his sword at once—a blade like the open sky, coiled with nine dragons—thrusting with lethal precision.

Blood exploded.

Ji Zichang’s hair fluttered.

Jiang Wanshang’s sword pierced through Ji Zichang’s shoulder, its icy blade flashing as it drove through the general’s face, killing him.

Ji Zichang froze, watching as Jiang Wanshang slowly withdrew his sword.

The Zhongzhou general clutched his face, toppled backward, his weapon clattering to the ground, blood pooling beneath him, flowing down the white jade steps of the Red Emperor’s court, dripping to the floor—the atmosphere grew even more deathly silent.

Jiang Wanshang gripped his sword, sheathing the bloodied blade.

Ji Zichang spoke slowly: “You do not seek my life.”

Jiang Wanshang shook his head: “Your Majesty is not someone I must kill. Nor am I a man who slays the innocent.”

“I only require Your Majesty to abdicate.”

Jiang Wanshang said calmly: “Then leave this place—wherever you wish. Go find Li Guanyi. Go to any peaceful, tranquil land. Shed this burden. Do what you truly wish to do.”

Ji Zichang stared, stunned, at Jiang Wanshang.

Jiang Wanshang smiled faintly.

“The peace of the realm—I and others will fight for it. Your Majesty may now go and do what you truly wish. After all, in this chaotic age, you, I, and countless others have been bound.”

“We cannot do what we wish. We cannot be who we wish to be.”

“Let me bear the filth you have carried. Then, Your Majesty, do as your heart commands.”

“From today onward, you are free.”

Ji Zichang looked at Jiang Wanshang before him.

Suddenly, he realized how ancient the dragon had become.

In Ji Zichang’s memory, Jiang Wanshang had always been ambitious, his white hair never dimming his vast, overwhelming aura—far more vigorous than ordinary youths.

Now, his hair was entirely white, his skin devoid of luster, pale and shriveled, like land drained of all vitality, like crumpled white paper left to rot for countless years.

His flesh had dried, like that of a man nearing death.

The bones of his cheeks could barely hold what little flesh remained; his cheekbones jutted sharply. His eyebrows were white. The dark blue dragon-patterned imperial robe, once perfectly fitted to his frame, now hung loosely on him.

When the wind blew, it fluttered like rags strung upon bone.

Yet even so,

the eyes beneath those white brows still burned fiercely, still blazing like fire.

A tiger dies standing.

So too does a dragon.

So too does a man.

Ji Zichang whispered: “So this is it… You’ve grown old.”

Jiang Wanshang laughed: “What are you saying, Your Majesty? The autumn hunt of Tianqi 11 is now Tianqi 18—seven or eight years have passed. Even a little brat grows into a man with family and duties. Even the young grow steady. Are you not the same?”

“As for me,”

“I am not old—I am dying.”

Ji Zichang looked at Jiang Wanshang.

He did not speak in assent.

The latter grinned: “It seems Your Majesty still refuses. But do not worry—I can wait a few more days. Please remain in the palace, think carefully, rest well.”

“I believe Your Majesty will make a wise and correct choice.”

“I shall wait patiently—for Your Majesty’s decision.”

A thousand troops and ten thousand horses—Yuwen Lie and He Ruo Qinhu stood on either side of Jiang Wanshang—the elite of Ying had met little resistance and had already seized all of Zhongzhou.

On this day, Ji Zichang remained in the palace, still treated as the Red Emperor.

Jiang Wanshang ascended the high tower.

Lanterns flickered. In his youth, Jiang Wanshang and Gao Xiang had come here to kidnap a bride—to steal the Emperor’s bride. He had never been one bound by ritual. Now, seeing Zhongzhou again, he saw no longer the splendor of his youth, only distortion.

Jiang Wanshang’s face was pale; even climbing the stairs left him breathless.

Yet his inner cultivation remained that of a Ninth Heaven sovereign, sustained by cosmic fortune.

Powerful internal Qi cultivation and frail vitality appeared simultaneously on Jiang Wanxiang, giving the impression of flowers adorned with brocade, oil poured onto flame.

Yuwen Lie and He Ruo Qinhu watched the aged monarch with concern.

They moved to support him, but he waved them off, halting their motion; Jiang Wanxiang stood atop this central plain’s high tower, gazing at the night-lit Central Plain, at its ancient rooftops, at the upturned eaves and brilliant lanterns of this mortal world—the eight-hundred-year legend of the Red Emperor, the heroism, the tender affections, the dust of ten thousand worlds—all nestled within the glow of lanterns.

Jiang Wanxiang extended his hand, fingers spread, casting a shadow over the lanterns before him, murmuring:

“Lanterns bright, mortal world aglow.”

“Truly beautiful—and yet utterly vile.”

“How can we, of this world, willingly abandon such a realm?”

“How can we halt before our great vow?”

He Ruo Qinhu’s eyes darkened with sorrow as he whispered:

“Your Majesty’s glory towers over the world; your years shall surely stretch long.”

Jiang Wanxiang laughed loudly: “Long years? Hahaha—He Ruo Qinhu, ever solemn, now speaks such words? Cough, cough, cough, cough…”

He had intended to laugh it off as usual, but after a few laughs, the laughter turned to violent coughing—so severe he spat blood from his mouth, his sleeve stained black as ink, reeking foully, a sight both shocking and grim.

Yuwen Lie and He Ruo Qinhu paled and rushed forward to support him.

Jiang Wanxiang did not refuse; he stared at the black blood on his sleeve and said: “The wounds from the Wolf King’s blade and sword—even after consuming every longevity elixir under heaven—can no longer be sustained. Flesh and blood have their limits; the end of heavenly life cannot be reversed by mortal will.”

“What then can be done?”

He looked at his own hand—a frail old man’s hand—that trembled even when gripping a sword. In his youth, he had held his sword, ridden his horse, and fought for three days and nights on the battlefield without reaching this state.

In the snowbound mountains, hiding with Gao Xiang in a hollow beneath the rocks, he had reached out, seized a clump of falling snow, shoved it into his mouth, swallowed it, felt his skin flush crimson and burn in the winter cold, felt the fire scorching within his five viscera and six bowels.

He raised his head and through the hole punched by his fist, saw the bright moon above.

The moon illuminated the dreams of a boy.

Back then, he was young, with no foundation, no status or title.

But he still had friends, still had dreams, still had the untamed fire of youth refusing to yield.

Now he possessed everything.

Yet he had lost that vigorous bloodline and youthful vigor.

Stripped of destiny, this body of a sovereign could not endure the backlash of destiny’s removal, causing his lifespan to plummet—but as he himself said, the destiny of the world, beyond Ying Guo, still holds eight hundred years of destiny and legitimacy from the Central Plain.

Even if this eight-hundred-year destiny of the Red Emperor’s dynasty had long since become foul smoke and stench, long since turned to poison, long since littered with filth—still, even such destiny is destiny.

At this moment, it was no different from drinking ice and swallowing snow in youth.

Even the most potent poisons, he paid no mind to.

Jiang Wanxiang slowly clenched his palm.

“Ji Zichang.”

“Your capacity is insufficient to rise as a warlord in chaotic times; a tranquil land beyond the world is your true place.”

“Go to the place you wish to go.”

“Even such a venomous tide of destiny is enough to sustain this broken body, to charge into the final battle… The great vow lies ahead—whether Li Guanyi wins or we do, it will not be long now.”

Jiang Wanxiang whispered low in his heart, then gazed at these two famed generals. His aged eyes lowered, inner spirit concealed, yet he knew not what thoughts he harbored—finally, he sighed.

He first ordered Yuwen Lie to wait outside. Yuwen Lie remained silent, bowed, and left.

Jiang Wanxiang looked at He Ruo Qinhu, his voice calm and light, as if chatting idly:

“Qinhu, how many years have you followed me?”

He Ruo Qinhu bowed deeply: “At seventeen, I served under Your Majesty, campaigning across the land. Now my temples are white; if I count it up, it has been forty-seven years.”

“Forty-seven years… forty-seven years…”

“Truly a long time.”

Jiang Wanxiang, supported as he sat down, smiled gently:

“Your family and maternal clan are among the greatest in the land, entangled with powerful factions at court—this is natural. Born of a great house, a famed general, repeatedly earning battlefield merit, and possessing a bold, open character, it is inevitable others gather around you.”

“Yet, I have one word for you.”

He Ruo Qinhu bowed deeply:

“Your Majesty, I beg you to speak.”

Jiang Wanxiang looked at He Ruo Qinhu: “You are steady and mindful of the greater good, but you are entangled in too many ties. As a pillar of the state, you must know what true greatness demands—and not let these many identities and connections bind you.”

“Avoid missteps that could bring irreparable harm.”

He Ruo Qinhu froze. Though he prided himself on never being bound by birth, friends, or kin, he still bowed deeply: “I shall forever remember Your Majesty’s words.”

Jiang Wanxiang gazed at him long, then said: “Good. You, pillar of the state, must not neglect yourself.”

“Now withdraw. Summon Yuwen Lie.”

“Yes!”

He Ruo Qinhu left, and Yuwen Lie entered. Yuwen Lie had lost an arm, replaced by a mechanical construct; his former wild arrogance had faded, yet his inner pride remained unchanged. He bowed: “Your Majesty.”

Jiang Wanxiang looked at this general, no longer young:

“Your nature is proud and defiant—you must sometimes step back.”

“But you must not cling to pride forever.”

“...Hmph. Though clinging to pride is indeed something only you could do, I still hope you may leave your past self behind, and walk farther.”

“Gao Er—I entrust him to you.”

Yuwen Lie bowed silently: “Yes.”

A weariness seemed to settle on Jiang Wanxiang’s face. He waved his hand: “Go now. Let me rest here for a while.”

Yuwen Lie nodded and left.

Jiang Wanxiang remained alone. All around was silence. He raised his head, gazing far off, sensing the eight-hundred-year twisted destiny of the Red Emperor. He extended his hand—his body, already near death, could clearly perceive the destiny’s presence.

He drew a deep breath, gradually mastering the destiny accumulated by the Red Emperor’s court over eight centuries—the once glorious, once radiant, now rotten, venomous thing. He felt his body once again, in this posture of drinking poison to quench thirst.

Swallow it all.

Command it!

Then watch helplessly as this damned eight-hundred-year twisted destiny corroded his body.

Wearing down his vitality, shattering his flesh and blood.

Cutting off his posthumous name, sacrificing his life—seeking no rank, no glory, only victory. Only that one wild fire remained, sustaining his broken body, charging toward the one unification all past comrades and ministers had longed for—the great Ying’s dominion.

Too many had fallen behind him.

He could not abandon, could not stop.

To abandon at the final battle would be the most shameful betrayal of all—and of himself.

Even if his corpse vanished after death, even if he fell into the deepest hell, even if after him his name was ruined, even if he staked everything, struggled, twisted, and charged toward victory—

He clenched his fist, his white hair flying, his bony frame trembling, eyes blazing like fire, his heart a raging dragon.

Like he had shouted to himself in youth.

“Win!”

“Jiang Wanxiang!!!”

Later historians could not understand why Jiang Wanxiang forced the Red Emperor to abdicate at this moment. Some said he sought to break fate’s design and become true emperor; others said a man like him, rising from a lowborn son to split the realm in two—

Who had once deliberately triggered the Autumn Hunt of Tianqi Eleven and its subsequent upheaval—

Such a man cared nothing for legitimacy.

He was merely an endless dragon, an tireless tiger, devouring the vital lands of Zhongzhou, drawing every last reserve before the final battle, seizing every possible advantage, then staking everything on the ultimate clash.

This monarch, praised and reviled in equal measure, was indeed like Jiang Su—ruler and minister as one. Their natures were identical: indifferent to life or death, to posthumous honor. Their eyes saw only victory.

He was far too old. He could no longer hold his sword.

More than life or death, he valued the future. He must reach the battlefield before all else unfolded.

Yet heroes of the world were not only one.

That night, within the Red Emperor’s palace, Ji Zichang remained silent for a long while. The night was heavy; elite troops from Ying had surrounded and seized the palace—even at night, lanterns blazed brightly.

Civil and military ministers, officials of all ranks, came in continuous procession.

They bowed reverently before the Red Emperor, then nearly weeping, implored him to consider the greater tide of the realm, to think of the future. The world had long been divided; the Red Emperor’s line no longer held its former stature.

The world had been split for three hundred years.

Now, at last, the time had come for division to end and unity to return.

Your Majesty must follow the tide of the age and relinquish the throne.

To retire with honor, to calm the people’s hearts, to stabilize the four corners—would this not make you a sage, a wise ruler?

Civil and military officials wept bitterly or pleaded faithfully:

“Your Majesty, think again!”

Yan Taibao, who had once taught Ji Zichang calligraphy, stood beside him now, watching ministers and officials come and go. From the palace’s side gate, he saw the night as black as ink, lanterns like dragons.

They were the red lanterns on the carriages of ministers—now, they held no joy, only streaks of blood, staining the night like blood coughed from a mouth.

Carriages came without end. After paying respects to Ji Zichang, they did not return home, but turned directly toward Jiang Wanxiang’s camp. On both sides, lanterns blazed like daylight, unceasing.

Yan Taibao watched this scene, his eyes filled with sorrow and rage.

These nobles, generation after generation, had feasted on the court’s bounty.

And now, at the nation’s hour of crisis, this is how they act?

Ji Zichang watched this scene, and merely said softly:

“Teacher, do not be angered…”

Yan Taibao turned to Ji Zichang, looking at his disciple, this emperor—calm, composed, yet his eyes filled with sorrow. “Your Majesty…” He wished to say much, to comfort him, to rally him—but the situation had decayed so far.

He opened his mouth, uttered only those two words, then could say no more.

Only choked sobs, tears streaming, words dissolving into silence.

At that moment, a voice spoke. The door opened, revealing an old man with a gentle expression, his white hair meticulously groomed without a single strand out of place. His martial cultivation had reached the peak of the Seventh Heavenly Layer, his inner qi vast and profound.

He was Ji Yanzhong of the Red Emperor’s lineage in Zhongzhou.

This elder was the last face of the Red Emperor’s line. A Grandmaster’s realm, once respectable in times of peace, now meant little—amidst chaos, where all top ten were at least Eighth Layer, and the top five all Ninth Layer or above.

The old man’s Seventh Layer Grandmaster cultivation was now pitifully inadequate.

“Your Majesty…”

Ji Yanzhong whispered and retrieved a casket. Inside was what Ji Zichang had ordered him to fetch: a seal—the Red Emperor’s Imperial Seal.

Ji Zichang extended his hand, gently brushing the seal, his expression serene.

He unrolled a scroll, dipped his brush in ink, and wrote as if dragons and serpents danced—fluid, effortless, immense in spirit. Even Yan Taibao, who had taught him calligraphy, was awed. Only when heart and script aligned could such divine essence arise.

Ji Zichang took the seal, pressed it into vermilion ink, and stamped the great crimson dragon seal deeply onto the edict. Then he rolled the seal and the edict together, and handed them to Ji Yanzhong.

Abdication was merely a future he had long foreseen.

Yet he still had a second choice.

“The edict and this seal—I entrust them to you, Uncle.”

“Leave this place. Leave Zhongzhou. Go to Jiangnan.”

“Deliver these two things to my friend—”

“Li Yao Shi.”

?? Please vote for monthly tickets, friends~