Chapter 534: Fierce Heart, Crimson Emperor

Ji Zichang looked at the imperial edict and exhaled slowly; he intended to abdicate the throne to Prince Qin Li Guanyi, so that he could then leave with his wife and children.

Leave Zhongzhou, leave the turbulent heart of this world.

Go to the four corners to see many sights.

His shoulders relaxed, a hazy stillness settled over his spirit, a sense that after a lifetime of toil, he could finally rest.

But what followed left Ji Zichang utterly unprepared—

He received neither trust nor support.

On the faces of Yan Taibao and Ji Yanzhong, a strange expression flickered.

It was bewilderment, disbelief, and immediately after, vehement rejection.

Though they said nothing, that wave of opposition surged with overwhelming force.

Such emotion should never have arisen in these two loyal, devoted ministers—Ji Yanzhong was lost, unsure what to do; he had seen with his own eyes the content of Ji Zichang’s edict, caught glimpses of something.

He wished to obey Ji Zichang’s command as he always had, but this time, his feet could not move— he had been born into the Crimson Emperor’s line, raised in the radiance of the Crimson Emperor’s glory.

For nearly a century since, his life, his experience, his beliefs, his way of seeing the world, had all grown around that ancient, mighty, glorious, rotting lineage of the Crimson Emperor.

He could aid Li Guanyi.

He could see Li Guanyi as the pillar of Zhongzhou; his experience allowed him to foresee that peace would come, and the Crimson Emperor’s line would lose its status as the Son of Heaven.

Yet the words “abdication” still burned like a brand.

From deep within his soul, from the very core of his instinct, he recoiled.

Yan Taibao’s reaction was even more violent and direct—he stepped forward half a pace, seized Ji Zichang’s sleeve, and cried urgently: “Your Majesty, what are you doing!? Abdicating the throne to Li Guanyi?!”

The old man, heartbroken, shouted:

“How can you commit such an act of unforgivable treason?!”

Ji Zichang looked at him and felt his thoughts freeze for an instant.

Like stepping down a steady slope and suddenly missing a step—the sudden loss of weight nearly made him dizzy, leaving his face expressionless as he said: “...Master, what do you mean?”

Yan Taibao snatched the edict from Ji Yanzhong’s hands.

The seventy-year-old royal elder, at the peak of the Seventh Heaven, offered no struggle, no resistance.

He allowed a scholar, far beneath him in martial cultivation, to take the edict from him.

Yan Taibao stepped back several paces, knelt on the ground, and held the edict with both hands, his voice sharp as a blade:

“Your Majesty, are you giving our ancestors’ realm and the entire world to a mere outsider?!”

“What are you doing?!”

“Our Crimson Emperor line has merely suffered illness; Your Majesty has already shown the spirit of a true sovereign—only need to work diligently, appoint wise ministers and capable generals, and one day, we shall revive our glory, reunify the world—is that not still possible?!”

“Why must you surrender the dignity of the Crimson Emperor line to Prince Qin?!”

“Are you trying to cast Li Guanyi into the sin of disloyalty and immorality?!”

Ji Zichang spoke slowly: “Is Li Guanyi disloyal and immoral?!”

Yan Taibao declared firmly: “If you take the throne from the Crimson Emperor line, then Li Guanyi is no different from Emperor Ying—both—”

“Disloyal and immoral!”

In that instant, Ji Zichang felt a hollow emptiness, as if every vein in his body had been drained clean.

He had fought to the very end.

Yet it was only at the final moment that he realized:

He had never had true allies or support—he was surrounded by “one group.”

Yan Taibao stepped forward:

“Prince Qin is loyal and virtuous—he can still uphold the Crimson Emperor line’s rule.”

Ji Zichang looked at this true loyal minister, this wise counselor, this noble teacher and friend, and at the silent, ashamed elder Ji Yanzhong—in that moment, the world tilted before him.

He heard himself ask: “...If this is the world, what then?”

Yan Taibao wiped his tears, his voice thunderous: “The Crimson Emperor line’s mandate endures, its grand destiny is etched into the hearts of all under heaven—how could it be erased by a single bold general’s decade of conquest?!”

“Do not abdicate—rely on Prince Qin’s loyalty, on the righteous men of the realm, walk side by side; Your Majesty banishes the wicked and favors the virtuous, works tirelessly, and the realm will be saved.”

Ji Zichang spoke slowly:

“But now, the world has changed—Jiang Wanxiang’s armies stand before us.”

“Where is the chance to work diligently?!”

Yan Taibao suddenly said: “There is still the Princess!”

Ji Zichang stared: “What?!”

Yan Taibao said: “The Princess is Your Majesty’s child, also of Crimson Emperor blood, bearing the lineage and heritage of the Eight-Hundred-Year Crimson Emperor—her children, born of marriage to a great man, may carry the Crimson Emperor’s name and authority.”

“Change their surname back to Ji, restore them to the old capital, overthrow Qin’s name, and still—Crimson Emperor.”

“Yes, bloodline and heritage are power.”

“They are endless!”

“We can still rebuild the Crimson Emperor!”

“Eight hundred years unbroken, a thousand years unceasing—as long as the true lineage remains, as long as Crimson Emperor blood flows like the ancient Crimson Dragon, passed down through generations—even a thousand or two thousand years from now, the true line endures!”

“Still the Crimson Emperor line!”

“Still the righteous path—our Crimson Emperor line.”

“Still unbroken.”

“Still—immortal!!!”

“Immortal!”

Yan Taibao gazed earnestly at Ji Zichang; Ji Yanzhong also looked at him. The candle flame on the table suddenly flickered, casting light and shadow over them—Yan Taibao and Ji Yanzhong seemed draped in a dark veil, shadows hanging like threads, merging with the world itself.

Ji Zichang turned his head and looked beyond the palace gates.

When he gazed down from his height, he saw carriages and horses like dragons, lanterns blazing like daylight—yet against the night, they felt dim; in this dimness, the wicked ministers, the traitors.

The loyal ministers, the capable generals.

Their bodies seemed threaded with countless golden-red filaments, trembling in the fire, stretching upward, finally vanishing into shadow—the twisted fate of the Eight-Hundred-Year Crimson Emperor dynasty now clutched in claws.

In a daze.

Loyal ministers and traitors, no different—they all wore masks painted red and white, crawling before the dragon throne, before the imperial seat, flames shifting, shadows dancing, their eyes lifting silently—as if millions cried as one.

The Crimson Emperor line—unbroken, unextinguished, immortal!

Even in death, they rise again from the flames!

So-called loyalty and virtue.

Two sides of one coin.

In truth, all were bound to that twisted, monstrous entity—Crimson Emperor’s eight-hundred-year realm, saturated with bloodline and righteous legitimacy—and when you tried to escape its shadow, both loyalist and traitor seized you with ropes.

With time as chains, bloodline as cords, binding your hands, choking your throat, dragging you back, dragging you back to the golden throne, where the sovereign sat high, his imperial robe wrapped in golden chains.

It was not goodness.

Not loyalty or treachery.

It was merely submission to hierarchy.

The ministers of the old era—whether loyal or treacherous—still clung to the dream of righteousness, feasting on rotting flesh; they defended not ideals, but the interests of their entire class.

To betray this position—even the sovereign himself—would be bound.

Ji Zichang suddenly understood.

He suddenly, truly, understood everything…

What shadow had been casting over his fate?

Not the clans, not the wicked ministers, not the rebel faction.

But the eight-hundred-year glory of the Crimson Emperor.

The brilliant, radiant past—and the world itself.

The light and splendor he had enjoyed.

Ji Zichang’s lips trembled—he realized he could never step beyond this shadow. Yan Taibao knelt, holding the edict with both hands, his white hair gleaming—the loyal minister, the senior statesman, born and raised beneath the eight-hundred-year shadow of the Crimson Emperor.

He truly, from his soul, believed such abdication was unthinkable; he choked, bowed his head, and wept.

He raised the edict.

“Please, Your Majesty, revoke your decree!”

Ji Zichang looked at Ji Yanzhong; the kind old man turned his head away, unable to meet the sovereign’s gaze. Long moments passed—until he finally faced the world’s cruel despair, saw Ji Zichang’s silent storm, and said:

“Very well… bring me the edict.”

He took the edict he himself had written.

At that moment, bound by the chains of virtue and loyalty, Ji Zichang finally understood the pity in Jiang Wanxiang’s eyes, the weight of those words: “Let Your Majesty be freed.” He looked at the edict—at his dream, his longing, his ideal.

Then, with all his strength, he tore it.

He ripped the edict into shreds.

The emperor was merely a rope of the Eight-Hundred-Year Crimson Emperor dynasty.

Beneath the shadow of the Eight-Hundred-Year Crimson Emperor, countless indistinct faces seemed to watch Ji Zichang—watching him tear the edict, watching this generation’s Crimson Emperor shatter the unattainable dream of “Ji Zichang” into fragments.

The jade scroll fell to the floor with a sharp crack.

The dream drifted down, like snow promised from the northern lands.

The world and fate are cruel, Master.

He always pushes people into enmity, into paths where they cannot walk together, nor even wish to walk.

Thus, the Red Emperor said: “My two loyal ministers, your words are most true.”

The Red Emperor closed his eyes, picked up his brush, and rewrote an imperial decree—this time, only a few bold characters, utterly simple. The kneeling Minister Yan and the bowed Ji Yanzhong saw this decree, likely consisting of just a few words.

The Red Emperor sealed the decree and reclaimed the Red Emperor’s seal.

“Then, this seal shall not be given to him.”

“It is I who tell you: give him this decree, my uncle.”

Thus, the loyal minister rejoiced and withdrew.

Ji Yanzhong clutched the decree, his lips trembling, unable to speak. He was a good man, gentle in nature, never harming the innocent—but he, too, had grown up beneath the Red Emperor’s radiance.

He concluded: “...Thus it shall be. Also—”

The Red Emperor fell silent, then said: “Ning is but two years old. No matter what, she must not remain here, imprisoned with me. Let my uncle take her to her adoptive father.”

Ji Yanzhong, filled with guilt, agreed without hesitation.

“That child is good. Even if I must exhaust my life, spend every last breath—I will protect her safety!”

The Red Emperor nodded. “I am in your debt…”

“Yi State’s Jiang Wanxiang has capable generals: Yuwen Lie, He Ruo the Tiger-Catcher. Though your martial skill is formidable, to depart Zhongzhou with the decree and Ning, surrounded as you are, will not be easy.”

“I will find a way to buy you time.”

“Create an opening.”

Ji Yanzhong said: “Understood.”

Ji Yanzhong departed. Afterwards, the Red Emperor left the palace and walked slowly forward. Yuwen Lie, holding his spear, opened his eyes. Beneath the moonlight, the famed general stood tall and proud, like a tiger, and merely nodded slightly. “Red Emperor.”

Behind him, the elite Tiger-Marauder cavalry stirred, forming a defensive formation with weapons, blocking the path ahead—lest Ji Zichang make any move, triggering unforeseen chaos. All change would come in an instant.

The Red Emperor’s expression was cold: “Jiang Wanxiang’s proposal concerns matters of grave consequence. Even I cannot accept it. Even if I did, the hundred officials and commoners under the [Eight Hundred Years of Red Emperor] might not. Three days hence—”

“I shall summon all ministers, officials, and masters of the Imperial Academy to discuss it in the Grand Hall.”

Yuwen Lie’s gaze was sharp as he scanned the Red Emperor. He said:

“Good… If the Emperor has made such a decision, it is best.”

“No matter what, Your Majesty’s grand spirit will never harm Your Majesty.”

The Red Emperor merely nodded faintly.

He walked alone through the ancient, magnificent, majestic yet silent palace. The heavens above were as endless as night, while far away, the carriages and lanterns of ministers and officials glowed bright and noisy. In silence, the loyal ministers and valiant generals whispered their worries.

The Red Emperor’s steps were steady, one by one.

Finally, he crossed the imperial avenue, passed the road where the Qin Prince had executed the imperial clan, climbed step after step of jade stairs, and stood high above. His sleeves fluttered as he saw a single lamp ahead—Wen Imperial Consort, her expression gentle, watching him.

Among countless lanterns of worldly dust, one had been left for him.

His heart softened.

Everyone has their own thoughts, their own plans, their own fears, their own obsessions.

That night was especially long. The Red Emperor summoned all blood relatives of the Red Emperor line—old and young, male and female—all who bore the Red Emperor’s blood came, and they drank together, speaking of the world.

For three days they continued. The imperial clan believed the rebellious, unorthodox ruler had finally submitted. They rejoiced, dreaming of the future world, of the authority and wealth granted by Great Yi State.

On the final day, the horizon just brightened, a sliver of dawn rose. The ancient, magnificent Zhongzhou slowly awoke. People awoke and greeted one another with a simple “Good morning.”

Today, the Emperor had something important to announce.

The Red Emperor opened the palace gates. If commoners wished to witness the ceremony, they might come according to protocol. That day, all ministers wore their finest robes; nobles retrieved ancestral weapons, advancing slowly like ants beneath the claws of a dragon.

The Red Emperor stood before the central, most majestic and solemn hall. The building, like the very entity of the [Eight Hundred Years of Red Emperor], had become a living presence, gazing down upon him.

Not all ministers arrived—they were barred outside this special palace. Here stood the ancestral spirits of the Red Emperor’s eight-hundred-year reign. This generation’s Red Emperor held Wen Wan’er’s arm, quietly watching each divine tablet.

Past emperors, like shadows, expressionless, like ghostly faces painted on white paper—rigid, holy, watching the current Red Emperor. The current Red Emperor gazed upon each ancestral tablet, lit a stick of incense, and watched the blue smoke curl upward.

“Ancestors of the Eight Hundred Years of Red Emperor—”

“Your descendant, with wife Wan’er, today shall once again commit an act contrary to ritual.”

His body trembled slightly with fear.

But as he watched the smoke curl, his body slowly stilled.

Jiang Wanxiang, dressed in the imperial dragon robe, called out: “Your Majesty, old man has come!”

Fate had arrived!

Behind Jiang Wanxiang, ministers and officials lined the ground, majestic, solemn, cold. Su Wang and Qilin hid among the commoners. Under the gaze of all Zhongzhou’s people, the Red Emperor lifted his eyes, looked far off, and said calmly:

“Many from Zhongzhou have come.”

“Perfect. Let them bear witness!”

The Zhongzhou imperial clan opened their mouths—but suddenly, their faces turned ashen. Before they could speak, they spat blood. Each turned black, clearly poisoned. Several collapsed instantly, dead.

In an instant, a whole group lay dead.

They froze, then stared at the Red Emperor within the curling smoke, realizing: “It’s poison!!”

“It’s—”

“Ji Zichang, how ruthless you are!!”

An old man clutched his grandson, coughing blood, shouting: “You made all the core Red Emperor bloodlines drink—was it poison?! What are you doing?!”

Minister Yan’s mind reeled. He rose, stepped forward two paces, dizzy, watching the entire Red Emperor bloodline collapse, spitting blood. Those who had seized power and fought the current Red Emperor for over twenty years now coughed blood and died.

Old and young, male and female—all.

The current Red Emperor clenched his fist, his sleeves flaring. “Jiang Wanxiang—do you know what peace is?”

Jiang Wanxiang stared at this ruler he had judged as lacking spirit. The current Red Emperor spoke softly: “As your master said, the Red Emperor line’s eight-hundred-year glory was interrupted, then revived. You wish to use the Red Emperor’s name—then what of those who come after?”

“The Red Emperor line still lives.”

“In eight hundred years, a thousand, two thousand—still the Red Emperor line will endure. Unkillable, unextinguishable, unbroken—like a monster, twisted, rotten, yet alive. Like the finest banner to raise chaos!”

“There will always be those with ambition, wielding the Red Emperor’s blood, riding the world, stirring the people’s hearts, claiming legitimacy. But this is not your fault. Eight hundred years of chaos. Eight hundred years of Red Emperor.”

“This title is now a brand, seared into every heart.”

“Today you seize the Son of Heaven. Tomorrow, another seizes the imperial grandson. The legitimacy of the Red Emperor line—this shadow over the world—is the perfect excuse, the perfect reason, the perfect tradition. The Red Emperor line has clung to life too many times already.”

“I know…”

Su Wang’s expression froze. He watched the current Red Emperor raise his hand. The twelve imperial pendants hung down. He looked at the commoners—and smiled. The fear, the terror rising from within, vanished. He spoke calmly:

“Eight hundred years ago, the Red Emperor stood with a three-foot sword, forged an unparalleled achievement—and thus this dynasty arose.”

“Eight hundred years later, through countless deaths and rebirths.”

“Is this not Heaven’s will?!”

“How could we end in decay?!”

“If you want the world—fight for it with sword and blade!”

He understood now: whether abdication or usurpation, it made no difference.

The usurper is unquestionably a traitor—but the one granted the throne is equally a traitor. There will always be loyalists, always those whose ambition is wrapped in the Red Emperor’s shadow, rising again under the banner of punishing traitors.

Yes. You and I—we share the same fate.

You bring peace. I bring order to chaos.

When grasses on the steppe burn to ash, spring returns the next year.

He saw again, years past, the boy and youth drinking beneath a great tree. He smiled, looked up, watched the curling smoke, watched each tablet transform into shadow-beasts, reaching out with hands that clutched loyal ministers and officials, trying to seize him.

“I will not run, my ancestral Red Emperors.”

The current Red Emperor smiled.

“I have enjoyed your protection, your glory—how could I run?”

The curling smoke suddenly erupted into a terrifying flame. The fire surged, engulfing the nine-story palace entirely. The inferno roared skyward, illuminating heaven and earth.

All ancestral tablets of the Red Emperor line burned in the flames.

Su Wang’s face changed instantly. Jiang Wanxiang looked up, stunned, speechless.

He instinctively blocked Yuwen Lie, who moved to extinguish the fire.

“It is the fire of destiny!”

Thus, the Red Emperor stood calmly within the flames.

Thus, Ji Zichang thought:

As long as the Red Emperor line endures, true peace can never come. The dead of the past still bind the future. Only upon the ashes, burned clean, can a new path emerge.

Yet—

He looked at the woman who had followed him always. Wen Imperial Consort watched him, reached out, took Ji Zichang’s hand. He gently embraced her, whispered:

“I truly wish to leave with you.”

“Then, we would journey the world, leave this narrow Zhongzhou—see Jiangnan’s waters, the northern steppes, the western deserts where smoke and sunsets meet, the vastest starry river.”

“When we walk out, these ten thousand mountains and rivers, all the world’s scenery—I will walk with you, until we are old. Then, in this peaceful age, find a quiet place, watch sunrises and sunsets, watch all things grow.”

“Leave the child to Guanyi.”

“Watch him frown, burdened by childcare. Watch the child grow. When she is sixteen or seventeen, chasing her adoptive father for New Year’s money—we’ll sit there, laughing. Just laughing…”

“But alas…”

Wen Wan’er’s face was streaked with tears, yet she smiled:

“Wherever you go, I go with you.”

Ji Zichang smiled. The king who had not slept for days, who had struggled and feared, embraced his wife, turned his head, and looked out at the ministers and officials. The flames had already ignited, exploding in Cengcengdiedie waves.

The eight-hundred-year Red Emperor line’s ancestral names, the tablets of past emperors—all perished in fire. The nine-tiered pagoda became a sword piercing heaven.

The vast sky turned crimson.

This is—

Chi Xiao.

The true Chi Xiao.

BOOM!!!

Flames surged violently.

Thus, the destiny that had destroyed a dynasty rose as fire, transforming into a crimson divine dragon that coiled above the nine-story tower, lifting its head to roar.

Thus, all direct descendants of the Chi Emperor’s lineage died from Ji Zichang’s poisoned wine; before the eyes of the people of Zhongzhou, the eight-hundred-year Chi Emperor line bid farewell to the world in a grand and resolute manner, its curtain falling.

No abdication. No surrender.

The monarch burned himself, extinguishing the entire lineage.

Clean. Complete. Satisfying!

That brilliant, magnificent, radiant yet decaying and unsustainable Chi Emperor lineage began one afternoon with the dream of a peasant, and ended eight centuries later in the final Chi Emperor’s blazing fire.

Thus Ji Zichang finally gazed down upon the world, watching his distant friend, and whispered in his heart: Master Yao, when the news reaches you, you may find everything has unfolded beyond your expectations.

I am not dying for my country. I am not being forced to abdicate.

Rather, the glory of the eight-hundred-year Chi Emperor line must be ended by my own hand.

It matters not. It matters not.

The world still endures.

May you…

He suddenly recalled a wine feast years ago, when his friend had squinted through the wind, truly a fine dream.

May you—

Peace.

That peaceful world… you must watch over it for me.

Ji Zichang looked at the ministers, calm and commanding: “I am tired.”

“All of you… withdraw!”

His sleeves swept aside, then he embraced his wife, step by step, walking into the flames that threatened to consume all—within the fire, their lives seemed reflected: from this moment, back to youth, to their final childhood meeting.

At first, strangers. Later, inseparable. Only a smile in the fire.

“Your Majesty, are you afraid?”

The last Chi Emperor smiled contentedly, whispering:

“I lived as myself…”

“It was enough.”

His inner strength protected himself and his wife, until his inner qi shattered—this unique destiny-fire consumed them both, and the deep crimson dragon soared skyward, finally dissolving.

The last Chi Emperor, Ji Zichang, burned himself alive.

The eight-hundred-year Chi Emperor lineage began with slaying the serpent, and ended with Chi Xiao.

A beginning. An end.

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