Chapter One: Uncle and Nephew

In the first year of the Northern Song’s Kai Bao era (AD 968), in the third month of spring, Tokyo Bianliang.

The kingdom was only eight years old, and the city of Kaifeng was still far from the bustling prosperity depicted in the famed "Along the River During the Qingming Festival." Yet, thanks to the relentless efforts of several generations of formidable rulers, Kaifeng had already achieved the highest population and economic scale of its time, surpassing any other city of the era.

Much like in that celebrated scroll, the liveliest and most prosperous street in Kaifeng remained the imperial avenue connecting the Vermilion Bird Gate to the main entrance of the palace, the Xuande Gate. This avenue, astonishingly two hundred meters wide, was divided into three parts: the central path reserved exclusively for the royal family, flanked on both sides by lotus-filled channels and groves of trees, with clear waters rippling gently.

Beyond these channels lay the commoners’ walkways, lined with shops open to the street where townsfolk traded goods amid great bustle. Whenever the emperor ventured out, the people crowded both sides to catch a glimpse of royal dignity and grandeur.

The renowned Zhou Bridge, illuminated by moonlight, stood beside the equally famous Grand Xiangguo Temple. On the busy bridge, a young man in a white robe stood with his hands behind his back, surveying the surroundings with curiosity. Though he spoke in a local Kaifeng dialect, his demeanor suggested he was new to this most vibrant city of the Song dynasty.

This young man, somewhat dark and plump, was, in truth, the eldest son of the founding emperor of the Northern Song, Zhao Kuangyin—Zhao Dezhao—born of the empress. He lived independently now, having left the palace to establish his own household, though for various reasons he had not yet been granted a noble title, holding only the nominal position of Defender of Guizhou.

As for why Zhao Dezhao, the crown prince, was here, the reason was a sudden whim—ignoring the earnest advice of eunuchs and maids, he insisted on donning the attire of a commoner and, accompanied by only a single eunuch as a guide, ventured incognito among the people.

At this moment, seeing that Zhao Dezhao had finally stopped gawking about, a short and stout young man hurried to his side and whispered anxiously, “Your Highness, haven’t you had enough for today? It’s getting late; we should return home.”

This rotund young man was Wang Zhifa, a palace eunuch who had served Zhao Dezhao since childhood. Because of their close bond, Wang followed Zhao Dezhao out of the palace and faithfully tended to him, though his greatest flaw was timidity, especially fearing that Zhao Dezhao might cause trouble and incur the wrath of the volatile Zhao Kuangyin.

Wang Zhifa’s respectful address of “Your Highness” was not due to an official title, but rather a customary practice of the time: all sons of the emperor were called “Highness,” numbered according to their rank.

To return to the story, Wang Zhifa’s earnest advice was fruitless. Without even glancing back, Zhao Dezhao replied, “Why the rush? It’s still early. Let’s wander a bit more, then have dinner at Fengle Tower before heading home.”

“Your Highness, you still want to eat outside?” Wang Zhifa panicked, pleading, “Your Highness, who can guarantee the cleanliness of food among the commoners? You, of royal blood, what if you get sick?”

“I’m not that delicate,” Zhao Dezhao retorted, then strode off the bridge, hands behind his back, heading south.

“What’s gotten into His Highness? He’s like a different person,” Wang Zhifa fretted, sweat forming on his brow, but could only hurry after him.

By coincidence, just as Zhao Dezhao and his attendant left the bridge, the sound of drums came from the south. On the royal avenue appeared a sizable ceremonial procession, marching north in great pomp.

Seeing this, Zhao Dezhao, curious about everything, slowed his steps and craned his neck to watch. Soon he saw the procession bearing four crimson banners, the insignia of the Four Straight Guards, signifying the royal family. Zhao Dezhao immediately realized that a relative must be arriving.

Zhao Dezhao’s guess was correct. Wang Zhifa soon whispered, “Your Highness, it’s your uncle, the Second Prince.”

“Are you sure it’s him?” Zhao Dezhao asked.

Wang Zhifa nodded, “It can only be him. The emperor doesn’t use this procession. Your uncle, the Third Prince, and your younger brother, the Second Prince, rarely go out, and their processions are much smaller. Only the Second Prince’s outings in Kaifeng are grand, besides the emperor.”

The murmurs of nearby citizens confirmed Wang Zhifa’s deduction. Before long, surrounded by soldiers, officials, and attendants, Zhao Dezhao’s uncle, Zhao Guangyi, appeared, riding in a pale yellow sedan chair carried by men.

Watching his uncle’s proud bearing, Zhao Dezhao’s plump, dark face curled into a cold smile as he thought, “Dear Second Uncle, future ‘Chariot King’ of Gaoliang River, we finally meet.”

The truth was, Zhao Dezhao was no longer the same person as before. His body now housed a soul from the twenty-first century.

It was a sad tale. In the twenty-first century, Zhao Dezhao had been an outstanding student, admitted to a mediocre university as a humanities major. He scraped through open-book exams, avoided corruption, and earned a diploma, fulfilling his parents’ hopes. With the help of close family, he secured a civil service position at a public hospital, working in logistics.

Hospital logistics didn’t pay well, but the income was decent, and with strong family support, Zhao Dezhao quickly bought a car and house outright, his standard of living far above his peers.

At this point, his life seemed set: marriage, children, promotions. But fate took a turn. Just as Zhao Dezhao contemplated wooing a pretty nurse or doctor, a night of drunken revelry whisked him from the twenty-first century to this era, becoming the seventeen-year-old crown prince, son of Zhao Kuangyin.

To transform from a hospital logistics worker to the emperor’s eldest son, a prince—one might expect Zhao Dezhao to feel as if he’d won the lottery. Yet, quite the opposite was true. Once he realized his new status, Zhao Dezhao was bitterly distressed, even contemplating getting drunk again to see if he could return to his old life.

As for why…

The historical Zhao Dezhao’s life was tragic! According to later chronicles, this legitimate heir never won his father’s favor, never ascended the throne, never received a princely title, and after Zhao Kuangyin’s mysterious death by candlelight and axe, his uncle, the future Song Taizong, generously granted him a minor title—only to soon accuse him falsely and force him to his death, nearly erasing his lineage.

Recalling these historical records and gazing at his uncle in the sedan, Zhao Dezhao felt uneasy. “Is there a way to change history? Can I persuade my uncle not to kill me? If he spares me, I’d gladly discuss the throne with him.”

Musing thus, Zhao Dezhao chuckled bitterly, mocking himself, “Stop dreaming. Remember when you joined the hospital, fighting tooth and nail with that Spanish-major idiot for a civil service post? If a hospital logistics job was so fiercely contested, how much more so for the throne? This is a matter of life and death—showing mercy is sheer foolishness.”

After his self-mockery, aware of his likely fate, Zhao Dezhao pondered anew, “What should I do? Should I compete with my uncle for the throne and see who wins?”

Such a question could not be decided lightly, and Zhao Dezhao was still eager to acquaint himself with this era. His thoughts turned to another long-held desire, and he quickly asked Wang Zhifa, “Zhifa, I’ve heard Kaifeng has places where women wrestle. Do you know where?”

“Women’s wrestling?!” Wang Zhifa’s face turned pale. He whispered, “Your Highness, are you joking? Do you know what women’s wrestling is? It’s women, nearly like courtesans, fighting on stage, barely dressed, exposing themselves—utterly disgraceful!”

“Obviously I wouldn’t ask if I knew,” Zhao Dezhao replied, perfectly reasonable.

“And you still dare go?!” Wang Zhifa’s voice quivered in panic. “If the emperor finds out you went to such a place, do you know what would happen?”

“Just don’t let him find out,” Zhao Dezhao said lightly. “If neither of us talk, who would know? Enough chatter—do you know where?”

“I don’t!” Wang Zhifa shook his head vigorously.

“No matter, I’ll ask someone else.”

Zhao Dezhao’s response nearly brought Wang Zhifa to tears. Turning his gaze, Zhao Dezhao eagerly searched for someone to ask about Kaifeng’s entertainment establishments, when suddenly—

“Injustice—!”

A desperate cry rang out. Zhao Dezhao and countless onlookers turned to see a frail, gray-haired old man break from the crowd, stumbling across the bridge spanning the canal, kneeling at the edge of the royal avenue, holding up a petition and wailing, “Your Excellency, my nephew died unjustly! Please, Your Excellency, do justice for us and grant him fairness!”

At that moment, Zhao Guangyi, atop the sedan, turned his gaze to the plaintive elder, seeing his wailing, kneeling form. A smile crept onto Zhao Guangyi’s dark, plump face as he thought, “Another chance to make a name for myself.”