Volume One: The Hidden Dragon in the Abyss Chapter Twelve: Reactions

"Imperial physician, imperial physician..." Wang Chuan's gaze swept the room, searching until he found his target. Several elderly doctors hurried forward. "Your Highness, what are your instructions?"

The Lord of Wei had ordered them to remain here; even if they could not cure him, they were to stay by his side. They dared not admit defeat, nor mention the mercy of a peaceful death. Yet, seeing Wang Chuan’s face, contorted in agony, his suffering unbearable, their hearts ached with helplessness. As healers, they regarded themselves as compassionate as parents, but seldom did they feel so powerless.

"Please, I beg you, intercede with my imperial uncle for me. My days are numbered. My only wish is that, after my death, I may be buried atop Mount Yan."

Wang Chuan’s voice grew weaker, as if he were expending his last ounce of strength to make his final wishes known.

"Let it be a lofty mountain, let the trees be tall, so that I may gaze toward my homeland. I grew up in Luo City, my mother’s hometown, and thus mine as well. My father brought me back to Yang City for a few years, where our family has lived since the time of our ancestors—also my home. Bury my tomb facing north... at the border between the two kingdoms, so that I may ever gaze toward the lands of both nations, and find peace in death!"

"Bury me atop a high mountain, so I may behold my homeland; if my homeland cannot be seen, I shall never forget."

"Bury me atop a high mountain, so I may behold my homeland; if my homeland cannot be seen, I can only weep in sorrow."

"The heavens are vast, the wilds boundless, atop the mountain, a nation mourns!"

With these words, Wang Chuan exhausted his final strength and fell once more into unconsciousness.

Those in the room turned ashen, overcome with grief.

...

Everyone in the chamber was dismissed by Loyal Uncle, leaving Wang Chuan with a thousand-year-old ginseng root between his lips, his breath faint as a wisp.

Loyal Uncle, after cautiously probing several times, approached the bedside and called softly, "Your Highness, they have all left..."

There was no response.

He called again, three times in all.

Wang Chuan remained motionless.

At last, Loyal Uncle broke down, tears streaming down his face. "Your Highness... how did your careful patience end with your own demise..."

...

"Hurry! Faster!" Qi Hao urged his horse to a gallop, racing through the night back to Jin, desperate to appear before the Lord of Jin, though he knew it was too late—nothing could change what had happened. The treaty was now meaningless; with the death of the Crown Prince of Jin, the fragile balance between nations would once more be shattered.

Qi Hao had made the best possible choice; the Lord of Jin would understand in the end.

The Crown Prince was dead—the world was about to change.

He could not remember when, but as he left Luo City, a fine rain began to fall, drizzling ceaselessly.

He thought of his father, and of his own last son lost on the battlefield. Qi Hao felt the pain deeply.

"Your Majesty, you had a worthy son. Take him home, though it is too late, far too late. He was always waiting for you…"

...

"Your Highness, we are going home..."

Loyal Uncle held Wang Chuan’s cold hand, soon overcome with tears.

Not long after Qi Hao’s departure, they too were sent back to Jin. The carriage rolled gently toward their homeland.

The chief eunuch of the Lord of Wei came to ask for his opinion, and Loyal Uncle agreed. It no longer mattered whether it was the Lord of Jin or the Lord of Wei; he wished to hear no one.

He had only one task left: to fulfill Wang Chuan’s final wish—to bury him atop Mount Yan.

This was the last duty he would have as a servant.

For the rest of his life, he would guard the prince’s tomb!

This was all he could do now.

Along the roadside, unnoticed at first, lines of common folk appeared to bid farewell, the entire city clad in mourning.

...

That night, the Emperor of Wei dreamed—a rare occurrence—and for the first time, he dreamt of his elder sister.

In the empty palace, the middle-aged man wept bitterly, his cries echoing through the halls.

"Sister, I have wronged you, I have failed you. You entrusted Chuan’er to me all those years ago, and I did not care for your son, nor let our mother live out her days in peace. Why am I the only one left..."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

In those days, the court was rife with traitors, the demon empress wreaked havoc in the harem, the late emperor was feeble, and the people suffered. He was very young then, and frightened; because his mother had once been a palace maid, the three of them were often bullied and had their stipends cut. His elder sister would comfort him, "Don’t be afraid. It’s all right. One day, you will be a wise ruler, blessed by heaven and guarded by the wise sovereigns of Wei."

The Lord of Wei remembered how, on that day, the guards came for him, but his sister stood at the door with a firewood axe. "The imperial grandson is here!"

At that time, his sister’s mastery of the art of runes was already formidable.

Only after she reached its pinnacle, the court was cleansed of corruption by upright ministers, and with the help of wandering heroes from Luo City, traitors were removed and the throne restored, did the court welcome him as emperor.

Afterwards, she married far away to the Crown Prince of Jin, borrowing soldiers to quell the chaos in Wei.

Later, she returned to Luo City and gave birth to Wang Chuan.

Then, she was taken as a disciple by the Divine Talisman Institute, and from then on, there was no news of her.

"Sister, if even you blame me, then was everything I ever did utterly meaningless?"

He rose, dressing himself in his imperial robes. "I have always remembered your teachings, striving to be a wise and virtuous ruler. I am so weary, so pained, yet I have never faltered—only hoping you might see and acknowledge me. All these years, I have worked tirelessly, diligently, with a clear conscience!"

Leaving his bedchamber, he offered incense at the Empress Dowager’s shrine, then returned to the affairs of state.

Throughout, his back remained straight as a rod.

...

Wei trees, Jin clouds, a letter cut by a foot of knife,

Across the distance, what bitterness can compare?

Dreams travel unafraid to distant Yang City,

How many times have I ridden the wind to inquire after you?

Qi Hao did not know how many horses he had worn out; for the final stretch, he used his own energy to fly, finally reaching Yang City and the Lord of Jin.

The Lord of Jin was somewhat short, with a full, round face; others saw little resemblance between him and Wang Chuan.

But Qi Hao had seen the Lord of Jin in his youth, and there was indeed a likeness.

He had, however, grown stouter with age...

The Lord of Jin was shocked to see him in such a disheveled state, and after reading the carefully preserved poem and memorial, and hearing Qi Hao describe the young man who stood so straight in the great hall, and his final moments on his sickbed, the Emperor of Jin was silent for a long while, still clutching the poem.

Suddenly he kicked over the golden dragon table. "I will immediately send troops to Mount Yan and bring my son home! Yanming, what are you doing? If you do not return my son to me, I shall storm Luo City myself and bring him back!"

"Go!"

The Lord of Jin was furious. On the rare occasions when he called a minister by his full name, it meant he was ready to kill.

Qi Hao nearly failed to recall that this was the Lord of Wei’s name; ordinarily, the Lord of Jin would not address him so.

No one else dared speak the ruler’s name aloud.

But such was the Lord of Jin—decisive and unstoppable once his mind was set.

He donned his armor, and the entire military apparatus sprang to life.

Tens of thousands of imperial guards assembled at the capital, ready to depart.

Along the way, logistical preparations began in every province and county...

It was with the same swiftness that he had once seized control of Yan Prefecture.

So sudden was his decision that even the people of Jin were caught unawares, let alone the Wei garrisons.

Thirty thousand elite troops appeared at Yan Prefecture, driving out the Wei defenders in just two hours, leaving the local populace bewildered.

Fifty thousand imperial guards marched from the capital, carrying only a few days’ rations and wearing light armor.

When the emperor commanded, they moved at once—especially now, with the sovereign himself leading the campaign.

Supplies would be replenished en route; grain and equipment would be sent from the rear.

The court officials were still in a daze, but with orders descending in quick succession, they could do nothing but rush to comply.

The people were even more bewildered.

The Lord of Jin always caught everyone off guard—his own people, and even more so his enemies.

After a forced march of thirty miles within Jin’s borders, the army paused to resupply food and water.

There would be no setting up of camp; rest was brief, for they would soon move on.

It seemed they were heading toward Wei—was war imminent again?

The emperor himself was leading the army; this was no mere excursion.

With tens of thousands marching out, weapons gleaming, it was clear this was not a drill.

When Qi Hao was summoned to see the Lord of Jin, he found him holding a rune brush, tracing gentle lines.

The air shimmered with heat, and flames sprang up on the firewood pile before him.

"Your Majesty, your mastery of runes has grown again," Qi Hao praised sincerely.

"Mastery comes from diligence, ruin from idleness," the Lord of Jin replied with a sigh. "You have met my son. When I brought him back from Luo City, many saw him and said he was unsuited to the study of runes, unfit for martial arts. Sigh... the son of myself and the empress, how could this be..."

Qi Hao too felt regret. The Princess Royal of Wei, the Empress of Jin—her reputation for rune mastery was famed throughout the land.

The Lord of Jin was no less accomplished; among his peers, his skill was first-class.

Yet their son had not inherited their gifts—his talent was ordinary.

"But I did not mind. Before she left, the empress said this would not prevent him from becoming a wise ruler," the Lord of Jin continued. "I made him crown prince, and a prince he remained, shouldering the pressure of the entire court! If he made no grave mistakes, as a father, as a sovereign, how could I ever punish him? So, after my death, would I not have left him the throne?"

"Your Majesty’s devotion is clear," Qi Hao said. "The other princes are powerful, with many court supporters—some with great influence. Though Prince Wang Chuan was the empress’s son, to many in Jin he was an outsider from Wei. The empress was renowned for her rune mastery, but after so many years without a word, none of this could strengthen Prince Wang Chuan’s position."

Thus, it would have been extremely difficult for him to compete for the throne.

The Lord of Jin was speaking from the heart, so Qi Hao replied with candor.

It sufficed to relate the facts objectively; he had no private agenda.

Before a monarch, one’s conscience must remain clear.

"I have not seen him in over a decade—fifteen years, perhaps. He was nearly grown, yet I never arranged a marriage for him," the Lord of Jin mused. "He was so small back then. I took him hunting, but he could not yet draw the longbow and was crestfallen. I told him not to worry, that when he grew up, we would hunt deer together..."

"I taught him to write; I still have those first crooked characters he showed me, his first attempt at writing. I kept them always..."

"My poor child. But I sent him away and was never able to be by his side. And the Zhao family merchants—what were they doing? If anything had happened to my son, I would have had them buried with him!"

...

"While one’s parents are alive, do not travel afar."

The Lord of Jin truly did carry with him the paper on which, as a child, Wang Chuan had written those words.

Qi Hao looked at the crumpled, tattered sheet and, for some reason, recalled the calligraphy Wang Chuan had treasured from his own father.

It must have been difficult for the emperor to find this after so many years, seeing the wear and tear it had suffered from neglect, likely left forgotten and uncared for.

Qi Hao pretended not to notice, saying nothing.