"I was once a novice on Mount Jin. The path of Buddhism, as we know, takes a thousand years, yet do not scorn me for being covered in the dust of the great city: once, I too was guided by higher ideals..." — read aloud one of Du Mu's poems, Emperor Li Chen, while his court advisor handed him silk handkerchiefs as fits of coughing overcame him.
The emperor had been ill for several months and felt his end drawing near. The country was sinking into unrest, and the golden age that had lasted until the mid-eighth century was becoming but a shadow. China was slowly descending into an era of darkness.
"Du Mu is truly remarkable, don't you think, Daoming?" the emperor asked, adjusting himself on the silk sofa, prompting Daoming to add two more cushions behind his back.
"Indeed, Your Majesty," the advisor agreed.
"And you, Ming, which of his poems do you value most?" the emperor asked, suddenly invigorated, turning his head swiftly.
"The Bian River Bound by Ice," Daoming replied.
"The same somber tone. I see we understand one another. They say the overly sensitive are either failures or madmen. What is it with madness? Was Du Mu insane?"
"It depends on the context, Your Majesty. Was he mad because he was a brilliant poet and statesman, or did becoming a brilliant poet and statesman drive him mad?"
"I asked whether he was mad at all. Not what caused it — if it even existed. And if he did go mad, perhaps it was because of what he saw."
"I don't believe madness shows itself in such a way, sire. He was most likely a man of great heart, and he did not approve of the world he inherited."
"Yes…" sighed the emperor. "My nephew left behind little more than ashes. The persecution of Buddhists led us into chaos, like what Xuanzong brought upon himself in 755 with the An Lushan Rebellion. Back then, they loved too deeply what had little in common with the Chinese spirit. They longed for foreign generals. Then foreign religions. Soon they won't even want a Chinese emperor. Until a foreigner arrives!" the emperor cried out, leaping from the sofa and coughing hard into his handkerchief. "So many eras, always alternating between storm and peace. Can there not be one great dynasty that unites 'All Under Heaven' once and for all? Must the Mandate of Heaven keep bouncing around like a fish in a bucket, now here, now there?"
"The Mandate of Heaven speaks, my lord. The centuries past have shown that many may fight, but where Heaven has already granted its favor, no army can prevail."
"And I am to believe," the emperor snapped, "that the same force which returned the Chinese Empire from its darkest autumns to radiant spring now favors rebels on the frontier? The border troops begin to stir, and that corsair wretch Huang Chao gains followers! It won't be long before entire garrisons march behind him! A hot gust is coming, Dao. You know it. And you know whence it blows."
"Once more, the tremors and thunders from the Silk Road," Daoming replied.
"Yes… that famed burning wind, sweeping dust and sand," the emperor recited with glazed eyes, as if the wastelands of the Silk Road unfolded before him. "Tell me, Dao—why do great civilizations always fall? After every grand order comes an abyss of chaos..." He paced the chamber, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "What do we do wrong? I want to know before I leave this world. Because it is not the dream of any ruler to leave his country on the threshold of disorder and uncertainty about its fate... - he sighed and quickly held his breath to stifle an oncoming cough.
He held his breath for a moment until his face turned purple, then he turned his eyes to his advisor.
"They say unrest leads to glory, while satisfaction breeds ruin. If you die a troubled ruler, your people may remember you more kindly," said Daoming.
For the first time in a month, the emperor laughed.
"And failure is the mother of success, eh?" he replied with irony. "Words sound lovely when it's another's wound that aches. I've long been seeking a sign. What must I do while there is still time? What should I leave my successor to prevent another chaos like the one Wuzong unleashed—and the one these marauders are yet to unleash! It cannot sit idly! A motionless stone gathers moss."
"I'm afraid, Your Highness, that the issue is not what you will leave behind, but the fact that you have no successor with even a modicum of panache and political acumen."
- How glorious the beginnings always are. Their legends shine like gold and feel warmer than the sun. One can bask in their warmth and glory. Two hundred and forty years ago, my ancestor Li Shimin etched his name into history with an immortal mark. With glory. With heroism. With military genius… And how shall I be remembered? As the one who brought the country to its knees before a snarling aggressor? As the ruler of a people crushed by violence that even the barbarians from the north would not dare to claim? As the master of a land ravaged by bloody terror? A failure I can no longer remedy… and there are no signs. Neither when I look to the sky nor to the earth. And yet nature has always guided us rulers in the exercise of our political power! But now? Silence! It is as if bewitched! It allows everything to unfold unchecked! Perhaps as punishment! Let them reap what they sow and watch as time rots it all away.
- Your Majesty has noble ancestors. Perhaps it is in them that one must seek support and answers. Is that not what rulers do when they stand on the edge of despair? What would my great-grandfather have done? Are we Hans truly at a loss? Look, Your Majesty, upon your golden age. Upon the might of the Tang in its first century. It can be restored to its former glory.
- To do that, one would need to revive the spirit of the nation. And the people no longer see the Tang as guardians of tradition. It is not only the people who deny us their grace. I feel, Dao, that the Mandate of Heaven is slowly slipping from our grasp.
- The North has always been distant from the South. But surely we have no fewer shared things than differences. Just like in the South, we too believe in the same ancestors, the same social order, the same divine mandate of the ruler, the same prosperity, and in the unbreakable unity of our state. Wars may have shrunken or stretched its borders, but they have never torn it apart. We have one advantage over the rest of the world – the strength and wisdom to always return our state to its roots. No matter who or what tries to tear them out.
- Consider this, Dao. The twilight of every dynasty has ended in division and unrest. The Tang are turning to dust. From glory rise ashes and grey smoke. What good is a memory of unity to me! Unity must be the very core of the state! Like language, land, and people! Perhaps we have one Han culture, one Han language, and one Han script. But what good is that when we do not understand each other anymore, as ever new rebels rise?
- But perhaps, my lord, it is these very wars that have birthed that unity – that ever-resurrecting identity. Endless wars, one state annexing another. The time of King Yu, a thousandfold fragmentation. The Shang dynasty – scarcely better. Only under the rule of Emperor Qin did there remain but one state. He gave everyone the example of how to unify our lands. The Tang ruled no differently. It is possible we missed an important sign.
- Perhaps we should travel to Taosi and look from there. Our ancestors and our legends cast a long shadow upon us. I only hope that in that shadow I shall not remain invisible and forgotten. Warlords will clash again and there shall once more be flocks of rulers. – the emperor snorted.
- There are not two suns in the sky. Nor can there be two rulers on earth. When morale falters, a righteous and brave example is needed. And we had such a man once – said Daoming. – Li Shimin at Hulao.
- And what should I do with that long-past moment of his glory now? – the emperor frowned, uncertain of what Daoming meant.
- Revive the legend. Find the descendants of his most loyal retainers and make them your own.
- You speak of the Thirteen Monks of Shaolin?
Daoming nodded. The Emperor first grew sorrowful, then fell into thought. After the campaign ended and Li Shimin ascended the imperial throne, the Thirteen Monks, at the request of the new Emperor, left the temple and joined the imperial court, enlisting in the emperor's army. Indeed, among some of them, that tradition lasted long, and their descendants remained loyal to military service. Yet not all families followed that path tirelessly.
"How do you know who still remains loyal to their ancestors?"
"Their lineages still endure. The monastery keeps their chronicles to this day. They know which direction each one took. Find them and bring them to the temple. Let them receive teachings there and serve the empire."
"You know well, Dao, that I will not live to see them swear their oath of loyalty."
"But they will live to fulfill their duty. Just give them the best master. You have him here. A most extraordinary man you can trust."
The Emperor furrowed his brows deeply and wrinkled his nose. He did not like the last sentence that came from Dao's mouth. He fell silent and began pacing the room again. He searched his mind for a reply to his advisor's idea, but then his thoughts were interrupted by the tolling of a heavy bell—cast in bronze and brought here long ago from the court of the Shang dynasty. This sound heralded the arrival of someone before the ruler.
The Emperor looked at his advisor in surprise, for no visits were expected at the Daming Palace. Dao also darkened in expression, as the Emperor was in a foul mood and surely not in the disposition for sudden intrusions or audiences. The last thing he would have wished was to hear complaints, grievances, and whining when he already had enough of his own troubles. The bell's echo carried across the courtyard and bounced off the marble floors, a lingering reminder of the approaching visitors.
The Emperor, coughing heavily, leaned on Dao's arm and made his way to the throne hall. As soon as he entered, he sank into the throne and fell into a coughing fit, burying his face in a cloth.
Three knocks landed on the door of the hall—fists of the guard. The dull thuds passed through the chamber like a summer monsoon across a forested hillside. Their echo settled on the statues of Fuxi and Nuwa, and their faces seemed to brighten. The Emperor stared at them, seeking in this illusion a sign, a good omen. "Perhaps someone of importance comes, bearing a cure for my afflictions," crossed his mind, pierced with a shadow of hope.
The Emperor drifted into another realm of thought. Seeing that something deeply occupied his master's mind, Dao did not dare to clear his throat to remind him of the delegation behind the doors. No sound reached the Emperor's ears from the other side either. No one dared urge the ruler without hearing permission to enter or present the unexpected strangers before him. So they waited patiently until the ruler freed himself from his thoughts and his voice could be heard. For it had to be expected that one might have to stand behind those doors for a short while, perhaps two hours, or even two days.
Yet it seemed the Emperor had read the shadows on the deities' faces in his own way, for his voice soon rang out in the great hall. Its echo spread like thousands of sunbeams shimmering on the surface of the Yellow River at dusk.
The heavy doors opened wide, pushed apart by the guards. They walked on either side like thick ropes braiding a bridge across a chasm, and between them came monks from the Shaolin Temple, clad in their traditional monastic robes. All had evenly shaved heads, wore deep orange garments, and had wooden prayer beads of medium-sized spheres draped over their elbows.
At the front walked the eldest among them. Despite the visible signs of old age etched into his calm and kind face through many wrinkles and spots, his posture, vitality, and the sharpness of his eyes made him in no way inferior to some of the much younger brothers in the order. The procession halted a good distance before the Emperor, and then all of them, as one, bowed deeply before the ruler, not daring to speak until granted permission to rise and speak. All the monks, except for the elder, stood with their heads and eyes lowered to the ground, hands clasped in front of them, and from between them hung heavy, large wooden prayer beads—their primary weapon. The Emperor gestured toward the eldest, indicating that he should speak.
"Forgive us, Your Majesty, for this unannounced visit, but we are pressed by the request of the High Master of the Monastery," said the monk at the head of the column, bowing his head once more before the Emperor.
Li Chen nodded slightly, a sign that he bore no anger for their coming. His silence signaled that the visitors were permitted to continue speaking.
"The Prior of the Monastery, Supreme Master Su Yu Chun, has taken ill in recent days and is likely to leave this earthly world very soon. Therefore, he has sent us with a mission—to bring you his final request," said the monk, lifting his gaze to the Emperor. In his eyes bloomed a sorrow so deeply laced with hope that the Emperor, caught by it, could not tear his gaze away no matter how hard he might have tried.
"What is this request?" the ruler asked, his voice full of compassion and calm.
"Two years ago, you took into your court his best and most beloved disciple—whom he cherished like a son. Now, before his death, he wishes to see him once more. Thus, we, the messengers of his final will, humbly beg you to grant the boy leave for a short time to accompany us to the sacred Mount Song, where his master awaits him with the last flicker of hope," the monk spoke, struggling to contain the moisture welling in his eyes."I believe I would not be breaking any vow if I said that this is the final thread holding him to this holy earth. That once this last wish is fulfilled, he will pass on in peace. For the Master awaits nothing else but to bid farewell to the only son he ever loved in this earthly realm," he finished, bowing his head quickly so the Emperor would not glimpse his weakness.
Daomning's eyes widened, and he whispered to the Emperor:"My lord, I believe your long-awaited sign has arrived."
Li Chen immediately understood whom the monk had spoken of. He did indeed have at his court a young man he had ordered brought from the Shaolin Temple after hearing of his extraordinary martial skills and stories praising him as a paragon of all virtues. Tales had reached the court calling him "the greatest warrior in all of Henan." The Emperor had always desired to surround himself with those who were beautiful, wise, and gifted—with rare abilities and uncommon intellects. At his side were the finest scribes and thinkers, generals and officers skilled in the art of war, poets and men of letters who not only chose their words masterfully, but turned their arrangement into true art.
Upon hearing of this jealously guarded pearl of Shaolin, the Emperor decided to wrench him away from the monks. Yet he was met with partial disappointment. For before the "greatest in Henan" left Shaolin under imperial escort, he had taken a vow of silence—his reasons known only to his now-dying master.
For the entire two years the young man had spent at court, the Emperor had not managed to extract a single word from him—neither by plea nor by threat. And yet, despite having no personal bond with him, the Emperor sensed that the stories told about the boy had been no exaggeration. His was a rare intellect, and the kind of man through whom, one day, great things might come to pass. Since the vow of silence acted as an impenetrable curtain, it was to be respected—for the youth had been taken from the monastery against his will, a place he had longed to remain in, intending to take full monastic vows in the Buddhist temple.
At court, he was tasked with teaching the Emperor's sons the martial arts and overseeing the entire imperial army. After the Emperor and his chief minister, Wei Lianjie, he was the third most important figure at court. He was held in esteem, admiration, and respect equal to that of the imperial ministers and philosophers. The officers of the imperial army sought his counsel in every military campaign and worked tirelessly under his watchful eye, striving to match his skill. Yet the Emperor deeply lamented that such pride and discipline were not accompanied by a willingness to speak.
Lianjie was inscrutable, mysterious, and when he did not have to fulfill his duties, he spent all his time in solitude, immersed in meditation and books. No one ever knew what occupied his mind—what he thought about, what tormented him, what he sought, what he longed for, what brought him joy or sorrow. His face, at all hours of the day, wore the same expression; to the people and the world, his face was always the same. It was impossible to read fatigue or complaints about his fate from it, yet in his black, cold eyes, there was always an unfathomable darkness lurking. It was unclear whether this darkness was one of emptiness, in a body of steel, with nothing inside, like an empty walnut that had long since dried up, or if, on the contrary, a crouching tiger lay hidden in this darkness, waiting for the day it could spring forth. It was known from the legends that surrounded him that time had not spared him suffering. Those who had known him from his childhood, when they lived with him in the monastery and studied under the monks' guidance, spoke in various ways. Some dissolved in admiration for his talents, discipline, and noble nature. Others, whether from envy or genuine reasons, called him the worst scum, a chameleon, and a prodigal son, whose family had disowned him and moved far away, with no trace of them ever found. What the truth was, no one knew. And Wei himself, for reasons known only to him, ceased speaking to the world, not wanting to listen to it anymore.
The emperor saw everything in an instant before the eyes of his soul. This extraordinary young man had the power to captivate the human imagination even without revealing his face. His mystery sparked a furious curiosity in everyone at court. It was enough for someone to loudly utter his name, and in a moment, new rumors and speculations would arise.
No one knew the tone of his voice. No one had ever seen his tears. No one had seen his beautiful, youthful face lit up by a smile. No one had experienced his anger, nor had anyone enjoyed his warmth. Everyone only wondered how it was possible for such youth, in its most beautiful time, at twenty years old, to possess so much coldness.
The emperor often stared at his face, hoping that his eyelid would twitch, his brow would furrow, or the corners of his mouth would waver, but Wei never lowered his gaze to anyone. His stone face and cold, motionless eyes made everyone else lower their eyes. Even the emperor, once defeated by his unwavering expression, would obediently leave him in peace. When Wei meditated, he ordered the entire staff to walk around the arena under the pagodas so that the sound of footsteps wouldn't disturb him. When he spent long hours in the palace library, the Emperor often ordered meals to be served later so that the noise from the palace kitchen adjacent to the library would not disturb him while reading.
The ministers were bewildered by the ruler's overzealousness because, after all, Lianjie had never complained or asked for anything since being brought here. The emperor so desperately wished to earn his favor and the privilege of being the only one who would finally get him to speak, that sometimes it became more of his goal than the public affairs themselves.
He mulled over all of this in his mind, stroking his chin and staring at the humble and weary faces of the arriving monks. He would never want to release his most noble acquisition from the golden cage, but denying him such a favor could earn him a bitter enemy in Wei. Although the emperor had no way of knowing, perhaps the young man had already been his enemy from their first meeting, for although he didn't speak, he surely thought a great deal. And undoubtedly, he must have often had to suppress his anger at his own captivity.
"And how can I be sure you're not lying, and that Lianjie will return to the court?"
"For we all know, and our Highest Master knows best, that Lianjie is an honorable man and would never dare cause Your Highness the slightest disappointment or insult. We also know how much he values and loves his master. And we know that from his teachings, he has learned something of great importance."
"What is that?" The emperor's expression darkened slightly as he looked sharply at the Senior Monk.
"That there is no greater shame for a man than fleeing from adversity. If Lianjie ever chooses to leave Your Highness and your court, you will be the first to know, before anyone else."
"And you swear this with your life?" The emperor asked, straightening up imperiously.
"In its entirety, I swear." The monk replied, bowing almost to the ground.
The emperor's eyes widened, struck by the certainty with which the monks stood by their disciple's honesty. Almost embarrassed, he looked over at his minister, but found no sensible advice on what to do.
"We know that the silence vow Lianjie has taken troubles Your Highness. That you cannot force him to take an oath, so you must trust our words. But you know well how faithfully the monastery has served the empire since the time of Li Shimin. How the first Tang emperors trusted us, and how we have always been ready to answer the call without refusing anything to the emperor. Though our monastic rule forbids us from any violence. It is indeed, without a doubt, strict, but the honor of the monk-warrior is even more so."
The emperor was reluctant to trust anything that was not written down. However, the fame and respect Shaolin had enjoyed throughout Henan since the year 610 — when its monks had often clashed with roving bands of looters — made it necessary to choose words carefully when ascribing any stain or fault to its monks or their disciples.
Looking at the Senior Monk, so full of faith in what the disciples of Shaolin believed — and in what he himself believed — it seemed almost absurd to suspect them of conspiracy or deceit, of trying to wrest their student from the court so he could escape. Lianjie had already dozens of opportunities to do so, and even if such chances hadn't presented themselves, a man of his skill could have evaded the guards during even the grandest parade and slipped out of the palace unnoticed whenever he wished. Yet, for some reason, he had never taken that route."It's not in his nature to take a shameful shortcut. He wants something else," the emperor thought, his hesitation growing stronger.
"How am I to trust in mere assurances? I know nothing about him! He remains silent always!" the emperor raised his voice, as if hoping the monks knew what had happened and why Lianjie acted as he did, and that, in pleading for their request, they might reveal his secret.
"And do you truly need his words, Your Highness? Do his actions not speak louder than them? Does his daily honesty toward you not move your heart more than speech ever could?"
The emperor felt a tightness in his throat and fell silent, staring at the Senior Monk, who now clutched his prayer beads even tighter, certain he had touched the ruler's heart. A faint blush crept over the emperor's cheeks. He realized that he had just been made to see something he ought to have known and trusted in already. In his shallow curiosity, he had failed to recognize what should have long ago earned his appreciation.
The monks remained firm in their words and unwavering in their request. Now, not only the Senior Monk but all those present raised their heads and looked at the emperor. In their eyes gleamed pride and goodwill, and their faces bore the calm expression of those with clear consciences. The emperor, as if enchanted, gazed at this delegation from another world — for indeed, beyond the walls of Shaolin, there existed a world no thought could truly grasp. A world of spiritual depth beyond the reach of ordinary mortals, unless one spent years within its realm.
Looking at them now, the emperor began to better understand Lianjie's composure and discipline. Both he and the monks who had come could emanate such an aura of peace and perfection that to resist their humble words felt like wickedness and cruelty. The emperor's heart softened as he looked into the eyes of the Senior Monk.
"I entrust to you the fate of the empire, since you pledge your very head for the righteousness of your deeds. Take them to the Pavilion of Whispering Trees."
"May the Buddha bless you, Your Highness" said the Senior Monk, bowing low once more, followed by the others.
The emperor accepted their bows and nodded, signaling that he would not go back on his word. Then, under guard escort, he left the throne room. The monks followed Daoming into the courtyard.
At the very end, nestled among the sprawling gardens, lay a rectangular stone arena where two hundred imperial warriors honed their skills in hand-to-hand combat. From its northern edge stretched an orchard of fruit trees, while to the south loomed a tall pavilion with triple eaves, behind which the sun was just sinking below the horizon.
Orange streaks slashed across the sky above the red eaves of the Pavilion of Whispering Trees like tongues of living fire, striving in vain to consume it. Every now and then, the shrill cries of birds pierced the air, foretelling a heavy downpour or an approaching storm. A long staircase led up to the pavilion, running through the symmetrical center of terraced steps flanked by orderly plantings on either side.
The eldest monk gazed upon the landscape with unease.Elements of fire and water wrestling in such ominous symbols were never a good omen. They foretold chaos, disunity, and the uncertainty of what tomorrow might bring.Similar forces were at war within the soul of Lianjie, who spent every free moment in that very place. Whether aware of it or not, the battle between fire and water high above his head mirrored the silent conflict raging within his own heart and spirit.
Coming to terms with the past is one of the greatest burdens for a thinking man.When life comes to us bearing a compulsion we cannot forgive—especially not ourselves, even if it came unintentionally—we lose faith in the meaning of our efforts and our purpose. We search for absolution and wait for a kind soul to answer the question: why?But Lianjie had long found neither absolution nor kindness. Thus, he sought refuge and comfort in solitude.He had lost faith and hope that anything in this world might still have the power to soften his hardened and wounded heart.
Life at court, in terms of the place he had carved out for himself, was not much different from his days in the monastery.Lianjie lived here much as he had in Shaolin.Just as in the temple, so too at the imperial court, the warrior monk embodied two extremes of monastic life—meditation, calm as water, and activity, wild as fire.The secret of the Shaolin monks lies in three rules: wake early, sleep late, and work intensely.Lianjie understood and embraced this swiftly.He meditated and trained with tireless dedication, more earnestly than any who had come before him.He excelled in what he loved and mastered the art of focus and unwavering perseverance.These qualities stayed with him from early childhood until the twentieth spring of his life, under the wing of Emperor Li Chen.
Lianjie had been meditating since early noon and had not left the Pavilion of Whispering Trees for most of the day.At times, his meditations would stretch over three days without pause—without food or water.
At first, the emperor had ordered his servants to spy through the windows, fearing that something dire might be taking place inside.Such customs were beyond the understanding of those at court.In the early days of his acquaintance with the would-be monk, His Majesty suspected the worst—believing that, cloistered within the temple and excusing himself with prayer, Lianjie must be plotting either an escape or a suicidal end.
And so he was spied upon constantly for the first eight months.Guards would knock on the temple door, calling his name.Many times, failing to receive an answer, they burst in with a battering ram.There they would stand above him, gawking like magpies at a bone, while Lianjie did not move a muscle.Only the gentle rise and fall of his chest proved he was alive and breathing.
Yet none dared to poke or rouse him from meditation—for they knew well how they would be humiliated the next morning during drills and training.
And so it was again this time.
The minister stood outside the door, calling his name for the seventh time, glancing uneasily at the monks standing respectfully at a distance behind him.At last, he began pounding his fist against the wooden door.
But the Eldest Monk laid a hand upon his clenched fist and said calmly:"Buddha welcomes all who come to him. There is no need to convince him, my lord."
The minister instinctively stepped aside and allowed the monks to enter.
The Eldest Monk gently pressed the heavy brass handle, which—though infamous for creaking even when freshly greased with seal fat—slid down in utter silence.
A stream of warm, golden light spilled out from within, casting a triangular cone over the stairs descending steeply to the arena below.
The interior of the temple shimmered with a mosaic of reds, golds, and mingled shades of orange, emerald, and yellow.
At its center, elevated on a specially built platform, stood a bronze statue of the Buddha.The upholstery and some of the decorations were crafted from silk and woolen cloth.The ornaments and vessels were either golden or, like the statue, cast from bronze.
The marble pavement was laid with precisely cut tiles in three concentric circles, like the scales of a lamellar cuirass.
The serene, warm aura of the place was completed by the soft glow of dozens of candles.
In the very heart of that warm, magical aura, before the statue of Buddha, sat Lianjie in the lotus position, a wooden rosary in his hands—the only thing he had managed to take with him from Shaolin. He remained still and focused, as if he had left his body and was traveling somewhere no ordinary mortal could ever reach. The lengthening flames of the candles, mingling with the warm colors that adorned the temple, created the impression of a great luminous orb surrounding Lianjie, radiating from within and revealing to the world his gentler, more sensitive side. The monks, well acquainted with this state, seated themselves behind him in the same lotus position and began to meditate in silence.
Meanwhile, the emperor could not stop searching for a favorable omen. The impending fall of his dynasty, with all the sorrows and regrets it brought, was slowly driving him to madness and further destroying his already frail health. The emperor believed there could be no better time or circumstance than now to arm the military to the teeth and train ever more warriors and figures of authority to face the growing rebellions. By returning to his roots, he hoped to regain the favor of the heavens—for the history of China had shown well how spiteful it could be when some chose to forget it.
"We were always given a warning from above when a dark time was coming for all under heaven. And now, nothing warns us anymore… or maybe I no longer see it…" the emperor pondered, sitting on the veranda in the vast palace garden.
"Sometimes, my lord, the message comes unexpectedly, and not always in the form we wish," Daoming attempted to pull him out of his melancholy.
"Our life and our reality are constantly threatened by chaos. Constantly, Dao…" the emperor spoke again, "...that is why it is so important to seek a favorable omen. After all, we keep asking the heavens whether the great waters will flood again, or whether new catastrophes will fall upon us. And if misfortunes rain down on our heads—is it to warn us, or to tell us that the time has come to step aside, because their favor is ending? I think, Dao, that this time it is not a warning—but a sentence."
"You often return, my lord, to the Shang. As if to a cautionary tale," said Daoming.
"They cast a long shadow over our empire. Were it not for a vassal's rebellion, perhaps their dynasty would still rule today. But the Zhou rebellion was the first that the heavens showed. The first tian ming. The heavens commanded King Wen of Zhou to strike the Shang and take control of the state. I wonder who will come to strike me…" he said, smiling ironically.
"Perhaps no one, Your Majesty. Sometimes no enemy or rebel leader is needed for fortune to turn away."
"Sometimes all it takes is your own vassal. As with the Shang and King Wu. He swept them away to the last ear. All that remained of the Shang was ash."
"But the rule was established," quoted Daoming, recalling the historical words of King Wu of the Zhou dynasty.
"Exactly. And there will always be someone who comes to overthrow it. History unfolds in extraordinary ways, Dao. If the heavens have always kept a watchful eye on us Han, then let them give me a sign of what must be done to withstand these barbarian hordes and not surrender the state to them."
"I believe, Your Majesty, that the heavens watch day and night to ensure no one awakens the dragon again," replied Daoming.
Li Chen sighed heavily, for when Daoming lacked genuine comfort or solutions to his emperor's dilemmas, he resorted to the wisdom of the ancestors, as his own often did not reach as far into the future as the emperor desired. Li Chen gestured to two servants at the threshold and ordered them to serve dinner and invite the visiting monks to the table. However, Lianjie's temple remained closed to curious eyes, and none of the visitors appeared at the ruler's table. They meditated in silence, not responding to the guards' calls.
When midnight passed, Lianjie's eyes finally opened. He took a deep breath, his gaze sparkling as he looked at the statue of Bodhidharma. Then he bowed his head before it and stood up. All the monks rose with him. Only the Elder still fervently pleaded with Buddha. Lianjie bowed deeply to his masters, then extended his hand toward the Elder, who was just rising and leaned on his shoulder. When he met his disciple's gaze, he did not hide his emotion. With tearful eyes, he clasped Lianjie's hands as if welcoming a friend unseen for decades. Lianjie, in turn, observed him with an immobile face, but two sparks danced in his pupils. People whose presence brings to mind good memories are the most precious remedy. When the memory of good times returns with their gaze, we remember why we live. For Lianjie, such a memory was Shaolin and his masters—the most outstanding of men and the most skilled of sages.
"My dear boy," said the Elder Monk with tears in his eyes, then faltered.
Lianjie caught the old man to prevent him from falling and waited until he gathered the strength to speak. The Elder Monk needed a moment to straighten up on his own and, not releasing Lianjie's forearm, said:
"Your master is departing. We have come on his behalf to ask the emperor to allow you to leave the court and fulfill his last wish."
A shadow of sorrow passed over the young man's beautiful, snow-smooth face. The sparks in his pupils extinguished instantly, like a flame snuffed out by a sudden gust of wind. His cheeks turned pale, and his brows drew together slightly, seemingly without his knowledge. He turned toward the statue of Buddha as if reproaching it for an undeserved injustice, then fixed his gaze on the floor. The Elder Monk placed a hand on his shoulder and said:
"The emperor fears your departure. We have pledged both our word and our own heads that there is no ill intent here and that he will suffer no loss. Your master knows that your righteousness is worth laying down one's head for. And he knows you will not betray that certainty."
The imperial consent to fulfill the dying master's last wish was confirmed once more by his minister, who assured the monks of the emperor's favor, leading them through the courtyard to the guest pavilions at the back of the palace. Lianjie, meanwhile, gazed at the distant flashes while standing on the steps above the arena. The silent lightning threads tearing the sky were among the few sights that stirred in him a bitter reflection on the passage of time and its merciless flow.