Chapter Thirty-Four: Memories of a Fallen Kingdom (5,000 words)

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Biji, you once told me that while studying under your teacher, you learned about the principles of faith and righteousness, but you didn’t quite understand the kind of conviction held by those who sacrifice themselves for the greater good to preserve trust. The truth is simpler than it seems: in certain circumstances, some lives become utterly unbearable.

Your fifth uncle, Liu Chen, was such a man. Usually a mild-mannered and refined scholar, upon hearing that your grandfather had decided to surrender, he was unable to accept it. He immediately seized his long sword and intended to storm the court. His plan was to slay the chief proponents of surrender in the court, including your grandfather, and then lead the remaining troops in the city to fight Deng Ai to the death.

But what could he achieve alone in the court? The greatest proponent of surrender was your own grandfather—the emperor of the state—whom he could never bring himself to kill.

Ultimately, he could do nothing but curse the ministers vehemently before returning home, despondent. He told your father, “Sixth brother, the country has reached its last desperate hour. Shouldn’t ruler, ministers, and sons fight together for the realm? Otherwise, how can we face the ancestors of the Han dynasty?”

Your father comforted him, saying, “Fifth brother, let’s seek out the eldest brother and try to persuade the lord once more; there may still be hope.”

But your fifth uncle, disheartened, replied, “Sixth brother, it’s no use—the surrender petition has already been sent.” Then he gave a bitter smile and said, “Huang Chong, Zhuge Shang, Zhao Guang, Zhang Zun, Li Qiu—they have all fallen in battle. Countless soldiers have sacrificed for the nation’s cause. Yet now, the descendants of Emperor Zhaolie intend to surrender. Has the blood of those martyrs truly been shed in vain?”

That very night, your fifth uncle took his wife and children to the Zhaolie Shrine, where they pledged to die together, their blood staining the ancestral hall.

This event profoundly shocked your father. He lay awake all night, restless. When the city fell silent, he rose and gloomily approached the window, gazing at the starry sky for a long while.

When one is joyful, the stars bring delight; when one is sorrowful, the stars seem to deepen the loneliness. Sensing this, I rose to prepare a bowl of tea for him, but he suddenly grasped my hand and asked, “Ximiao, would you be willing to die alongside me for the nation?”

His words startled me. I looked up and met his eyes. In the dim light, his face was hidden, but his gaze was as sorrowful as the night sky. Though I did not want to die, seeing your father so heartbroken, I felt compelled to share his burden.

So I agreed.

That night, your father set up the spirit tablet of your great-grandfather in the room, then took a sword and said he would first kill me before taking his own life. After lighting a candle, I closed my eyes and waited for death before the tablet.

I was afraid, of course. By day, I had clung to life with hope; now, how could I so easily resolve to die? When he drew the sword, I trembled and silently called out your eldest brother’s name, hoping that after the strike, I would see him directly.

But the blade touched my neck and lingered, trembling like leaves in the wind. Opening my eyes, I saw your father weeping. He was still a youth not yet twenty, had never killed anyone—and in truth, could not bring himself to do so.

In the end, he discarded the sword and held me, crying before the spirit tablet all night. He said, “Ximiao, I am a coward.”

I did not know how to comfort him, only patting his back. Later, I often thought that perhaps dying in Chengdu then would not have been so bad.

The next day, Deng Ai’s army marched into Chengdu. Your grandfather, carrying his coffin and bound, led us, the royal clan, to surrender to the Wei forces.

From that moment, we became official captives of a fallen kingdom.

We expected great humiliation but were surprised by Deng Ai’s demeanor—he had the bearing of an ancient general. He personally untied your grandfather’s bonds, burned the coffin, and pardoned us. We were astonished, thinking the Sima clan was magnanimous, but soon realized this was Deng Ai’s own decision.

He not only allowed us to live in the former palace but also, acting unilaterally in the name of the Cao Wei emperor, petitioned to grant your grandfather the title of King of Fufeng, appointing him Governor of Yizhou and other commanderies under his command. He boasted, “You are fortunate to have met me; otherwise, how could you have ended well?” He also said, “Jiang Wei was talented, but just happened to encounter me, his natural nemesis.” Meanwhile, he conscripted the people of Shu, planning to build ships on the river and press eastward to conquer Eastern Wu.

How should one judge this? Deng Ai was undoubtedly a military genius, but a political dwarf. He earned the dubious honor of destroying a kingdom—an achievement unworthy of reward. Yet he arrogantly appointed court officials and, most outrageously, elevated your grandfather to King of Fufeng—when even Sima Zhao was only a Duke of Jin at the time!

Moreover, he planned to destroy Wu, which, if successful, would surpass the Duke of Jin’s merit. How could he be rewarded then? His presumptuous actions were a death sentence, and many secretly mocked him.

But after his death, what would become of us? We were lost and uncertain.

By the twelfth lunar month, news arrived that Wei’s commander Zhong Hui was advancing to meet Deng Ai. We were still detained. Though well-fed, we lacked winter clothes. Zhong Hui sent winter garments, seemingly ordinary, but your father found a hidden letter within the folds, beginning: “May Your Majesty endure a few days of disgrace. I intend to restore the realm from peril, bringing light to darkened days.” The letter bore the seal of the general.

Reading the fine print, we realized the general had feigned surrender to Zhong Hui.

He discerned the enmity between Zhong Hui and Deng Ai, and Sima Zhao’s intolerance of both, so he planned to use Zhong Hui’s power to eliminate Deng Ai first, then wipe out the remaining Wei generals. Zhong Hui had no loyal followers, so to command the army, he had to be manipulated, thus restoring the Han dynasty. If successful, he might even launch a northern campaign to seize the three Guanzhong prefectures.

But this was no one-man plan. The letter stated he was constantly by Zhong Hui’s side but could not command the army yet; conditions were unripe. After removing Deng Ai, he would send envoys to discuss details.

We were stunned. Though the emperor ordered surrender, his generals remained steadfast in restoring the nation—something unprecedented in history. In the Warring States era, Han, Wei, and Zhao destroyed Zhi; Yu Rang avenged Lord Zhi by harming himself and hiding his identity to kill enemies—praised through the ages—but compared to this general’s deeds, those pale in significance.

Such devoted ministers were distrusted by the emperor and attacked by peers, leading to the realm’s collapse. We were ashamed beyond words. Your grandfather repeatedly read the general’s letter, then silently said to your eldest uncle, “Whether this succeeds or not, I have no face to meet the general. This matter rests with you.”

His meaning was clear: he lacked the resolve to strive for restoration as the general did and entrusted your eldest uncle with the task. Should it succeed, he would have no face to remain emperor, effectively passing the throne to your eldest uncle.

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The general acted swiftly. About four or five days later, on the first day of the first lunar month of the seventh year of Jingyao, Zhong Hui suddenly arrested Deng Ai on charges of treason and sent him to the capital under guard. The famed general ultimately fell to his old rival’s hand.

The next day, Zhong Hui withdrew most of the guards watching us, replacing them with familiar attendants. We could almost move freely within the palace city.

That very night, a palace maid delivered a meal and secretly slipped in a letter revealing the general’s latest plan:

He had arranged with Zhong Hui to reach Chengdu on the fifteenth day of the first lunar month. Zhong Hui would then summon all former Shu ministers and Wei officers to the city assembly, while the general’s troops would remain stationed outside at Yongping Bridge and Changsheng Bridge. Once the officers gathered, he would force Zhong Hui to kill them, and the troops outside would seize the city gates, securing the city.

This plot hinged on two points: first, whether the general could successfully kill the Wei officers inside and if Zhong Hui would obey him. Given how far things had progressed, we had no choice but to trust him. Second, who would lead the Han troops attacking outside? Since all officers, including Han, would be called inside, the absence of any would raise suspicion. Without a commander, the plan was impossible.

Thus, the general needed someone whom all Han troops would unconditionally trust to take command. The best candidate was your eldest uncle, the Crown Prince of Shu Han. His appearance alone would rally the soldiers to follow his orders.

These details are what I gathered; specifics may differ, as only your eldest uncle and father knew the full plan.

You might wonder why your father was involved.

Because he shared a deep bond with your eldest uncle. Since childhood, your grandfather paid little attention to your father, except for your grandmother, Wu Zhaoyi. The one who cared for him most was your eldest uncle Liu Xuan. From your father’s early education through rites and ceremonies, coming-of-age, marriage arrangements, and fiefdom selection, your eldest uncle handled everything. To your father, the eldest brother was truly like a father.

Although the general’s plan seemed promising—a coordinated inside-out attack with a good chance of success—everyone knew it was a perilous gamble. For both the general and your eldest uncle, it was a den of dragons and tigers; one misstep, and it would be ruin. Your father did not wish to let your eldest uncle shoulder this alone. Filled with fervor to serve the country, he pleaded with your grandfather and eldest uncle to let him accompany them.

I could not dissuade him, nor would it have been right. As a descendant of Han, your father bore a duty to the realm, a duty I too was bound to share. From the day the plan was set, your father often gazed toward the summit of Wudan Mountain, awaiting the signal—the general’s lighting of the fire at Xianyang Gate.

Those days passed swiftly yet felt endless to your father.

At first, he was spirited, but after several days, anxiety gnawed at him. He grew restless, waking from nightmares, often rising to the mountain to sharpen his sword. From then, the weight on his shoulders seemed unbearable.

On the fifteenth day, we heard the city’s war horns and saw massive Wei forces advancing toward Chengdu from Wudan Mountain.

I had never witnessed such a grand military spectacle: banners filling the sky, tents like clouds, gleaming armor catching the sun. Even horses drinking by the Pi River seemed like wind-blown grass, endless in number. According to the general’s intelligence, over two hundred thousand troops surrounded Chengdu, with plans to absorb them all within three or four days.

In hindsight, it was a fool’s dream.

Yet from Emperor Zhaolie to Chancellor Zhuge and General Jiang Wei, these men were obsessively determined dreamers, never abandoning even the most distant hopes.

But such dreams were a burden few could bear. Neither your grandfather nor father could endure it. Even the slightest dust cast by the general was enough to crush them.

On the fifteenth night, Xianyang Gate remained unlit; the sixteenth and seventeenth were the same. Just as we thought the general had abandoned the plan, on the evening of the eighteenth, the gate finally caught fire. Without hesitation, your eldest uncle and father, accompanied by several guards, slipped away through a secret passage known only to our clan, leading from Wudan Mountain’s palace walls outside the city.

After they left, my aunt, your grandmother, your eldest uncle’s wife, and many female relatives gathered before the ancestral tablets of Han’s forebears in the palace shrine. We prayed for their safe return, for the restoration of Han, and for a world without war or tears.

But fate is cruel. You know the outcome—human wishes are always insignificant.

We prayed for about an hour when your second uncle burst in, breathless, shouting: “Disaster! Fire! Rebellion!”

I was stunned and ran outside, only to see not just Xianyang Gate ablaze but Jiangqiao, Chongzhi, Changsheng Gates—all city gates of Chengdu—along with the streets and markets, engulfed in roaring flames. The screams, chaos, and mayhem of the people were visible even across two city walls.

Such disorder could not have been the general’s plan. The only explanation was that the Wei commanders had revolted, and the general had failed.

The soldiers, having broken through Zhong Hui’s blockade, were not only killing political enemies but looting Chengdu freely. Their rampage was merciless: men, women, children—none were spared from brutal slaughter and humiliation. They even plundered the palace.

They stormed in, needing no excuse. Your eldest uncle’s wife’s child—your cousin—stood at the gate, bewildered, before a Wei soldier struck him down with a single blow, mangling the boy beyond recognition. He was only ten, bright, adorable, and clever.

Then the soldiers surrounded your grandfather’s concubines, molesting and humiliating them publicly, leaving them trapped between life and death.

Even your grandfather was seized, beaten for failing to reveal hidden treasures, stripped naked.

Biji, I did not wish to tell you this, but when a man falls, his family becomes slaves.

If not for your second uncle’s quick action in hiding me and your aunts in a secret chamber, we too would have perished.

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If even the royal family suffered thus, one can imagine what befell others.

Later, I learned that the mighty Guan family, renowned throughout Huaxia, was wiped out by Pang Hui during the chaos—twenty-six members, no one spared.

Prominent court ministers and generals, like Grand Steward Jiang Xian and Grand Secretary Wei Ji, were all killed.

Among the victims were also my parents and yours. I never saw their faces again, nor even their bodies.

In the end, the deranged Wei soldiers, consumed by greed and infighting, murdered Deng Ai and his sons along with their colleagues.

Biji, tell me, why does such unnatural tragedy occur? How could such despicable men triumph over the general? Since then, I realized victory and defeat have no moral measure. Judging heroes by success or failure is mere self-deception. Success is success; failure is failure—unrelated to virtue or stature.

Perhaps even Heaven could not bear this scene. Around midnight, a fierce wind blew, followed by wild lightning and thunder amid dark clouds. A winter storm unleashed torrents so fierce I thought the world was ending. We huddled trembling in the dark chamber, terrified, holding our breath, afraid to move.

In that moment, I wondered: how was your father? Was he safe?

Earlier, I wished to see him soon; now, I wished to delay the meeting, even hoped he might flee and never return.

But I knew it impossible. My heart overflowed with sorrow: trapped in that dark chamber, I felt my life was over.

The rain continued until morning. When the shouts and cries outside faded, we knew the soldiers had exhausted their looting. Your second uncle peeked outside; seeing all was clear, he led us out.

Emerging, we found Li Zhaoyi silently tending her hair, stained and soiled but composed. She was your second uncle’s mother—quiet and unloved by your grandfather—and remained so that day.

Your grandfather, stripped to his underclothes and shivering, asked her to find clothes. After tidying herself, she glanced not once at him before taking her own life.

She cut her throat with a sword; her blood splattered, still steaming.

When your fifth uncle died in the ancestral hall, blood was sacred. After that night, blood became commonplace.

Blood stained the great hall—floor, tables, curtains, spirit tablets—all splattered with dark crimson. Many once-familiar relatives lay disfigured corpses, including your grandmother Wu Zhaoyi.

Biji, it was the first time I witnessed so much death. Yet I could not weep—not from exhaustion, but from numbness and despair.

In such a world without a nation, as captives of a fallen kingdom, what meaning does life hold? Only then did I truly understand your fifth uncle’s foresight.

It was then your father returned.

The rain still fell as we sat stunned in the ancestral temple, unsure of what had happened, as if trapped in an unending nightmare.

When heavy footsteps sounded outside, we panicked, fearing the soldiers had returned. I wanted to flee but had no strength even to stand, resigned to await death with closed eyes.

But nothing happened.

Opening my eyes, I saw your father standing at the door, soaked, blood-stained, staggering, his expression more dreadful than death.

From that day on, he was changed, never the same.

Though he never told me what he endured that day, none who saw him did—no one asked.

When they left, full of hope and ambition.

When he returned, drenched in rain, he carried your eldest uncle’s body, pierced by seventy-eight wounds.

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