The master of a nation holds authority above all else.
Everyone can err, but the sovereign cannot err. Everyone can be guilty, but the sovereign can never be guilty. Holding the highest power, elevated above all—how could he be guilty? Who could judge him?
Even if he were guilty before the whole world, how could anyone condemn the sovereign?
Since ancient times, whenever a sovereign was held accountable, it was always when he had already lost power. Those hollow "Edicts of Self-Blame" were nothing more than self-deception—a light slap on the wrist.
But the crime that Yang Xuanji forced Yang Jiande to admit today was no such empty words as "Our virtue is thin." The charges of abandoning the calendar and discarding the written script—laid upon any sovereign, these were no trifling matters. They would be inscribed in the histories, nailed to the pillar of shame for all eternity!
In the State of Yang, where the calendar and script were gradually being stripped away, these had long been a taboo subject of discussion. No one dared raise such a topic, and no one could bear the weight of such responsibility.
Many believed that perhaps only when Yang Jiande passed from this world would responsibility finally be assigned—thrust upon him by the generations to come.
And so, when Yang Jiande openly admitted responsibility before the grand court, many were stunned into silence.
Especially Crown Prince Yang Xuanji. He had prepared volumes of evidence, numerous contingencies—all designed to make Yang Jiande "confess his guilt." He had calculated every move, a chain of steps with no possibility of failure.
But when Yang Jiande simply confessed outright, Yang Xuanji found himself stumbling into empty air, grasping for footing.
Yet he had trained himself in the ways of politics for years. He quickly regained his composure and continued: "Therefore..."
Yang Jiande cut him off. "Therefore, I should strip myself bare, bind my own hands, and kneel and surrender to the royal army? To appease the sovereign of Qi above and comfort the common people below?"
Even the Crown Prince of Yang, renowned for his composure, could not help but flush with embarrassment.
No matter how one looked at it—as a subject or as a son—these words should never have come from his lips.
But had circumstances not forced him to this point, he would never have taken such action.
"Well, then... uh..." Yang Xuanji stammered, quickly organizing his words in his mind. "In this time of national peril, with the state teetering on the brink, the one who wears the crown should naturally bear the burden."
"And what then? After you ascend the throne, what do you intend to do?" Yang Jiande questioned from the dragon throne, pressing relentlessly. "March a great army straight into the Qi palace?"
The Crown Prince was already the future master of the state. Yang Xuanji had cultivated his position for years. Though his reputation had suffered, he was not the sort to dare but not admit.
Seeing Yang Jiande ask so directly, he answered in kind: "After your son ascends the throne, I will never forget today's humiliation. I will govern with vigor and dedication. Domestically, I will reform state affairs; diplomatically, I will forge alliances with powerful neighbors. With the full strength of the nation, I will train elite armies and form alliances with Jin and Mu. When the time comes... I will exact revenge for this national grievance!"
His words rang with impassioned fervor.
But Yang Jiande simply asked: "And if the State of Qi refuses? If I humble myself and beg for mercy, yet Qi still refuses to spare the ancestral temple of the Yang family—what then?"
"The great army of Qi has locked down our borders only because they fear the spread of the mutated plague. Once I contain the plague, the siege will dissolve on its own. The State of Yang has served as a vassal to Qi for years, always deferential, with tributes flowing ceaselessly. If the sovereign of Qi dares to destroy the ancestral temple of my Yang family, would he not fear the censure of all under heaven?"
Yang Xuanji spoke with great eloquence, radiating supreme confidence—or rather, he had to project confidence, had to display the bearing of one capable of shouldering the fate of the nation. Only then would his supporters not waver.
"I won't ask where you gained the confidence that you can control the mutated plague," Yang Jiande said, nearly breaking into a laugh but uncertain where to even begin—and besides, this was no time for laughter. He simply asked: "Could you really believe that Chongxuan Chuliang, that killing machine, brought the Autumn Kill Army here merely to stop the plague from reaching Qi's borders?"
"If that were the case, a lieutenant general and two squads guarding the border would suffice! Does the State of Yang still have any warriors bold enough to stroke the tiger's whiskers of Qi?" He slapped the armrest of the dragon throne again and again. "Would they need to mobilize the Nine Corps? Would they need the Butcher himself? Do you have any idea who the Butcher is? Go look upon the lost lands of Great Xia and ask the spirits of the dead!"
"So what if he's the Butcher! Can't the Butcher be reasoned with? Doesn't the Butcher have weaknesses? Father! Don't let fear break your spirit! This is not thirty years ago—Chongxuan Chuliang has grown old!" Yang Xuanji shouted in fury. "There are countless ways to deal with him!"
He could have taken power smoothly, realizing his ambitions with measured composure. But overnight the world had turned upside down, tossed in a storm. The throne he had nearly seized had become a shambles. He seethed with anxiety, fury, and unease, his composure nearly shattered.
That he had recovered so quickly, that he had been able to make decisions, rally ministers, kneel before Yang Jiande to request the convening of a court assembly, and then use both internal and external pressure to force the sovereign's hand—this was already a remarkable display of political acumen.
But even so, under the cold and cruel truth that Yang Jiande peeled away layer by layer, his will faltered.
He was furious.
His fury did not stem from hatred, nor from a sense of injustice. It came from unease—from sensing the danger, from realizing his own powerlessness.
Right there in the great hall, he roared, as if doing so would prove he feared Chongxuan Chuliang not at all: "Mobilize the full resources of the State of Yang—could that not move the heart of that old relic? Whatever he wants, I'll hurl it at him, hurl it until it hurts! And if that fails, I'll hire assassins to kill him! And if even that doesn't work, I'll cede territory directly to the sovereign of Qi—one piece, one city, even an entire commandery! Just to buy a single withdrawal of troops—would that not be enough? Just give me time... just give me time!"
"Cede territory for peace?" Yang Jiande cut off his rising fervor once more. "So that is your true thought, isn't it?"
He laughed coldly. "But you want me to do it? You want me—this sovereign who has ruined the nation and brought misery upon the people—to bear the shame of ceding territory once more?"
"Circumstances being what they are, ceding territory is merely a stalling tactic. We can cede Rizhao Commandery along with the mutated plague—let them deal with it. Given the vast size of Qi, they will surely find a way. And we of the State of Yang, unburdened, can stride forward!" Yang Xuanji's voice softened, taking on a cold, almost cruel gentleness. "Father, consider the ancestral temple. The State of Yang has already produced one incompetent sovereign—it cannot produce another. Otherwise, the hearts of the people will be lost for good. And so, the ceding of territory naturally must be done by you."
Yang Jiande, to everyone's surprise, did not erupt in rage. He simply asked in a flat voice: "And then?"
"It will be painful, but only by cutting away the rot can one recover health! Once both internal troubles and external threats are gone, and the army and people of our State of Yang stand united—steeled by shame into new courage—what worry is there that our great cause will not flourish?"
Yang Xuanji grew more excited with every word, more impassioned, gesturing as if painting the very landscape of the realm. "Ten years! Give your son ten years, and I will restore every inch of our lost territory!"
The entire court of ministers and nobles remained silent. In this exchange between the Yang father and son, not a single one of them had the standing to interject.
But the decisiveness, confidence, and even the cold ruthlessness that Yang Xuanji displayed gave hope to many who had been lost in confusion.
They glimpsed a faint ray of light, as if this tempest-tossed State of Yang still had a future.
So long as the old sovereign confessed his guilt, ceded territory, sued for peace, and departed bearing his shame.
The new sovereign would take the throne, army and people united, sharing a common hatred for the enemy... From that faint glimmer of hope, they seemed to see the possibility of the nation's resurgence.
Dreaming back to when Zhaoheng City was still called Tianxiong City!
And yet...
Yang Jiande sat upon the dragon throne, casting such a vast and heavy shadow.
"In simple terms, this means to swallow our pride, endure in silence, and bide our time?"
Thus spoke His Majesty, the twenty-seventh sovereign of the State of Yang—
"But isn't that exactly what your father has been doing—and has done for all these years!?"
"You have truly disappointed me!"
The sovereign of the State of Yang rose from the dragon throne. "In the past I entrusted you with the regency, and the affairs of state were yours to handle! Today you drag me before this court—is it so I can bear the responsibility for the nation's destruction?"
"Yang Xuanji!"
He pointed a commanding finger at his son, who stood on the other side of the dais, facing him down. "You don't even have the courage to bear the name of the one who lost the kingdom—and you dare speak of being steeled by shame? You dare talk of avenging this national grievance?"
Yang Xuanji's heart lurched violently. He opened his mouth to protest further.
But Yang Jiande had already raised his great palm and brought it down.
In the flip of a hand, heaven and earth were overturned. An endless crimson light engulfed Yang Xuanji in an instant, then withdrew back into that palm.
Yang Xuanji, who had never neglected his cultivation and was a formidable practitioner of the Inner Fane realm, could not withstand a single move. A flip of the hand, and he was annihilated!
He vanished from the court, before the very eyes of all the ministers of Yang.
Yang Xuanji's loyalists and conspirators had already prepared for a forced confrontation by arms, but they had never imagined that before they could even act, the Crown Prince would be gone!
"Your Highness!" The most trusted general under Yang Xuanji rushed to the spot where the prince's flesh and blood had ceased to exist, howling as he charged toward the dragon throne. "You ruinous, incompetent tyrant!"
But before he had covered half the distance, Liu Huai took his head. The headless corpse collapsed uselessly before the dais.
Liu Huai, holding the severed head, turned lightly around and spoke with respectful composure: "This man committed treason and attempted regicide. I request the execution of his entire clan—nine generations!"
"Enough." Yang Xuanji waved his hand dismissively—or rather, Yang Jiande did.
"The Emotion-Extirpating Blood Demon Scripture!" An elderly minister suddenly recalled the origin of the technique and cried out in shock and outrage. "Your Majesty, how—how could you learn such a demonic art?"
The Emotion-Extirpating Blood Demon Scripture was said to be one of the supreme demonic arts personally created by the ancestor of the demonic path.
Its most cruel aspect was that to achieve perfection, one had to devour one's own blood kin. It lived up to its name in every way—the true art of extirpating emotion and annihilating desire.
This elderly minister, who oversaw matters of ritual and sacrifice, had only ever seen a brief introduction to this technique in ancient texts.
A demonic art was called demonic precisely because of its cruelty, its violation of human bonds, and the shame it brought upon all who practiced it.
Now Yang Jiande stood before the dragon throne with his hands clasped behind his back, his face already wreathed in a layer of blood-red light. "You lot of wine sacks and rice bags—you couldn't even help my son maintain the stability of the nation. Stop trying to tell me what to do."
"Liu Huai," he ordered in a calm voice. "Summon all of my princes and princesses to the palace."
Liu Huai's heart shook violently. He understood perfectly what this command meant. Yang Jiande had decided to go all the way—to slaughter every last one of his children and complete the demonic art.
But since the sovereign had made his resolve, Liu Huai could only bow and depart to carry out the order.
In moments, ministers throughout the great hall dropped to their knees. There were few cries of condemnation—most were weeping, begging the sovereign to come to his senses.
"Crying from dawn till dusk, dusk till dawn—will your wailing kill Old Jiang?"
Yang Jiande swept his sleeve in fury.
"All of you worthless fools—silence!"
Though the entire court knelt filling the great hall, Yang Jiande stood upon the dais, his beard and hair streaming, his dragon robe billowing—and yet he gave the impression of a man utterly, profoundly alone.
"The shame of a nation's collapse, the disgrace of an abandoned ancestral temple, the hatred of a destroyed homeland—shouldering it all, I stand alone!"