Chapter Thirty-One: A Title or a Dao Name

Li Yuechen understood well why Li Zhi, seated upon the Dragon Throne, was so incensed.

Since the day he ascended to the throne, a singular goal had taken root in his heart: to surpass his father—the illustrious Emperor Taizong, Li Shimin.

He had grown up under the shadow of this great sovereign, and his sole aspiration was to outstrip him, to achieve even greater glory.

Li Shimin had vanquished the Eastern Turks, expanding the boundaries of the Tang Empire.

As for Li Zhi, he had subdued the Western Turks. Centuries later, those lands would bear another name—Uzbekistan.

Li Shimin had failed to conquer Goguryeo; thus, Li Zhi had been determined to succeed where his father had not, refusing to heed any counsel to the contrary. If not for his ailing health, he would have donned armor and led his troops onto the battlefield himself.

Even as he lay bedridden, unable to command in person, that region was eventually brought under Tang’s dominion.

Failure was not an option for him—for only by victory could he eclipse the legacy of Emperor Taizong.

Driven by this obsession, the Tang armies had, for years, been invincible, their banners triumphant in every campaign.

Yet today, his forces had tasted defeat.

In a fit of rage, he leapt to his feet, raising the health ball in his hand, poised to hurl it to the floor.

But, by chance, his gaze fell upon the passageway at his side, where, behind a screen, his daughter watched, her face etched with deep concern, her wide eyes brimming with worry.

A wave of tenderness swept through Li Zhi’s heart. He took a long, calming breath and sank back into the Dragon Throne.

“In light of this situation,” he intoned, “what counsel have you, my ministers?”

The court fell utterly silent; one could hear a pin drop. Not a soul dared respond.

Closing his eyes, Li Zhi sniffed sharply, then continued, “If I dispatch reinforcements, what do you all advise?”

His anger was evident—even his form of address had shifted from “my beloved ministers” to the more distant “ministers.”

Seeing that none spoke, Prime Minister Jiang Ke stepped forward, saluted with his ceremonial tablet, and declared, “Your Majesty, I deem it unwise!”

“And why is that?” Li Zhi asked, his brows furrowed.

Jiang Ke replied in a grave tone, “The outcome is already decided. Reinforcements would arrive too late. If we force our troops to pursue now, the Tibetan army will have fallen back to defend. Our soldiers, unaccustomed to the Tibetan climate, may well suffer the same fate…”

As he spoke, Li Zhi remained silent, forcing himself into calm contemplation.

From her place in the side passage, Li Yuechen crossed her arms, nodding inwardly.

In the Tang, the conscription system was known as the Fubing system—a form of universal military service, where every man born in the realm was obliged to serve.

But the system had its flaws: these soldiers were not professionals. At times, they farmed, and only trained during the off-season, leading to great inefficiency.

Thus, it was impossible for them to wage a protracted campaign deep into Tibet. The only solution would be to station career soldiers there long-term, so they might acclimatize.

Moreover, Tibetan warriors were far from weak.

It is worth noting that Tibet at this time still resembled a slave society, driving masses of slaves ahead of the army to clear the way in war.

Behind these slaves marched the heavily armored Tibetan elite—true fighting men.

Since the reign of Songtsen Gampo, Tibet’s strength had steadily grown, and its unique geography had become a thorn firmly lodged in the Tang’s side.

Let alone, this time, Xue Rengui’s opponent was no easy foe.

Gar Trinring, the Tibetan prime minister—“Lon Trinring,” as the title was pronounced in their tongue—was a man of considerable talent and not to be underestimated.

Jiang Ke was right. At this stage, sending more troops would be in vain. News of Xue Rengui and his men’s capture would likely arrive in a few days.

Though it pained her, Li Yuechen had to admit: in this battle, the Tang had lost, and lost utterly.

Yet her worries now lay elsewhere. First, if Anxi fell, countless commoners would be left homeless, suffering immeasurable hardship.

Second, Tibet’s morale was soaring—would they seize this chance to invade the Tang heartland?

Li Yuechen prided herself on her logic. If she were Lon Trinring, would she take advantage of the momentum to invade?

After a moment’s thought, she shook her head.

War required clear goals and calculations. Though defeating Xue Rengui was an immense morale boost, the Tang was no easy prey.

Invading now would provoke a full-scale counterattack, yielding little benefit and heavy losses.

Of course, Lon Trinring might reason the Tang would expect him to hold back, and thus launch an attack regardless.

But overall, his most pressing task should be to consolidate the newly-won Anxi territory, making an invasion unlikely for now.

Back in the court, Jiang Ke continued, “Your Majesty, in my view, the urgent matter is to gather our forces at the border to guard against a Tibetan incursion.”

Li Zhi nodded, sweeping his gaze across the hall. “Does anyone object to Jiang’s words?” he asked in a somber tone.

The court remained silent; not a single voice spoke up.

With a weary sigh, Li Zhi rose, impatience written plainly on his face, and waved his hand. “Court is dismissed!”

Without waiting for the customary announcement, he strode toward the side passage.

Only after Zhang Chengxin had formally called the court to an end did he hurry after his emperor.

By then, Li Zhi had already squatted down and scooped Li Yuechen into his arms. He managed a wan smile. “Ah, Chen’er, you’ve grown heavier again, I can scarcely lift you!”

Li Yuechen grinned broadly. “No matter. When you grow too old to carry me, I’ll carry you instead!”

“Then I shall look forward to it, ha ha ha…” Li Zhi laughed heartily.

These days, his only solace seemed to be this daughter.

“Father, don't trouble yourself over state affairs,” Li Yuechen urged. “I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

Wu Zetian, who had followed behind, smiled with satisfaction, giving her daughter an encouraging look.

Li Zhi managed a wry smile. “The principle is clear, but to practice it is another matter…”

“The Book of Changes says: 'The Great Way is fifty, Heaven operates with forty-nine, and Man escapes with one.' I believe that no matter how dire the situation, there is always a way out,” Li Yuechen replied.

Hearing her, Li Zhi exchanged a smile with Wu Zetian. “It seems Chen’er has learned much indeed.”

“She’s never given us cause for worry,” Wu Zetian replied, a touch of pride in her voice.

Not just since coming to this era—Li Yuechen had always been this way.

As an extreme sportswoman, she had surfed monstrous waves, raced motorcycles along perilous ridges, flown in wingsuits at altitudes of ten thousand meters, and skied down near-vertical slopes.

She believed there were no limits to what humanity could achieve; that so long as one thought things through, there was no such thing as a hopeless impasse.

Now, she hoped to impart this conviction to Li Zhi.

How much he could absorb, however, was not hers to decide.

...

After accompanying Li Zhi back to the Yan Ying Hall, she stayed only a short while before he declared himself weary.

Li Yuechen took her leave, but as she was about to depart, Wu Zetian spoke up. “Chen’er, since you quoted the Book of Changes, are you interested in Daoist studies?”

Li Yuechen paused. “Mother, what do you mean?”

Even Li Zhi looked at his empress in puzzlement.

Wu Zetian gave a rueful smile. “Since becoming empress, I have seldom spent time with my mother. Now, burdened by affairs of state, I cannot even observe mourning rites. Would you honor her memory in my stead, and pray for your grandmother?”

“You mean, become a Daoist priestess?” Li Yuechen asked.

She didn’t mind. In this era, royal children joining religious orders did not necessarily mean strict adherence to ascetic rules; it was largely a formality.

After all, when her third brother Li Xian was just a month old, their parents had entrusted him to Xuanzang as a disciple.

He even bore a grandiose Dharma name—King of Buddha’s Light.

Luckily, her brothers remained ignorant of her authorship of Journey to the West, else Li Xian might accuse her of mocking his master.

Wu Zetian nodded. “I intend to have Li Chunfeng accept you as his disciple. Would you agree?”

What? Li Chunfeng is still alive?

Li Yuechen was astonished. Her grasp of history was vague, but she knew that legends of Yuan Tiangang and Li Chunfeng abounded in later ages.

She’d always thought Yuan Tiangang lived in Taizong’s time and was long gone.

Assuming they were contemporaries, she never expected Li Chunfeng to still be alive.

Li Yuechen bowed. “Grandmother always doted on me. To honor her and mother is my duty; I am willing.”

Wu Zetian nodded, satisfied. “Very well.”

She sent for Li Chunfeng, and Li Yuechen took the opportunity to inquire about him.

It turned out Li Chunfeng held the title of Baron of Changle County. Though not employed at court, he spent most days at the Imperial Academy. The newly completed Linde Calendar was his work.

Li Zhi, no longer concerned with sleep, lay back in his rocking chair, brewing tea as they waited.

After about a quarter of an hour, Li Chunfeng arrived with Zhang Chengxin at the Yan Ying Hall.

“Your humble Daoist greets Your Majesty, Your Grace!”

While he saluted, Li Yuechen surreptitiously studied this legendary figure.

He appeared around fifty or sixty, his hair and beard turned mostly white.

Yet he looked vigorous and hale, with especially bright, penetrating eyes.

Noticing her scrutiny, Li Chunfeng smiled and bowed. “Greetings, Princess.”

“Please, Daoist, do not stand on ceremony,” Li Yuechen replied with a smile, raising her hand.

Wu Zetian explained her reasons for summoning him, and Li Chunfeng nodded. “Since both Your Grace and the Princess wish it, I shall obey.”

With an encouraging glance from her mother, Li Yuechen rose and bowed. “Li Yuechen greets her master.”

“Oh no, Princess, you mustn’t,” Li Chunfeng protested.

“Since you are her master, ceremony is proper,” Wu Zetian said. “No need for modesty, Daoist.”

Li Chunfeng smiled and nodded. “I accept. Since the Princess is to join the Dao, may I ask Your Majesty and Your Grace to bestow upon her a Daoist name?”

“A Daoist name…” Li Zhi, reclining in his chair, turned the health ball in his hand, gazing up at the ceiling. “Chen’er once wished for our Tang to be prosperous and eternal. Since her heart yearns for peace and flourishing times, why not call her ‘Taiping’—Peace and Greatness?”

What on earth!

Li Yuechen was startled. What was this? She had long suspected she was the Princess Taiping, but wasn’t that a noble title? How could it be a Daoist name?

Wu Zetian, however, agreed readily. “His Majesty is right. Chen’er hopes for peace in the realm, and so do we. Let it be settled.”

No one thought to seek Li Yuechen’s opinion; the Daoist name “Taiping” was thus decided.

She didn’t really mind—a name was just a name, so long as it wasn’t something ridiculous like “The Empire’s Calamity Tiger.”

This was no idle worry—Li Zhi and Wu Zetian had a penchant for such eccentricities.

The ceremony was purely formal; she would not even have to reside in a Daoist temple.

There was a Hall of Three Purities within the Daming Palace itself, where she could pay respects and recite scriptures on the first and fifteenth of each month.

Still, for the sake of ritual, Li Zhi ordered the Imperial Wardrobe Bureau to prepare Daoist robes for her.

Li Yuechen did not know what the historical Princess Taiping was really like, but for now, she had in name become a Daoist priestess—and the disciple of Li Chunfeng.

...

Ten days later, word arrived. Xue Rengui, unwilling to see his men die in vain, had negotiated peace with Tibet and was preparing to return.

Li Zhi ordered the newly-appointed Censor-in-Chief, Le Yanwei, to escort him, and bring Xue Rengui, Ashina Daozhen, and Guo Daifeng back in custody.

Concerned for the people of Anxi, Li Yuechen again attended as an observer.

This war had been a disaster. Of the hundred thousand soldiers who’d marched out, fewer than ten thousand returned—and most of those were gravely wounded, crippled for life.

It was a calamity.

Standing behind the screen, Li Yuechen longed to help, but when she looked down at her own small, delicate hands, she could only let them fall helplessly.

Perhaps unwilling for his daughter to witness his wrath, Li Zhi did not erupt in fury on the throne.

Instead, he gritted his teeth and calmly announced that Xue Rengui and his two generals were stripped of rank and reduced to commoners.

This punishment was severe, but after hearing their reports, even Li Yuechen could not help but reflect.

The defeat had not been solely Guo Daifeng’s fault; the entire strategy had been flawed from the outset.

Yet she felt things should not have been handled this way.

Xue Rengui had rendered outstanding service and enjoyed an unbroken record of victories. To punish him so harshly for a single failure seemed unjust.

But she understood Li Zhi was still furious, and dared not speak out.

In this age, the emperor’s word was law.

She could only wait for Li Zhi’s anger to subside before pleading their case. Otherwise, not even the favored daughter would escape censure.

Yet today’s events made Li Yuechen realize—perhaps she ought to act.

When she was older, she might find a way to benefit both the realm and its people, and perhaps help the Tang’s golden age endure a little longer.