Chapter Three: The Imperial Bodyguard

Eastern Capital, Lijing Gate, Prison of Judgement.

Since the establishment of the Prison of Judgement, scarcely one in a hundred who entered its gates ever emerged alive. Among civil and military officials, it was known as the “Gate of Finality,” for by custom, all who passed through were finished.

As a sharp blade in the Empress’s hand, every warden of Lijing Gate had swiftly risen in rank—Zhou Xing, Suo Yuanli, Lai Junchen. Now, this territory belonged to Hou Sizhi.

At this moment, Hou Sizhi sat cross-legged atop the main hall, inhaling deeply from his scented sachet. Yet all he could smell was the stench of blood. The longer one lingered here, the more that odor clung to the nose. He had long been granted the right to wear a purple-gold fish pouch, but except at court, he always dressed in white—whiter the better, not a speck of color, earning him the nickname “White Impermanence” among his peers.

A line of black-clad constables carried in a row of stretchers. “Censor Hou, all fourteen of Xue Shao’s personal guards are here. What are your instructions?”

Hou Sizhi cast a glance their way. “How badly are they hurt?”

The head clerk leaned in to check. “Struck by lightning—those are worse. Those burned by fire are slightly better, but all are flayed and torn, their muscles and bones injured.”

Hou Sizhi closed his eyes and inhaled again from the sachet, then rebuked in a low voice, “Shut up. I asked—are they fit for execution? Can they speak?”

The clerk swallowed. “They can.”

With a wave of Hou Sizhi’s hand, the constables, two to a man, roughly hauled the guards up and dragged them below into the dungeon. Wails of anguish echoed forth.

“Censor Hou, what confession do you require? Please instruct us,” the clerk bowed.

Hou Sizhi curled his lip. “That can wait. Begin the interrogation, but remind them—not to kill every last one.”

“Yes, sir!” The clerk rushed toward the dungeon. The night was short, and he feared there’d be no time. The flagstones were slick with moss, making him slip and tumble headlong, splitting his brow and drawing blood.

Hou Sizhi burst out laughing, his laughter fading as he drew a fire-tally from a bamboo tube, placed it before him, and turned westward. “What confession do I want? I’ll need to see your fate before I know.”

With a sudden sweep of his white sleeve, he sent the tube flying, and fire-tallies scattered across the floor like rain.

Chang’an, after rain gave way to dazzling sunlight, yet the mansions of ministers and noblemen stood shrouded in gloom.

The favored Censor Yu Baojia had been seized and brought to the palace, then beheaded for treason. The Princess Taiping’s consort Xue Shao had died, struck down by lightning, and his guards were either dead or gravely wounded—those who survived were taken to the Prison of Judgement.

A string of shocks left all in terror.

In Pingkang Ward, behind the kitchens of a brothel, there was a finely decorated secret room, where several elderly men in opulent attire whispered together.

“Yu Baojia deserved his fate. He never took the proper path through the examinations, but won favor by trickery and clever devices, creating the bronze casket and causing the deaths of many loyal royals. Now he’s been betrayed in turn by the very casket, dying by its testimony—heaven is just, after all.”

“What worries me is that very phrase—heaven is just. Yu Baojia fell to his own schemes—that’s justice. But Xue Shao, struck by lightning—was that justice too?”

The room fell silent.

“My lord, your concern is apt. Prince Langya rose in rebellion, and Xue Shao lent him much aid. Now, struck down by lightning—this may only strengthen the influence of wicked elements at court. If this event is trumpeted far and wide, the moral order may teeter on the brink.”

One old man furrowed his white brows, pointing to the ceiling. “A fine opportunity has come to us, yet why is there still no movement?”

“She’s waiting—for good news from Qiu Shenji.”

“What should we do, then?”

“What can we do? All the survivors of the lightning incident are locked in Lijing Gate. Even if we wished to overturn the case, there’s no way to proceed.”

The elder called “my lord” twitched his cheek. “No—there’s still someone outside.”

“In that case, I will visit Consort Quan.”

But the elder waved him off. “Act rashly and you’ll only give them leverage. The Princess Yiyang’s residence must be crawling with informers. If we attempt private contact, it will only be used against us. Quan Ce is a captain of the Princess’s guard, and must serve shifts in the palace. Let your sons and nephews advise him instead.”

“My lord, I heard from my youngest that the Princess Yiyang’s household has already arranged for Quan Ce to resign his post.”

The old lord was astonished. “Do you know the details?”

“It’s rumored the position was sold to a wealthy merchant from the Eastern Capital for ten thousand strings of cash.”

The old lord’s eyes went wide in shock, breathing heavily. “Money is the root of all trouble. Has Princess Yiyang’s household truly fallen on such hard times?”

Ten thousand strings had bought up the swiftest path to overturning the case, throwing the court into even greater turmoil.

Factions rallied, memorials flew. Some claimed the lightning case was a fabrication, that Quan Ce had spread wild rumors, and should be seized and investigated by the Three Judicial Offices to find the instigators. Others insisted the lightning was real, and impeached Hou Sizhi for cruel treatment—arguing that the guards were wounded in loyal service and deserved care, yet he had harmed the worthy.

Memorials were submitted, but neither the Empress nor the Emperor gave any response—cold silence.

The officials grew ever more anxious, their rivalry only more intense. The battles of words soon spilled into personal attacks, leaving the lightning case behind. Accusations became daggers aimed at individuals, and the struggle grew tangled. Quan Ce and Hou Sizhi, at the heart of the storm, found themselves named and slandered in every memorial.

The situation escalated rapidly—words no longer sufficed. Young censors from the Censorate and junior clerks from the Secretariat and Chancellery split into rival factions, arranging to brawl at Guangfan Gate. Fists flew, feet kicked. In the midst of the melee, three soldiers in scarlet uniforms dashed past, brandishing a brocade memorial and shouting, “Victory at Bozhou! Victory at Bozhou!”

Both sides broke off at once, returning to their offices. Afterwards, it was tallied: five suffered head wounds, over twenty bled, and all the rest were injured.

In the Daming Palace, in the Ziwei Hall, the Empress summoned the Emperor for lunch.

Hearing of the brawl, the two sovereigns merely smiled. Since the Empress had assumed power, the various government offices of the Secretariat and Chancellery had been housed within the palace walls. The officials, hot-tempered as they were, had grown used to such fights—it was commonplace for them to beat each other at the Xuanzheng Gate over political differences.

“Dan, what do you make of this lightning case?” The Empress, though in her sixties, was well preserved—her hair still black, her face unlined, appearing no more than forty. She ate unhurriedly, with a fine appetite, consuming much of the agate fish and lamb foreleg on the table. Fond of sweets, she finished with a piece of red bean pastry and a bowl of rice cake.

Emperor Ruizong, Li Dan, barely moved his chopsticks. He dared not meet her gaze, but sat in silence. At her question, he straightened and replied haltingly, “Your son believes, since Xue Shao was Princess Taiping’s husband, and she carries his child, her wishes should be consulted regarding his funeral.”

The Empress gave a chilly laugh. “Clever words. Since I took the throne, there have been frequent rebellions, and those involved have never escaped the law. Xue Shao dared aid traitors—he must have accepted his fate. Why would he care what comes after?”

“Dan, the Li clan is my husband’s family, and the Wu and Li are as lips and teeth—inseparable. Yet some sow discord and stir up trouble.”

She rose, came to Ruizong’s table, and knelt to ladle soup for him, her gaze intent, her voice gentle.

Ruizong left his seat and knelt on the ground.

“I have already killed too many named Li. If I go on, I fear Emperor Gaozong will resent me.”

Ruizong trembled all over, unable to speak.

At that moment, the imperial attendant Shangguan entered, her voice ringing with triumph. “Your Majesty, congratulations! There is joyous news from General Qiu Shenji of the Left Martial Guard: Prince Langya, Li Chong, has been quelled in seven days. Overcome with guilt, he set fire to his own house, perishing with all his kin.”

“Congratulations, Your Majesty! Congratulations, Your Majesty!” The vast hall echoed as the assembled palace women and eunuchs offered their felicitations.

“Another Li gone,” the Empress murmured, her expression unreadable. Then, as if recalling something, she burst into radiant laughter—resplendent, beautiful. “Fortunately, there is an understanding child, so I can answer Emperor Gaozong.”

She stood, her long skirts trailing behind, and left without another word. The palace ladies and officials followed closely.

Ruizong remained kneeling, not daring to move until a eunuch quietly informed him the Empress had gone. Only then did he rise, hastily gulping down the lotus seed and snow toad soup the Empress had served, swallowing a large mouthful of spittle, closing his eyes, haunted by the memory of his mother’s ample bosom and her wild, reckless laughter.

He carried the ladle and bowl back to his own chambers, earning universal praise for his filial devotion.

Meanwhile, Minister of Rites Fan Lübing, concurrently Chancellor of the Phoenix Pavilion and Luan Terrace, submitted a memorial: “Heaven punishes traitors and rewards the loyal. Lightning struck down Xue Shao, fire consumed Li Chong. The guilty received their due; the meritorious should be rewarded.”

Fan Lübing, a former scholar of the North Gate and now a high minister, carried great weight—his words were nearly final. The court’s disputes quieted at once, and all eyes turned to the Princess Yiyang’s residence.

Shangguan Wan’er herself came from the palace to deliver the Empress’s decree, declining Quan Yi’s elaborate reception and going straight to Quan Ce’s humble courtyard, where she witnessed a touching scene.

“Brother, I’m tired,” whined Quan Zhu, plump and restless on a golden couch, surrounded by maids and servants.

“Just a moment, Erlang, I’m almost done,” Quan Ce replied, busy at a simple easel, working with a homemade charcoal stick. Quan Zhu’s cheerful face was coming to life on the paper.

He sped up, not noticing that the chatter had fallen silent. With the final strokes, he let out a relieved sigh. “Erlang, it’s finished. Come take a look.”

Quan Zhu folded his hands and sat obediently, not coming over. A waft of rich fragrance drifted in. Quan Ce looked up and hurriedly bowed. “Respect to the attendant.”

Shangguan Wan’er tilted her head, admiring his painting, her eyes sparkling, lips curving in a gentle smile. “Eldest son, receive the decree.”

“The spirits have their master, Heaven shows no partiality. With a wise sovereign, Heaven harbors no traitors. Heaven is just; those who rebel are destroyed by thunder and fire. The law punishes transgressors; those who offend are executed. Thunder strikes the guilty, the loyal are unharmed. Palace Guard Captain Quan Ce, of manifest virtue and kin to the throne—from youth you have served the court with sincerity and courage, setting an example for all. By special grace: ten thousand taels of gold, two hundred thousand strings of cash, ten thousand bolts of silk, one hundred servants, the rank of Cavalry Commandant of the Upper Division, promotion to Left Thousand Bull Guard’s Feathered Forest General, proper fifth rank, to attend at court.”

Quan Ce accepted the decree, bowing his thanks.

Shangguan Wan’er smiled behind her sleeve. “No need for excess ceremony—congratulations. Here is a gift list as well, from Her Highness Taiping, to calm your nerves.”

“Thank you, Princess, and to you as well, Attendant.” Quan Ce bowed respectfully. The gifts were less than the Empress’s but the amount was of no concern—so long as Princess Taiping bore no grudges, all was well.

After Shangguan Wan’er left, Quan Yi summoned Quan Ce to his study, and after a long silence said only, “Tomorrow, go to Princess Taiping’s residence to pay your respects. The Li family is the imperial clan—and your mother’s kin. Never forget it.”

Quan Ce answered silently, bowing to accept the charge.

The next day, couriers from the Eastern Capital brought news: Hou Sizhi reported that the wounded guards from the lightning incident had been treated with every medicine and remedy at Lijing Gate, and, thanks to the Empress’s blessings, had recovered. Yet, before long, all fourteen died mysteriously, apparently struck down by Heaven.

The great families of Chang’an spat in contempt.