Chapter Thirteen: Origins

The Liu family of Jingzhao—son of a top scholar! Liu Ji silently repeated this to himself several times, struggling to suppress his expression. The very information he had sought so desperately had come to him quite unexpectedly.

Jingzhao Prefecture was none other than Chang’an, the equivalent of the imperial capital in later ages. Anyone able to establish themselves in such a place was undoubtedly wealthy, with property prices easily reaching astronomical figures per square meter. His father was a top scholar, and he himself held the rank of commandant—truly, he had won at the starting line. More importantly, his surname was Liu, not some Sogdian merchant like Kang Cainen.

And then there were the so-called “Four Talents of Anxi”—any reputation known to the world, good or bad, at least indicated a solid family background; otherwise, how could one afford to cultivate such fame?

Matters were becoming more and more intriguing.

Liu Ji let out a quiet sigh of relief, gazing at her alluring red lips, nearly blurting out, “Go on, just having the surname Liu isn’t enough—what’s my name, exactly?” Yet, at the last moment, his words changed: “Since you already know, what more is there to say? Yes, Danangqi and his four men—I killed them all.”

An awkward silence fell over the room. Yang Yu discreetly shifted his position, wary of any sudden developments. Zeng Jiuniang, unfazed, looked steadily at Liu Ji, her smile unchanged. “Hero Wu Lang, your reputation is well deserved.”

“They harbored ill intent and were no match for me. Their deaths are their own fault—who else is there to blame? I must apologize to you, sir, for this.”

Judging by the woman’s demeanor, she truly did not care about the lives lost. This made Liu Ji all the more cautious. He answered coolly, “Let’s set that matter aside for now. Who are you, really, and why do you command Tibetan followers?”

The woman’s smile froze, her expression dimming, voice sinking into somberness as she seemed lost in memory.

“It was the fourth year of the Jinglong era. I was five years old when I was chosen to serve as Her Highness’s maid. In the third month, the princess was sent by imperial decree to marry far away in Tibet. His Majesty, accompanied by all the court officials, escorted her as far as Shiping County. There, they feasted for three days before finally parting in tears. That year, Her Highness was only nine. Though she was given away by her father, what truly occupied her heart were those days in the palace—the Emperor had cherished her as his own daughter, and from then on, that affection was forever lost.”

These words stirred a great wave in Liu Ji’s heart, and he could not help but interrupt. “The princess you speak of—could it be Princess Jincheng?”

At this, even Yang Yu looked over. Zeng Jiuniang frowned slightly and nodded. “Who else but that ill-fated woman?”

So that was it. Before joining the Second Department of the General Staff as an intelligence officer, Liu Ji’s unit had been stationed on the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau for an extended period, so he was naturally familiar with the history of the Western Qiang Autonomous Region. Later generations of Chinese might recall only Princess Wencheng, yet few knew that Princess Jincheng spent thirty years there, dying before the age of forty.

Because of this, countless legends surrounded her among the Qiang people—she was said to be an incarnation of Tara, or involved in tales of two consorts fighting for a child. Now, standing before a living witness, Liu Ji could not help but feel intrigued. As of now, Princess Jincheng had been dead nearly thirteen years.

Within the room, Zeng Jiuniang’s voice continued, now tinged with mystery.

“Her husband then, the present Tibetan king Tridé Tsuktsen, was only seven. The two children, aside from the ceremonial rites, lived separately. For some reason, the king was always cold to her—even after coming of age, he rarely shared her quarters. And so, thirty years passed like this.”

Zeng Jiuniang sighed. “During those thirty years, the Tang Empire and Tibet alternated between war and peace. Every time Tibet suffered losses, they would petition the Tang court in Her Highness’s name to buy time. But whenever an opportunity arose, they turned to war again. Later, they used her name to demand the Nine Bends region from the Tang, claiming it as her fief. After that, neither side cared about her anymore.”

“When the current Emperor ascended the throne, even the last traces of affection were severed. Her Highness wrote several times, begging for her letters to be sent to Chang’an, asking to end her suffering—even willing to return as a Buddhist laywoman. But no reply ever came. Gradually, she gave up hope, spending her days reciting sutras and awaiting the end of her life.”

Tears glistened in her eyes, and the desolation of dying in a foreign land moved both men deeply. As expected, thirteen years ago the princess quietly passed away in her city. When news reached Chang’an, the Emperor suspended court for three days but did not send even a single envoy to mourn.

“After Her Highness’s death, we maids either grew old or died. Few of us remain. I have been here for forty years, with no home to return to. Instead, I formed ties with some powerful tribes. They wish to use my identity as a Tang woman, and I am not above using them in turn.”

She took out a silk handkerchief and dabbed her eyes, regaining her composure. “Danangqi was not Tibetan. He and his followers were all Supi people.”

With this informant’s explanation, Liu Ji and his companion finally gained a rough understanding of Tibet. Like many fragmented regimes in history, Tibet was composed of numerous tribes, the so-called Five Rus marking their divisions.

The Supi tribe, after being conquered, became the fifth Ru of Tibet—Supi Ru, sometimes translated later as Sunbo Ru. They retained considerable independence. To win over this tribe, the Tibetans granted their chief a high position. For example, the current Supi leader, Linmo Lingti, held the title of “Shang,” and many other top ministers were also from Supi.

Even so, the Supi were not as submissive as they seemed. Secretly, they maneuvered constantly. In recent years, with the Tang Empire at its zenith, gradually encircling Tibet and carving away at it from multiple fronts, Supi’s separatist tendencies only deepened.

“So, you believe the Supi harbor rebellious intentions?” After a long silence, Yang Yu finally asked.

“Yes. If the Tang continue pressing their attacks and win a few battles, they might draw away the Tibetan king’s personal troops from Lhasa. That could push the Supi to revolt.”

Liu Ji offered no opinion on her assessment. Tibet had been plagued by internal strife since its founding—the famed Gar family of early Tang was completely exterminated, and those who survived fled to Tang territory. Whether the Supi would rebel was not his concern; after all, the Kingdom of Tibet lasted almost until the end of Tang, both falling in close succession.

“You want us to send word back to Anxi that the Tibetans have finished building the bridge?”

“That alone wouldn’t be worth my coming here.” Zeng Jiuniang shook her head. “The Tibetans have changed commanders. The newcomers have brought three armies from Dongdai—these are the most outstanding young generals of their generation, and their leader is named Xidongzan. You must not underestimate him.”

Yang Yu took her words in stride, but Liu Ji’s face darkened as he repeated the Tibetan’s name under his breath.

“Xidongzan, Xidongzan…” Suddenly, his eyes lit up. “Shang Xidongzan!”

Zeng Jiuniang seemed puzzled. “He is only an Eastern Bon at present, but his ambitions are grand. One day, he will become the great Shang of Tibet.”

Liu Ji nodded in agreement. “The so-called ‘Three Shangs and One Lon’—these four men brought greater calamity to the Tang than even the An Lushan Rebellion. Compared to them, the so-called ‘Four Talents of Anxi’ are nothing but a joke.”