Chapter 1: Slaying the Mortal

What can one do at thirteen? It treads upon the rhythm of childhood, gazing toward the prologue of adulthood, as boys and girls begin to transform, shedding their childish forms for the likeness of adults. Qualified parents become a pause in the melody, shielding their children from reality and cruelty as much as possible.

But Gao Yang was no such pause; he was a brutal movement, forcing everyone into a tragic chorus of lament.

As a father, Gao Yang’s expectations for his thirteen-year-old son Gao Yin were not unusual, yet those expectations generally did not include ordering Gao Yin to decapitate a prisoner.

Still, perhaps Gao Yang’s actions could not be called wholly wrong. His other identity was Emperor of Qi, destined to walk alongside intrigue and slaughter. All his actions could be attributed to the inscrutable authority of an emperor—at least, that was how he saw it.

Thus, Gao Yang was furious, deeply disappointed in his weak crown prince.

If he could not bring himself to kill a helpless prisoner, how could he ever hold onto the blood-soaked throne of the Gao family?

That seat of power was a summit, difficult to ascend and even harder to stay upon. Even he, a heroic Son of Heaven, had to regularly offer death to the throne, wielding terror to subdue other ambitious souls.

Gao Yang had to admit, he lost his temper then, and so acted indecorously—striking Prince Gao Yin with a riding whip until the boy fainted.

The palace attendants quickly carried the prince to bed, tending to him, their busy forms making the child on the bed seem all the more frail.

Looking at his unconscious eldest, Gao Yang felt a fleeting compassion—perhaps he was too harsh; after all, Yin’er was only thirteen.

Yet he quickly suppressed such useless emotion, convinced he was right, gnashing his teeth in silent fury at his son's cowardice.

Both the palm and the back of the hand are flesh, but one side has more, one side less.

Gao Yang’s mother, the Dowager Empress Lou, bore several children of striking appearance; only Gao Yang was plain, leading his brothers to ridicule him. Gao Yang endured their taunts in silence, always the family’s scapegoat.

He knew his father Gao Huan was busy and absent, and his mother favored the other brothers, never defending him—the thin flesh on the back of the hand destined for more blows.

So his son’s weakness unsettled Gao Yang deeply, as if the young Gao Yang had traveled through time and stood trembling before himself. Now, the Emperor of Qi unwittingly became his mother, the ugliest light in his memory.

Realizing this enraged him. He kicked aside the attendants, strode to the bed, tore off the covers, seized his son’s topknot, lifting him with a shout: “Get up! How long will you lie here?”

The palace folk scattered like insects exposed to sunlight, scrambling away lest they be purged a moment too late. This was one of the survival rules in Qi’s court: when the emperor rages, do not speak, do not make a sound, best not even breathe.

Nearby attendants, servants, and palace workers cast sympathetic gazes toward the prince. The wrathful emperor seemed ready to devour him; judging by past behavior, it was not impossible.

Gao Yang did not devour his son, but he did nothing better. He formed a fist and struck Gao Yin’s head again and again:

“Books have made you stupid!”

“How can you call yourself a Xianbei with such spinelessness? You’re more like one of those contemptible Han!”

“Dead, are you? Good! If you die, I’ll make Shaode crown prince. Shaode has more backbone than you…!”

His fist grew wet with blood, which both excited and terrified Gao Yang.

Had he really killed the boy? Was he truly so useless?

Just as he wondered, Gao Yin began to murmur.

Gao Yang leaned in: “What are you trying to say?”

“I say…”

Gao Yin’s voice, and his right hand, grew louder and stronger: “Are you insane?!”

A forthright punch, accurate and elegant, struck Gao Yang’s jaw hard.

Had it been five years ago, Gao Yang would have easily caught that hand and crushed it in an instant.

But the heroic emperor was now a relic of the past. Gao Yang, addicted to drink and pleasure, and long reliant on five-stone powder, was in rapid decline.

Thus, unprepared, he lost a tooth to the blow, the taste of blood reminding him of his early days as emperor, when he fought for his throne, and the indulgences that followed, singing with his consort Xue as bones were scattered.

Gao Yang released his grip and staggered back several steps. Han Baoye and other eunuchs hurried to steady him, panic-stricken.

The emperor was notorious for killing, his violence indiscriminate—even his own brothers, Prince Yong’an Gao Jun and Prince Shangdang Gao Huan, had been arrested and imprisoned for a year, liable to execution at any moment.

In such circumstances, the servants were used to currying favor through murder, daring even to slander princes.

Yet the one who struck now was Crown Prince Gao Yin, making the calculus of loyalty far trickier.

If the emperor lived another decade, he’d kill ten crown princes if he wished. There was precedent—Emperor Wu of Han and Crown Prince Li. The servants did not fear Gao Yin’s future revenge; as long as he wasn’t crown prince, what did it matter? The emperor seemed intent on deposing him and installing Prince Taiyuan Gao Shaode.

But they knew Gao Yang’s health better than anyone; lasting two or three more years would be miraculous. If Shaode ascended, all would be well; if not, and Gao Yin took the throne, their reckoning would come.

Those who served Gao Yang were all shrewd, and the power game in Qi was not theirs to play.

In Ye was the Son of Heaven, in Jinyang the nobles, bearing military authority and inheriting traces of Emperor Gao Huan’s power, watching over Ye and watching each other.

To counter them, the emperor had suppressed the nobles and elevated Han aristocrats, gathering them around Crown Prince Gao Yin.

The emperor was surrounded by royal kin, and above him the Empress Dowager; all sought a share of the emperor’s power, or to surpass it.

Each side lurked like beasts, waiting to devour another’s authority. These favored servants, if they meddled, would become bait for others.

Power was still being divided; no need to rush. As long as Qi endured, their place would come.

So most attendants chose silent vigilance beside the emperor, awaiting the final victory—who wore the crown was less important than the current and the next.

“The crown prince is awake!”

Among Gao Yang’s attendants, Lu Lecha was most favored lately, and dared to speak such nonsense, drawing attention to the prince.

Anyone could see the prince was awake, but he was indeed different; legs splayed, sitting carelessly on the bed, his gaze dreamy, not quite lucid.

Gao Yin felt unlucky.

He’d spent two years repeating exams, finally becoming a county civil servant, living a fulfilling life of serving the people. He was drinking with friends to celebrate when suddenly darkness fell—and he awoke here.

He’d read enough novels to accept transmigration; others crossed over to meet peerless beauties or charming maids, but he hadn’t even opened his eyes before being punched awake.

He’d only returned a punch—how had he knocked out the old man’s tooth? This geezer really couldn’t take a beating!

The gates of memory opened, coloring the world in black and white. Gao Yin gradually realized he was now Gao Yin, crown prince of Great Qi, his body growing more energetic as his mind cleared.

“Damn, what a disastrous start.”

Gao Yin—now Gao Yin—knew exactly what he was. As legitimate heir to a founding emperor, in a stable, unified dynasty, he could have coasted to a posthumous temple name as Emperor Taizong. Even in a petty kingdom, he could have played Liu Chan, relying on his forebears’ generals to guard the realm and enjoy decades of wealth.

Yet his country was the mightiest in the world, Northern Qi, with the greatest hope for unification.

But he, as crown prince, would not survive his first year on the throne—this left Gao Yin despondent.

His dispirited look matched that of the former Gao Yin, who studied Han learning deeply, winning the favor of scholars. They praised the prince as “generous, benevolent, gentle and cheerful,” possessing kingly demeanor. Yet such good nature, to the martial Xianbei nobles and the Gao clan, was weakness, easily bullied. Even the emperor disliked his refined, gentle son. As the emperor’s minions, the eunuchs naturally ignored him.

Lu Lecha cursed, “The prince is disgraceful! To strike a father and offend the lord—what kind of Han learning is this?!”

Gao Yin’s response was simple: he grabbed a boot and hurled it at Lu Lecha. “How dare a servant scold his master?!”

Had it been the old crown prince, he would have meekly apologized to the emperor, incurring his father’s displeasure.

But today, the prince’s head had been knocked senseless, and his temper seemed much fiercer—almost imperial—making Han Baoye and others more silent, and Lu Lecha, hoping to curry favor, uneasy.

“Chen Shanti! Seize this man for me!”

Chen Shanti, along with Gai Fengle and Liu Taozhi, had served Gao Huan twenty years ago, wrapping their heads in blue cloth as household slaves; after Gao Huan’s death, they followed Gao Cheng and Gao Yang, the most loyal dogs and killers of the Gao family.

Chen Shanti did not move, but looked to the emperor.

Gao Yang held his mouth, staunching the blood, and suddenly raised an eyebrow.

Lu Lecha tried to speak, but Chen Shanti gripped his neck, stuffed a wad of blue cloth in his mouth, and pinned him before Gao Yin.

Gao Yin rose from the bed, feeling well—his body unharmed, and full of youthful vigor.

He beckoned to a maid holding a basin. Though frightened, she brought it over. Gao Yin took a white towel, soaked it, and laid it over Lu Lecha’s face.

“Gai, Gai Zhi…”

Lu Lecha, mouth stuffed with cloth, could barely speak. Gao Yin smoothed the towel over his face, pressing firmly, silencing him completely.

Lu Lecha struggled fiercely, but Chen Shanti, strong as an ox, locked his arms with one hand, gripped his hair with the other, preventing any movement. Only his legs flailed, to no avail.

Unlike the emperor’s bloody spectacle, this felt like an experiment—testing the limits of life. The outcome mattered little; everyone watched in silence.

Lu Lecha’s legs gradually ceased moving, prompting sighs.

Chen Shanti loosened his grip, found Lu Lecha no longer struggling, and began to lift the towel.

“No need.”

The prince’s command stopped him; Chen Shanti withdrew behind Gao Yang.

Gao Yin took a fresh towel to wipe his hands. “There are a hundred ways to kill. The commoner uses fists and blades, the official uses the law. Those of high rank kill by authority—why dirty one’s own hands?”

Stepping over Lu Lecha’s corpse, Gao Yin approached Gao Yang, his expression gentle as jade. “Is Father now satisfied?”

“Wenxuan ascended the Golden Phoenix Terrace, summoned the crown prince to execute a prisoner. The prince, moved by compassion, hesitated, unable to sever the head after repeated attempts. Wenxuan grew furious, struck the prince thrice with a whip, causing palpitations and disordered speech, his spirit often disturbed.” — Book of Northern Qi, Annals of the Deposed Emperor