Chapter 3: The Banquet

In the dead of night, torches were lit throughout the imperial palace, arranged in orderly rows atop the high platform, resembling a blazing phoenix aflame.

Magnificent melodies masked the low roar of the fire as musicians gently plucked their zithers and drums, weaving strings and flutes into an intoxicating harmony. Nearby, the pool’s rippling surface shimmered like an invisible hand of the goddess of beauty, teasing out emotions, as if schools of fish listened beneath the water to the familiar tune.

The discordant sounds of drinking and singing pierced the air, harsh yet heightening the atmosphere, compelling onlookers to overlook the dried blood on the ground and smile as they presented themselves before the sovereign.

Gao Yang propped his head up with his hand, reclining on the Golden Phoenix Platform. Suddenly, he hiccupped and groggily opened his eyes, bloodshot and sharp, freezing the very air around him.

He hummed a tune softly at first, but it gradually swelled until the entire platform could hear—the voice of authority.

Suddenly intrigued, he rose to his feet, his song soaring with vigor:

“By the banks of the Chille River, beneath the Yin Mountains…”

Alert, the musicians changed their melody, as if the prairie winds had blown in. Dancers clad in colorful silk and embroidered boots moved gracefully to the jade flute’s tune, their softness concealing the deadly tension beneath, leaving behind a hint of ambiguity, strands of sorrow, three cups of melancholy, and a mournful grandeur from all directions.

The night sky stretched like a vast black canopy, and amid the flickering lights, the monarch and ministers of Northern Qi seemed to transcend time, glimpsing their ancestors singing alongside the Martial Emperor.

Some sang with abandon, tears streaming down their faces, voices hoarse, sounding more like roars and howls.

When he came to his senses, he found the emperor standing before him. Fear swiftly displaced his anger, and he hurried to kneel and confess his guilt.

Rarely, Gao Yang did not lash out. Instead, he grasped the man’s hand, singing the final line together:

“…Raise the cup to the bright moon, riding swiftly by the Chille River.”

The audience lingered in the fading echoes. After a brief silence, Gao Yang clapped the man’s shoulder: “Bright moon, bright moon, your father’s ‘Song of Chille’ is truly stirring—would you join me in a toast?”

Hulü Guang bowed deeply: “I dare not refuse your command.”

“Come! Let us drink together with golden goblets.”

Gao Yang personally poured the wine for Hulü Guang. They clinked their cups and drained them in one gulp. Hulü Guang wiped the wine from his lips and sighed softly.

The Battle of Yubi had been devastating. Out of a hundred thousand troops, seventy thousand perished from battle or disease. Even Gao Huan himself barely survived, returning to Jinyang ill and dying shortly after.

This song was composed by Hulü Jin during the return journey, at Gao Huan’s command, while feasting with the generals.

Now, as Gao Yang sang it, it was not only a lament for the nation’s tragedy but also a veiled prophecy for Qi’s future—everyone knew Gao Yang’s health was failing, uncertain how much longer he could hold on.

This song’s beginning signaled Gao Yang’s waning confidence in his own vitality; Qi was poised for a change of ruler at any moment.

That once ambitious heroic emperor had perished after only five short years.

The ministers were unsure whether to feel joy or sorrow. Hulü Guang felt a twinge of pity and sympathy for Gao Yang. At forty-three, Hulü was considered past the midpoint of life in this era, while Gao Yang, at just thirty-two, flickered like a candle in the wind.

But recalling all the reckless deeds Gao Yang had committed, Hulü’s heart hardened again. Since seizing power and founding the dynasty nine years prior, Gao Yang had relentlessly suppressed the Xianbei nobility while elevating Han officials, forcing the Xianbei into servitude.

Were it not for the immense significance of Hulü’s own family to Qi, they might have already met a tragic fate.

Lost in thought, Hulü Guang heard Gao Yang’s next words, making his heart race anew:

“Bright moon, I ask you. The realm and its affairs are paramount, but the crown prince is timid—I fear he cannot bear the burden. Therefore... I intend to depose him and pass the throne to Shaode. What do you think?”

Hulü Guang shuddered.

This question had been posed countless times before, yet no minister had ever dared answer directly. They loved their sovereign but treasured their lives more.

Gao Yang seemed aware no answer would come, turning to the assembled princes and ministers: “Gentlemen! How do you feel about passing the throne to Shaode?!”

This was the most effective sobering draught, jolting the drowsy court awake. They exchanged silent glances, easily identifying the true power players at the top of Qi’s court:

Grand Marshal, Prince of Changshan Gao Yan; Grand Commander, Prince of Changguang Gao Zhan; Right Deputy Director of the Secretariat, Duke of Lantian Gao Dezheng; Left Deputy Director of the Secretariat, Prince of Pingqin Gao Guiyan; Duke of Huashan and Minister of the Secretariat Yang Yin.

Among them, Gao Dezheng hailed from the noble Bohai Gao clan, had been close to Gao Yang since youth, and was a staunch advocate for his imperial ambitions—a trusted minister. Gao Guiyan was a cousin of Gao Huan and a pillar of the royal house. Yang Yin served as Northern Qi’s prime minister, having married two of Gao Huan’s daughters, one of whom was empress to Emperor Xiaojing of Wei.

Despite Gao Yang’s brutality, Qi’s politics remained relatively orderly because he entrusted governance to Yang Yin. People often said that although Gao Yang was nicknamed the “Little Gao Yang,” Yang Yin bore some resemblance to the loyal minister Bi Gan.

As expected, Yang Yin rose to advise: “Your Majesty, such momentous matters of state require utmost caution. They must not be rashly decided at a banquet.”

“Emperor Wen of Song, when contemplating deposing his crown prince, consulted with the eunuch Wang Sengchuo and examined historical precedents from Han and Wei dynasties. He deliberated nightly with Xu Zhan and often inspected the palace walls by candlelight, fearing eavesdropping. Even with such vigilance, he worried that deposing the prince would disrupt the proper order and delayed his decision for long.”

Emperor Wen of Song was Liu Yilong. He had attempted to depose his crown prince Liu Shao but failed due to poor secrecy, leading to Liu Shao’s violent coup. Liu Shao was subsequently subdued by his brother Liu Jun, and the official history blamed Liu Shao as the villain.

“Our current crown prince of Qi is intelligent and mature, embodying the virtues of a Han ruler. He is not like that villain. You are the founding emperor, and unlike Emperor Ming of Song or Emperor Ming of Southern Qi, there is no chaotic succession involving uncles usurping nephews. Such a sudden proposal leaves your ministers deeply puzzled.”

Emperor Ming of Song was Liu Yu; Emperor Ming of Southern Qi was Xiao Luan. Both had murdered their young nephews to seize the throne.

Yang Yin referred to Xiao Luan as Emperor Ming rather than Emperor Qi Ming because the Northern Chinese regarded the Southern Qi and Southern Liang as one realm under the same Xiao clan, differing only by leader and dynasty name; thus, they called them collectively “Xiao.”

Gao Yan’s face darkened as he looked at his palm. Earlier, he had crushed his wine cup, the broken rim cutting a bloody gash matching his fury.

Yang Guiyan’s words were deliberate—he invoked “uncle usurping nephew” to warn Gao Yang to beware.

Gao Yan struggled to contain his anger, especially since Gao Yang glanced fleetingly in his direction.

Instinctively, he met eyes with his younger brother Gao Zhan, and a small wave of fear rose in both.

Is this madman truly about to act? Like when he killed Lady Xue, turning our bones into his songs!

Gao Yan hurriedly drank, feigning drunkenness, collapsing weakly onto the table, nearly biting his tongue.

“Is that so? The southern Qi actually experienced such things.”

Gao Yang raised an eyebrow proudly: “But these things only happened to the Han, especially southern Han. I wish to enthrone Shaode because he resembles me. Daoists say it’s because he read too many Han books that he is the way he is now. How can he lead Great Qi and our Xianbei people?”

Yang Yin inwardly scoffed. Your father, the Martial Emperor Gao Huan, was not like this when he founded the dynasty. Proud of his Bohai Gao lineage, he laughed and joked with the true Bohai Gao Qian, calling him uncle—only to betray Gao Qian and his brother Gao Ang to their deaths. And now you suddenly remember you’re Xianbei? In Wei you were Han, in Qi you are Xianbei?

Yang Yin dared not voice these thoughts, instead raising the banner of propriety: “I'm sorry, but I cannot assist with that request.