Chapter Ten: The Divine Palace of Myriad Phenomena

In the Eastern Capital, Luoyang, within the Purple Tenuity City, the Ming Hall rose from the former site of the Hall of Primordial Energy. Empress Wu Zitian placed her intricate hopes upon this structure. The design had taken shape as early as the reign of Emperor Wen of the former Sui dynasty, but through the successive reigns of Emperor Yang, Emperor Gaozu, Emperor Taizong, and Emperor Gaozong, voices of opposition abounded, and the project was repeatedly postponed. Only through the Empress’s resolute will did construction finally begin.

The base of the Ming Hall was a dignified square, solid as a seal. The middle tier formed a twelve-sided polygon crowned with a round roof, adorned by nine dragons. The uppermost tier was a twenty-four-sided polygon with a domed summit, on which stood a golden phoenix. Inside, the space was layered and complex, with a colossal central pillar so thick that it would take ten men to encircle it; from a distance, it resembled a cylindrical tower.

Both the hall’s exterior and interior were now complete. The master craftsmen and the officials of the Winter Office conducted a final inspection, confirming the project’s flawless finish. It was time to report to Xue Huaiyi, who was in charge of the works. For a moment, they exchanged silent, uneasy glances—then their eyes all turned toward the general patrolling outside the doors.

The general assigned to this errand bore two conspicuous scars upon his face: he was Zhao Liu. He was festooned with amulets for protection, a jade talisman for geomancy hung from his belt, sandalwood prayer beads adorned one wrist, a red thread for good fortune the other, and hidden beneath his armor, a bronze demon-reflecting mirror hung over his heart. All these were meant to change his luck and weather the current tide of misfortune.

Since he had been transferred to the Left Martial Guard, as expected, he endured relentless harassment. Xue Huaiyi, of humble birth and vindictive nature, spared no effort in tormenting him. Out of sight, he left Zhao Liu in peace, but as long as he was present, insults and beatings were constant. For having beaten the imperial censor Feng Sixu witless, Empress Wu stripped Xue Huaiyi of his post as Grand General of the Left Martial Guard, leaving him only in charge of the Ming Hall’s construction. Yet Zhao Liu found no respite, for the guard had been reassigned to Luoyang, one of its duties being to assist with the Ming Hall’s completion.

Unable to find Xue Huaiyi at White Horse Temple, Zhao Liu dispatched his soldiers to search the streets of Luoyang. He himself chose a pleasure district—precisely where Xue Huaiyi was least likely to appear, and yet, by some twist of fate, there he found him.

Xue Huaiyi, leading a group of shaven-headed novices, was pulling at women from the brothels, personally seizing them, sweating profusely from his exertions. Upon seeing Zhao Liu, he barked, “Come, quickly! Take these courtesans back to White Horse Temple, shave their heads, let them become nuns. My Buddha will cleanse them of their worldly dust!”

With no other choice, Zhao Liu signaled his men forward. Displeased, Xue Huaiyi leapt up and slapped him hard. “I do everything myself, and you, you wretch, still complain of filth? If you won’t act, I’ll have you thrown in the latrines for a few days—let’s see who’s dirtier then!”

Zhao Liu’s brows knitted in deep frustration, his face dark as iron as he moved in to seize the women. His cold, unyielding bearing fanned Xue Huaiyi’s fury. With a wave, he had his bald followers let go, and, twisting right from wrong, shouted, “How dare you, Zhao Liu! Seizing innocent women in broad daylight? Men, hold him down and give him thirty strokes of the military rod!”

Thus, a bizarre spectacle unfolded on the streets of Luoyang: two burly novices stripped a general of his trousers and beat him with sticks before the eyes of the public, while his own soldiers looked on in terrified silence.

Having vented his spleen, Xue Huaiyi galloped his horse into Purple Tenuity City, striding about the Ming Hall with his riding crop, lashing out, nitpicking every detail, refusing to approve the project’s completion. He threatened to submit a memorial accusing the Winter Office and master craftsmen of neglecting the Empress’s decree and being perfunctory in their duties. The officials, well acquainted with his temperament, proposed requesting another thousand taels of gold and fifty thousand strings of cash from the Land Office in Chang’an for additional decoration and repairs.

Xue Huaiyi nodded in satisfaction. “Very well. In ten days, at the imperial audience on the first of the month, I shall personally travel to the capital to deliver the good news.”

The officials breathed a collective sigh of relief, sending him off like an exorcised pestilence, then huddled together to discuss what pretext they could invent to procure the promised funds and fill this monk’s bottomless pit.

Without pausing, Xue Huaiyi returned to White Horse Temple to amuse himself. His novice followers were all ruffians and sycophants, flattering him with every word. They said that since the Empress seldom came to the Eastern Capital, the completed Ming Hall would become the abbot’s own domain; only pity that the Left Martial Guard’s cowardly soldiers did not make for a sufficiently grand entourage.

Xue Huaiyi agreed. He’d grown quite bored of the Left Martial Guard, especially that Zhao Liu. If he wanted real pomp, he’d need the Thousand Bulls Guard. That young officer who’d once barred his way seemed quite capable; he’d even disarmed himself to defend the abbot’s honor—clearly a man of spirit. When time allowed, Xue Huaiyi would have him brought over.

In Chang’an, Quan Yi stepped out of the Marquis of Huangguo’s residence, mounted his carriage, and drew the curtain, his face still clouded with frustration.

“Master, where to?” his attendant asked quietly, having waited some time without a word from him.

“Home. No, to Xiangji Temple,” Quan Yi replied, his voice weary. In recent days, he’d visited many of the Li clan’s noblemen, seeking their help to relocate to Luoyang and support his cause in the Eastern Capital. Yet none would back him. On their chessboard, his value lay in his promising son, who stood close to the throne, well-informed, moving in the circles of the powerful, and could thus bind the mighty to their interests.

“Lord Boyue, all our fortune depends on the Li clan. One misstep and it’s eternal regret—be careful,” the Marquis of Huangguo had told him, openly questioning his intentions in Luoyang.

“Boyue, I hear your eldest is skilled in poetry and painting—a talented youth and widely connected. That’s all well and good, but in these times, the line between friend and foe is crucial. Be vigilant,” said the Duke of Dongguan more obliquely, though his warning was clear.

Quan Yi’s heart was a tangled mess. The Li clan’s naked self-interest chilled him, and his eldest son’s face grew blurred in his mind. “Stop. Forget Xiangji Temple. Take me home.”

Meanwhile, at the Princess Yiyang’s residence, Quan Ce could only smile wryly. Wu Youji had moved with astonishing speed, investing a huge sum: in just a few days, he had bought up vast swathes of shops along the waterways and roads between Luoyang and Chang’an, converted them into warehouses, procured hundreds of carriages and dozens of boats, and assembled teams of drivers and guards. All that was needed now was for fortune to favor them.

More importantly, Wu Youji was as good as his word, sending over documents granting a two-tenths share in the business. Yet Quan Ce could not decipher the signature—two delicate, graceful characters: Rui Lai. Was this Wu Youji’s “white glove,” or had he found a female manager?

Quan Zhong had the answer. “Young master, rumor among the merchants in Chang’an is that Wu Youji dotes on his wife, entrusting all his assets to her name. That’s the Lady Wu’s business title.”

“Take it and keep it safe. Do what needs doing.” Quan Ce handed the document to Quan Zhong, not to his mother. It wasn’t that he was keeping secrets, but rather, gifts of this nature were best handled lightly; if his mother were to get involved, her interference would only harm their relationship.

“Understood, young master,” replied Quan Zhong, now radiating fresh energy, his appearance neat and tidy, quite unlike his former disheveled self. In a lowered voice, he reported the latest news. “Yesterday at midnight, Princess Taiping gave birth to a daughter. Marquis Hou Sizhi released the former Censor Chen Zi’ang, sending him into exile to serve on the Western Qiang front. In recent days, you’ve been receiving many visitors and seem in low spirits. The madam has purchased a villa in Shanglin Ward in Luoyang, and also acquired several shops on the southern market by the Luo River.”

“That’s all?” Quan Ce frowned in displeasure.

“There’s also, uh... a rumor. They say the young master has fallen for the palace entertainer Shangguan and wrote a ‘Willow Branch’ lyric for Lady Fuqu, who’s now the toast of Chang’an. Some noble scions have been pursuing her, but Lady Fuqu claims that until the young master comes to claim her maidenhood, she will not take another man.”

“Silence!” Quan Ce’s face burned with embarrassment.

Quan Zhong shrank into himself like a frightened quail.

“Young master, Sister Sihua is here,” Liu Jin called, pouting as she lifted the curtain and shot Quan Ce a resentful glare.

Sihua, the chief maid of his mother, Princess Yiyang, entered with two young women, her eyes alluring, her figure graceful. “Congratulations, young master. The madam has sent us to see to your daily needs.”

Quan Ce was at a loss, managing only a bitter smile. “Sister Sihua, don’t leave yet. I was just about to call on my mother. Bring these two along; I already have enough help in my courtyard—no need for more.”