[Lightscreen]
[At the beginning of 1283, Kublai Khan finally remembered the man he had kept locked up for three years, Wen Tianxiang.
The Great Yuan Emperor personally summoned him. It was a rare imperial courtesy, which in this case meant one last attempt at persuasion.
To make his point clearer, Kublai even brought out the former Song emperor, Emperor Gong of Song, who had surrendered when Lin'an fell. The boy looked well fed, alive, and very much married into Mongol aristocracy.
The implication was simple.
Your emperor surrendered and is living comfortably. He will even take a Mongol bride. If you surrender too, no one will hold it against you.
Wen Tianxiang's reply was as brief as ever.
"I will not serve two masters. Grant me death, and that is enough."
There was no rhetoric. No trembling. Just a statement.
Kublai saw that persuasion had reached its limit. Since the man would not bend, then he would break. The order of execution was issued the next day.
Wen Tianxiang had long prepared himself. At the execution ground, he faced south and kowtowed several times toward the lands of the former Song.
"My duty is fulfilled," he said.
Then he accepted death without changing expression.
Seven centuries later, his death would still be debated. The actions of Wang Yanwu, once a member of Wen Tianxiang's staff, would be dissected and criticized by later generations.
Yet anyone who reads history should remember a basic rule. One does not use the sword of the present age to behead the officials of the past.
After Wen Tianxiang's execution, his family retrieved his body. In his clothing they found a final note, now known as the Song of the Robe Belt. At the end were written these lines:
"What have I studied in the teachings of the sages? From this day forth, may I be without shame."
That was the entirety of his pursuit. Not conspiracy. Not hidden schemes. Only the desire to live, and die, without betraying what he had learned and the office he held.
The Classic of Rites states plainly: the ruler dies for the altars of state, the minister dies for the people, the scholar dies for principle. In the Confucian moral order, responsibility increases with rank. Nowhere does it demand that commoners must die for the state.
Wen Tianxiang valued his integrity above his life because he was Grand Chancellor of the Southern Song, a top scholar, a leader of the literati. His death was the conclusion of that identity.
One may argue whether such a choice was necessary. But across seven centuries of distance, respect is perhaps the most appropriate response.
With his death, the Song Dynasty at last withdrew completely from the stage of history.]
In Yingtian Prefecture, the ministers knew well that the Hongwu Emperor held Wen Tianxiang in deep esteem. When the young narrator finished speaking, the court fell into solemn silence.
Zhu Yuanzhang sighed.
"Song had Wen Tianxiang. Does my Great Ming have men who would die for the people without sparing themselves?"
Crown Prince Zhu Biao answered gently.
"Father swept away the Mongols and restored the realm to the Han. Later generations will honor you for that alone."
"If barbarians again intrude upon China, perhaps the one who restores it in some future age will follow your example."
"In that case, Great Ming will never lack ministers who do not spare themselves. Nor will it lack rulers willing to die for the altars of state."
Zhu Biao believed this firmly. He had grown up in chaos and seen his father's methods. He had also heard the later critiques of Ming and sensed the complicated emotions future generations held. The very existence of this light screen suggested that Ming's foundation possessed enough merit to deserve correction rather than erasure.
Then he remembered a name mentioned earlier.
"When they spoke of the late Ming, they mentioned someone called Li Zicheng. He seemed rather concerned about the fate of our dynasty."
"Perhaps he too possessed some vestige of Ming's integrity."
Zhu Yuanzhang nodded slightly, choosing to believe it. Yet the thought that Ming's reign might not surpass that of the two Songs continued to trouble him.
"So in the ninth year," he said, "I ordered a shrine for Wen Tianxiang built beside the Prefectural School in Beiping."
"That was to let him see that we Han have reclaimed our mountains and rivers. If his spirit endures, he may rest without worry."
"Fourth Son."
Zhu Di stiffened at once. He had been listening carefully and knew his cue.
"When I arrive in Beiping, I will offer sacrifices in Father's name."
Zhu Yuanzhang nodded.
"Wen Tianxiang was born in Jiangnan and died in Beiping. He could not return to his native soil, but now both lands lie under Ming rule."
"When you reach Beiping, conduct the rites properly in spring and autumn every year. Let the scholars of the north remember that the realm is unified again, with no division between north and south."
"Let southern scholars be willing to lie buried in Beiping. Let northern scholars educated there treat Jiangnan as ancestral soil."
Empress Ma smiled softly. The princes and officials bowed in agreement.
Yet Zhu Yuanzhang's thoughts did not stop there. If north and south were to be governed equally, perhaps the capital itself must move. Otherwise the south would retain population, fertile fields, waterways, and proximity to court, while the north held only cold winds and frontier threats.
For balance, for future maritime dangers, and for plans regarding Japan, relocation might one day be necessary.
He did not voice this aloud. The matter was too great.
Instead, another question lingered in his mind. In the histories this young narrator had read, had there been any thought of moving the capital? If so, was it carried out? And if not, why?
Those answers might reshape everything he thought he knew about Ming's future.
Elsewhere, Zhao Kuangyin felt an emptiness settle in his chest.
The fall of Lin'an, the defeat at Yashan, the death of Wen Tianxiang were not as viscerally brutal as the Jingkang humiliation. Yet the sentence "The Song Dynasty has completely exited the stage of history" struck just as heavily.
For all of China's long continuity, everything related to Zhao Kuangyin ended here.
After this, history would continue to surge forward, but without Song and without him.
Future generations would remember that he seized power from a child and widow. They would remember that Song failed to recover the Sixteen Prefectures. They would remember the regrets. They would remember that those regrets were ultimately resolved a century after Song's fall by a man surnamed Zhu.
When Zhao Kuangyin had returned to Bianjing wearing his new robe after Chen Bridge, he too had burned with ambition. When he discussed the realm with Zhao Pu over warm wine on a snowy night, he had sworn to end chaos and achieve unity. He once declared privately that he wished to be like Emperor Taizong of Tang, neither whitewashing merit nor concealing faults, leaving his name to history through deeds alone.
Why should others be the ones to resolve these regrets?
Later generations claimed that national misfortune benefits poets. Yet the grandeur of High Tang poetry was not born from disaster alone.
Apparently he was not the only one thinking along such lines.
Li Yu suddenly stepped forward.
"Your Majesty Zhao, when will the northern campaign set out?"
"I was born in Jiangnan, but I now wish to march north with the army and see the mountains and rivers of China with my own eyes."
"The frontier verses that Tang poets wrote, why should I, Li Yu, be unable to write them?"