Outside the classroom window, storm clouds gathered. His history teacher was saying:
“…Emperor Xianzong died suddenly from elixir poisoning. The eunuchs Wang Shoucheng and others installed Muzong. From then on, the power to depose and enthrone emperors fell entirely into the hands of castrati—every imperial succession decided by them.”
He glanced down at his copy of the Zizhi Tongjian, finger tracing the words “Yuanhe Restoration.” A faint, superior disdain rose in his chest: If I were there, it would never have come to this.
The next moment—world spinning, ground vanishing.
He opened his eyes not to a classroom, but to a blood-hazed palace corridor.
A thin child crouched behind a pillar, trembling. Not far off, a wooden cudgel rose and fell. A scream cut short. Blood spattered the boy’s boots—warm, sticky.
Li Ke wanted to rush forward, to wrap his arms around him—but he had no body. Only consciousness, trapped in the corner of this small frame like a prisoner behind glass.
He could see. He could hear.
But he could not touch. Could not speak.
In that instant, he understood: he wasn’t here to change history.
He was here to watch.
But even spectators feel pain.
The first few months, he thought he’d gone mad.
The child—later he learned his name was Li Yi, thirteenth son of Xianzong, future Emperor Xuanzong of Tang—was beaten, shoved, doused with cold water. Never once did he resist. Other imperial clansmen mocked him: “More witless than a dog.” He’d just grin foolishly, clapping: “Cool! Father sent me ice!”
Li Ke once roared inside: Stand up! You’re a prince, not a slave!
But his voice sank like stone into the sea—no echo, no ripple.
He tried shouting future warnings in dreams:
“Wuzong will kill you!”
“Don’t trust Ma Yuanzhen!”
“Prince Zhang will be framed for rebellion!”
But the words dissolved into babble. His wet nurse recorded them as signs of worsening madness and reported to the Court of Imperial Clan Affairs. Result: Li Yi was confined indoors—even sunbathing required supervision.
He even attempted to seize control of the body.
Each time, only deeper silence answered him, as if an iron law pressed down: You may watch. You may not live for him.
At his most desperate, he deliberately steered Li Yi toward danger—
made him beg the Empress Dowager for candy,
let him show a flicker of envy toward the crown prince (Muzong),
urged him to cry for help when bullied by brothers…
Yet Li Yi remained unchanged: building walls of idiocy, shielding himself with silence.
He wasn’t numb to pain.
He buried it in his bones.
And Li Ke, through one bloody scene after another, came to understand: in this world, clarity was original sin. Resistance meant swift death.
Li Yi had already chosen the cruelest way to survive—
to live as a walking corpse, just to keep breathing.
Li Ke held the entirety of the future in his mind—
yet couldn’t deliver a single “Don’t be afraid.”
He came from an age that believed all men are created equal,
yet was forced to watch a boy who could have blazed like a star reduce himself to a joke.
That helplessness was more torturous than death.
Time flowed like silent water.
Yuanhe 15th Year. Emperor Xianzong fell gravely ill. The eunuch Chen Hongzhi stood guard day and night outside the寝殿, eyes hawk-sharp. Li Ke recognized him—history recorded him as the regicide. He nearly tore his own consciousness apart: Tell the Empress! Run!
But Li Yi only went each day to pay respects—kneeling outside the chamber, bowing three times, then leaving in silence.
That winter, Xianzong died suddenly. The palace concealed his death for three days.
Li Yi was confined to the western wing, two Shence soldiers posted at his door.
Li Ke knew: Wang Shoucheng was eliminating threats.
He watched Li Yi lie awake all night, staring at the roof beams like a stone statue.
Not until dawn on the fourth day—when news of Muzong’s enthronement arrived—did Li Yi finally close his eyes and sleep.
In that moment, Li Ke felt fear for the first time—not for history, but for this child.
He realized: Li Yi wasn’t pretending madness.
He was wearing “idiocy” as armor against a world that devoured its own.
The third day of the second month, Changqing 1st Year.
Returning from Baqing Temple.
For the first time in three years, Li Yi reached inward and called to the voice that had haunted him.
At first, fear: Are you a ghost?
Then testing: Can you tell me what happens tomorrow?
Then dependence: Will I die?
Li Ke longed to pour out everything—but when words formed, only two sentences ever made it through.
He experimented, and finally grasped the rule: Li Yi could ask questions, but Li Ke could answer only twice per day. Extra words vanished unheard—unless it was a matter of life or death.
This wasn’t clever design.
It was a cold, immovable wall.
On one side: Li Ke’s churning mind.
On the other: Li Yi’s silent struggle to survive.
Yet even this sliver of light, he cherished.
At least he was no longer a pure spectator.
He combed through the history in his head:
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The Niu-Li factional wars would drain the court of vitality, turning scholar-officials against each other for decades.
The Sweet Dew Incident would drown chancellors, censors, and Hanlin academicians in blood—after which eunuchs would rule unchallenged.
Prince Zhang would, fifteen years later, be accused of treason for being “too virtuous” and die suddenly in confinement.
And Li Yi? He would wait over twenty years—through the sudden deaths or early demises of Muzong, Jingzong, Wenzong, and Wuzong—before ascending the throne as the “witless prince,” later hailed as the “Little Taizong.”
“Is it worth it?” Li Ke whispered in the void. “Thirty years of shame for a decade of reign?”
He knew Li Yi’s answer: Yes. As long as I live.
Third month. The examination scandal erupted.
Chang’an’s scholar-official circles roared in outrage. Poor scholars wept by Qujiang Pond. Qian Hui and Li Zongmin’s demotion was certain.
Li Yi asked: “Will Qian Hui be exiled?”
Li Ke replied: “Yes. But the one who should die is Wang Shoucheng. If we act now, we can sever one of his arms.”
Li Yi was silent a long while. Then: “I only want to live.”
For the first time, Li Ke felt anger.
“Is this all you’ll accept? Watching loyal ministers fall, eunuchs run rampant, Hebei rebel again, people scattered like chaff—all just to live a few more decades?”
No answer. Li Yi had already turned away to play with his “crow tails.”
Li Ke regretted telling him he’d become emperor. That knowledge had only hardened the Guang Prince’s resolve to endure—to wait, not fight.
Fine, Li Ke thought, cold resolve hardening in the dark.
You play the fool. But if a chance comes, I’ll push you. Even if you hate me. Even if history shatters—I won’t let this body waste a time traveler’s knowledge.
He knew he couldn’t control Li Yi’s limbs or speak to anyone outside.
But he began mapping the pieces in his mind:
The provincial governors still feigned docility.
The civil officials were lost in factional squabbles.
Neither posed a threat to the eunuchs.
Empress Dowager Guo deeply resented the eunuchs for murdering Xianzong.
Because she believed Li Yi’s “dreams” were messages from the late emperor, she shielded him fiercely.
The eunuch bloc—Wang Shoucheng, Liang Shouqian—feared any shift in imperial succession.
They saw every prince as a potential rival.
And crucially: Li Yi’s “mad utterances” had been officially endorsed by the Empress Dowager as “imperial dreams.” They carried weight in court deliberations.
If Li Yi were to “dream” that eunuchs plotted regicide…
the Empress Dowager would rage.
If the eunuchs panicked and staged another “assassinate-emperor, install-child” coup…
Li Yi might be thrust onto the throne far sooner.
This wouldn’t rewrite history—it would compress thirty years of waiting into a three-year gamble.
He wouldn’t choose for Li Yi.
He’d simply wait for the next question…
and nudge fate’s gear by a hair’s breadth.
Two days later, Prince Zhang submitted another memorial, defending the wronged scholars.
When the news reached the western wing, Li Yi asked: “Will Prince Zhang be punished?”
Li Ke answered: “No. But the eunuchs will mark him for death. In a decade or more, they’ll accuse him of treason for being ‘too virtuous’—and he’ll die suddenly in the palace.”
Li Yi said nothing for a long time.
Then, softly: “Did he… regret it?”
Li Ke froze.
This was the first time Li Yi had asked a question not about survival—but about meaning.
He replied: “History doesn’t say. But I think… he didn’t regret it. Some things must be done—even if they kill you.”
Li Yi nodded. Said no more.
But that night, he carved one extra character on the wall: Zhang.
Li Ke understood: Li Yi was afraid.
Prince Zhang was a mirror—showing the man he dared not become: clear-eyed, upright, responsible.
Yet Li Ke also knew Li Yi was right.
In this palace that ate its children, virtue was crime. Foolishness was blessing.
But Li Ke refused to accept it.
He came from an age that believed heroes could change the world.
He couldn’t embrace “prudent self-preservation” as the highest wisdom.
He remembered boasting to classmates: “History is a girl dressed up by whoever holds her.”
Now he saw the truth: history wasn’t a girl.
It was a meat grinder.
And Li Yi was squeezing himself inside—just to be spat out alive one day.
Late night. Li Yi slept.
Li Ke whispered in the depths of consciousness, unheard:
“I don’t need you to believe me. I only need you, one morning, to look at the sky and say: ‘Father said Wang Shoucheng will kill the emperor.’ The rest… others will finish for you.”
He knew it was dangerous.
If it failed, Li Yi might be silenced early.
If it succeeded, he himself might be purged as the source of “demonic prophecy.”
But watching a genius boy turn himself into a hollow shell was worse than risk.
He wasn’t a savior.
Just a prisoner who refused to accept his cage.
And a prisoner’s rebellion isn’t breaking locks—
it’s making the jailer open the door himself.
“Liu Zong should die soon. By seventh month, Hebei will rebel again. The court’s authority will collapse. The Empress Dowager may pressure Muzong to name an heir. Is there an opening here?”
He ran scenarios:
If Li Yi “dreamed” of “crimson snow in Fanyang” or “crows pecking hearts”—
Fanyang being where Liu Zong murdered his father—
the Empress Dowager might suspect eunuchs were manipulating warlords.
She could delay Zhang Hongjing’s appointment to Lulong…
or urge Muzong to consider naming a successor early.
And Li Yi—the “late emperor’s most cherished fool”—might just snatch a spark from the fire.
Every thread led to the same end: early accession.
All Li Ke could do was, when asked, murmur:
“Wang Shoucheng installed three emperors. Killed two. Deposed one.”
The rest belonged to fate.
Dawn’s first light.
Li Yi crouched by the well, watching the water. Murky, fragmented—no whole face, only shards of light.
Li Ke whispered within: “Wang Shoucheng. Liang Shouqian. Li Fengji…”
Outwardly, they cooperated.
In truth, each played their own game.
Li Yi sought only to survive—by shrinking himself to dust, enduring the blackest night.
Li Ke sought to defy fate—using future knowledge to ignite present fire.
One imprisoned in palace walls.
One imprisoned in a mind.
Sharing one body.
Holding two destinies.
Li Yi believed Li Ke was merely a prophet—a ghost from the future, revealing the ending so he could safely pretend.
Li Ke knew better: he was a gambler. A furious prisoner.
Trying to lever history’s wheel with the slightest imbalance of information.
And spring in Chang’an wove its net in silence.
Some in the web wished to flee.
Some to break it.
Some only to feign sleep.
But history never asks for consent—
only who can bloom in blood.
Translator’s Note on Historical and Cultural Terms: Chapter Eight Additions
The Meta-Historical Framework: “Observer Without Agency”
- While not a Tang-era concept, the chapter introduces a crucial narrative device rooted in modern historiographical anxiety: the time traveler as trapped witness. Li Ke’s condition—able to perceive but not intervene—mirrors contemporary debates about historical determinism versus contingency. His frustration (“I hold all of history, yet cannot say ‘Don’t be afraid’”) dramatizes the ethical impasse of knowing outcomes without power to alter them—a metaphor for the historian’s own position vis-à-vis the past.
“Little Taizong” (小太宗) as Posthumous Redemption
- The epithet “Little Taizong” refers to Emperor Xuanzong’s (Li Yi’s) later reputation for restoring administrative order, curbing eunuch power (temporarily), and presiding over the last flicker of Tang vitality before its terminal decline. Historians of the Song dynasty, nostalgic for strong Confucian rule, retroactively idealized his reign as a pale echo of Taizong’s golden age. The irony—that this “restorer” survived decades by feigning idiocy—is central to the novel’s critique of imperial legitimacy: greatness is often born not of virtue, but of strategic invisibility.
The Sweet Dew Incident (甘露之变, 835 CE)
- Though still years away in the narrative timeline, Li Ke’s reference marks this pivotal event as the point of no return for civilian authority. When Chancellor Li Xun and Emperor Wenzong attempted to massacre the eunuchs using “sweet dew” on a pomegranate tree as pretext, the plot failed catastrophically. Eunuchs slaughtered hundreds of officials, seized control of the palace guard, and reduced the emperor to a puppet. From then on, even nominal imperial sovereignty collapsed. Its foreshadowing here underscores the futility Li Ke feels: he knows the trap is already set.
Imperial Succession Under Eunuch Hegemony
- Li Ke’s summary—“Wang Shoucheng installed three emperors, killed two, deposed one”—compresses a brutal reality. Between 820 and 827, Wang Shoucheng orchestrated:
– the murder of Xianzong (r. 805–820),
– the enthronement of Muzong (r. 820–824),
– the sudden death of Jingzong (r. 824–827, likely poisoned),
– and the installation of Wenzong (r. 827–840).
This pattern established the precedent that eunuchs, via control of the Shence Armies and inner palace access, held de facto veto power over the throne—a constitutional rupture the Tang never recovered from.
“Dreams” as Political Instruments
- The Empress Dowager’s acceptance of Li Yi’s “mad utterances” as “imperial dreams” (xian di tuo meng) reflects a real Tang practice: dreams were considered legitimate channels of ancestral communication, especially from deceased emperors. By certifying Li Yi’s ravings as divinely inspired, the Empress Dowager grants them quasi-oracular status—making them actionable in court politics. This transforms private delusion into public prophecy, a loophole Li Ke seeks to exploit.
The Ethos of “Virtue as Liability”
- Prince Zhang’s fate—doomed not for wrongdoing but for “excessive virtue” (xian ming tai sheng)—illustrates a grim late-Tang political logic. In an environment where eunuchs monopolized force and emperors lacked will, moral clarity became dangerous. A prince who spoke truth, defended justice, or attracted popular acclaim was seen not as exemplary but as a threat to the fragile equilibrium of fear. Hence, “foolishness” wasn’t just survival—it was the only permissible form of loyalty.
Historical Irony of the “Yuanhe Restoration”
- Li Ke’s initial contempt—tracing “Yuanhe Restoration” while sneering at Xianzong’s failure—carries bitter irony. The Yuanhe era (806–820) did see temporary reassertion of central authority over rebellious provinces, but it was built on fragile alliances and eunuch-backed military campaigns. Its collapse after Xianzong’s death revealed its hollowness. Li Ke’s modern arrogance (“If I were there…”) is thus undercut by the novel’s deeper message: structural decay cannot be fixed by individual brilliance alone.
The Prisoner’s Gambit: Information as Leverage
- Li Ke’s strategy—to use future knowledge not to dictate action but to nudge interpretation (“Father said Wang Shoucheng will kill the emperor”)—reflects a sophisticated understanding of court epistemology. In a system where truth was mediated through ritual, dream, and rumor, a single well-placed “prophecy” could trigger cascading consequences without the speaker bearing direct blame. This mirrors real Tang political maneuvering, where ministers often used omens, portents, or ancestral “messages” to influence policy indirectly.