Chapter One: A Fateful New Year's Day
Year 747 AD, the sixth year of the Tianbao era, New Year's Day.
In the previous year, Emperor Xuanzong, having dealt with the ministers associated with the Crown Prince, was now hosting a grand banquet for all the civil and military officials in the Daming Palace. Suddenly, he felt a wave of dizziness wash over him and lost consciousness.
“Oh no, His Majesty has fainted!”
No one knew which palace maid cried out in panic, but the once harmonious and joyful scene instantly erupted into chaos.
“Everyone, stay where you are! Listen to me! Chen Xuan! Chen Xuan! Order the Imperial Guards to seal off the hall—no one is to leave!” A high-ranking official, his face clean-shaven, shouted in command.
Immediately, squads of the Shence Army, clad in shining armor, appeared to restore order.
The past year had been a turbulent one for the Great Tang. It was in this year that Li Linfu accused Crown Prince Li Heng of plotting rebellion. Emperor Xuanzong, who had ascended the throne through intrigue and revolt, never hesitated in dealing with his sons’ ambitions. He had already executed three crown princes with his own hands, and Li Heng was his fourth.
This time, Xuanzong handled matters as before, implicating many ministers. Perhaps age had softened him, or perhaps he felt his strength waning, for he refrained from dealing with the Crown Prince himself—much to Li Linfu’s discontent, who, emboldened by imperial favor, would not rest until the prince was destroyed, fabricating evidence and slandering him before the emperor.
Yet the emperor neither affirmed nor denied these accusations, keeping everyone in suspense.
In truth, Xuanzong saw clearly enough—he was over sixty, with little time left. That the Crown Prince harbored ambitions was nothing new; such was the Li family’s tradition. No prince felt secure inheriting the throne unless his reputation was forged in martial glory. From Taizong to Xuanzong himself, which mighty emperor had not done so? Those who hadn’t were considered weaklings, scorned by elder statesmen and the old emperor himself. If you were truly audacious, even a woman could become emperor.
Xuanzong, already aged, no longer had the strength to balance the factions of court. If the Crown Prince could not command authority, there was no point in passing him the throne; worse, it could result in another Empress reigning. Women’s aspirations for the throne in Tang times were unprecedented, for they had examples to follow and the era was open enough to allow it.
Better to have the Crown Prince test his mettle while Xuanzong’s grip on power remained, than risk imperial authority slipping away.
If his son succeeded, so much the better; if he failed, he had only himself to blame.
This was likely Xuanzong’s mind, for history shows that even after Li Heng became emperor, Xuanzong could have crushed him the moment he wished. Yet he did not, choosing instead to live out his days as Retired Emperor for a decade. His intentions are not hard to divine.
Daming Palace, Emperor’s bedchamber, Hall of Singing Phoenix.
There, a stunning young woman, adorned in palace robes, sat by the great bed in sorrow; on the bed lay the Emperor Xuanzong, who had just fainted.
After a long while—
The emperor slowly regained consciousness, his eyelids fluttering. Through a sliver of light, he saw a bright chamber and the beautiful, slightly immodestly dressed woman.
“Where is this?”
“How did I get here?”
No sooner had Gao Buyi asked himself these existential questions than a splitting headache overwhelmed him, and he slipped once more into unconsciousness. Through the haze, he heard a melodious, anxious voice calling:
“Your Majesty!—”
“Your Majesty!—”
Two days passed in this way before Gao Buyi’s eyes fluttered open again. In truth, he had regained consciousness the day before, but the fragmented memories in his mind left him at a loss—especially when he realized he had transmigrated into the body of an old man, even if that old man was the legendary Emperor Xuanzong.
Wasn’t he just drinking with friends, boasting and joking? How did he suddenly end up here? Oh yes, he seemed to recall falling into an uncovered manhole while drunk on the way home. When he awoke, he found himself here.
At this thought, sadness overwhelmed him. He had once joked with friends, “If I could become fabulously wealthy, I’d give up thirty years of my life.” Now he had not only become the richest man in the world but ruled all under heaven; yet this decrepit body brought him no excitement at all. He would rather be young.
“I want to go back! Back to the 21st century of endless work! Back to my family!” Gao Buyi shouted inwardly, but reality would not bend to his will.
“Sigh!” After wrestling with his thoughts, Gao Buyi could only sigh and sit up, for his hunger had become unbearable—if he didn’t get up, he felt he would starve to death.
“Your Majesty, you’re awake!”
A delighted cry rang out and a fragrant breeze swept into his arms—he nearly toppled over as the beautiful woman flung herself at him.
He managed to push her away, his eyes burning as they fixed on a bowl of ginseng soup by the bed.
The beautiful woman, pushed aside, looked at him with grievance, tears glistening as she called, “Your Majesty!—” as if a blossom weeping rain.
But for the famished Gao, beauty could not compare to a bowl of hot soup. He drained the ginseng broth in one gulp.
The bowl was scarcely bigger than those used for tea in later times—hardly enough for his empty stomach.
“Another bowl!”
After a long wait with no response, he remembered he was in the imperial palace, not a restaurant. Glancing sheepishly at the stunned onlookers, Gao finally blushed.
A cough broke the awkward silence, and the attendants snapped to attention.
“Did you not hear? His Majesty wants more—bring it at once!” The young, voluptuous beauty who had nearly tackled him arched her brows, her tone imperious.
Gao Buyi recognized her from the jumbled memories in his mind—she was none other than Yang Guifei, the emperor’s beloved consort and one of the Four Beauties.
The attendants, frightened by her anger, hastily complied.
While Gao ate, Consort Yang sent word to the Ministry of Personnel, dismissing the officials who had been waiting anxiously. As evening had fallen, she assured them the emperor was well, and there was no need for further inquiry.
After eight bowls, Gao finally felt his stomach settle. With an empty bowl in hand, he gazed at the beauty before him, momentarily entranced. Small wonder Xuanzong had stolen her from his own son and, after doing so, had all but abandoned state affairs. This woman could indeed be described as flawless jade.
Perhaps embarrassed by his gaze, Yang turned away, offering him a dazzling, coquettish smile—the famed look that shamed all the beauties of the palace and could launch a thousand charms with a single glance.
The vast hall seemed to shimmer with ripples of allure.
Suddenly, Gao shivered, the spell broken. He glanced at his withered, skeletal arms and felt a wave of helplessness—this feeble body!
Yet the ginseng soup soon took effect, restoring some vigor. Gao stepped down from the bed.
“Is there a mirror?”
“Someone, bring a bronze mirror!” Not knowing his intent, Yang hurriedly gave the order.
“Bring ten mirrors,” Gao added sharply.
Soon, ten bronze mirrors were brought and arranged in a row. Gao, unimpressed, realized they were of little use.
Given the era, he sighed and said, “Bring a basin of water.”
“Quick, fetch water,” Yang instructed.
“A black basin,” he specified.
Yang was baffled by his request, but did as told.
When the water was brought in a black basin, Gao leaned over it, satisfied with the reflection. “Everyone out.”
“Leave, all of you!”
“You—you as well!” he said to Yang and the eunuch.
“Your Majesty—” she whimpered playfully.
But Gao cared only to examine his own body, not to savor feminine charms.
With a furrowed brow and fierce glare, he barked, “Hurry up!”
Yang, startled by his tone, left with a wounded look, feigning tears as she departed.
“Shut the door. Without my orders, no one comes in!”
At his words, the maids closed the doors.
As soon as they did, Gao stripped himself bare and nervously approached the basin.
In the water’s reflection appeared a white-haired, deeply wrinkled, gaunt old man—skin and bones. Though he had prepared himself, the sight still shocked him. He kicked over the basin in despair and collapsed to the floor, drained of all hope.
In that moment, he almost wanted to hang himself with a length of white silk and be done with it.
He sat there, dazed, memories swirling in his mind. The contrast between past and present overwhelmed him, and he alternated between laughter and tears. He remained there, unmoving, for a day and a night. Only Yang Guifei entered once, placed food beside him, and left quietly, not daring to disturb him.
At last, he accepted reality. However decrepit he was, he did not want to die.
He then pondered all he knew about Emperor Xuanzong, combining that knowledge with the emperor’s own fragmented memories. He set himself two small goals.
The first was to strengthen his body; the second, to prevent the An-Shi Rebellion.
With his mind made up, he dressed and called out, “Bring me crayfish and pork rib soup!”
Those waiting outside the palace doors, anxious for any sign of life, were overjoyed at his command. The emperor’s appetite meant he was alive; as long as he was not starving, they need not fear for their own lives.
After eating his fill, Gao finally began to explore the Daming Palace with curiosity—looking here, touching there. Once he had examined the hall, he moved outside.
Watching him emerge, Yang Guifei was speechless. What had become of the old man? After finally returning to normal, he hadn’t so much as laid a hand on her—a rare thing indeed.
Little did she know that, as a modern man from the twenty-first century, Gao was no stranger to fair skin, pretty faces, or long-legged beauties, even if he had never possessed one himself. The sight of Yang Guifei had only stunned him for a moment.
For him, the beauty of the Daming Palace—so often adorned with the flowery prose of later scholars—was more captivating than any woman.
He had once visited Chang’an in his own time, but could only imagine the palace’s grandeur from the stone bases of ancient columns. Now, standing within it, he could truly feel its majestic presence, lofty as if reaching the ninth heaven.
His first impression of the Daming Palace was its sheer grandeur.
The chamber where he had rested—the Hall of Singing Phoenix—was lush with trees, birdsong, and flowers, a perfect retreat. Yet he disliked it, for it was but a corner of the palace and offered no view of the whole.
Now, he stood by the marble balustrade of the Purple Hall, eyes closed in contemplation. After a long while, he murmured, “Change it—I must change where I sleep.”
Hearing his wish to move chambers, Yang Guifei, who had been trailing behind, could barely contain her shock. What had come over him? In recent years, his actions had grown more and more inexplicable—was it the decline of age?
“Your Majesty, didn’t you once say you disliked the Purple Hall? That it was too close to the Hanyuan and Xuanzheng Halls, but too far from the Inner Palace?”
Looking at Yang again, he felt no former amazement.
Though her height of 1.64 meters was above average, her voluptuous figure was not to his taste.
Moreover, since Yang had entered the palace in the twenty-eighth year of the Kaiyuan era until now—the sixth year of Tianbao—Xuanzong had spent most of his time indulging with her, neglecting state affairs and leaving power in Li Linfu’s hands.
Historical records show that this very year, in the sixth of Tianbao, the last pillar of the Tang—Wang Sizhong—would be framed by Li Linfu, and the forty-four-year-old An Lushan would become Yang Guifei’s adopted son, gaining control over Hedong. After that, no one could restrain the man.
Later, there would even be the infamous “third-wash ceremony”—the thought of it made Gao shudder. This woman was truly a piece of work; and what’s more, Yang Yuhuan was once the Crown Prince’s daughter-in-law. The very thought was enough to make his skin crawl.