Chapter Twenty-Three: The Tale of the Wine Toast

Page (1/3)

A young scion of a prominent clan killed his eldest brother and his other siblings, forcing his father to cede the position of family head, thus seizing control of the entire household. Though he bore the notorious stigma of fratricide, he ultimately managed the clan with great order, and the family's influence steadily expanded.

As time passed, this young man began to age, and his own sons gradually grew up. He started grooming his eldest son, of whom he was very fond, slowly letting him take over family affairs.

With the guidance and support of the clan elders, the eldest son learned quickly and performed admirably. Barring any accident, it would be he who would inherit the family when his father eventually passed.

The storyteller spoke slowly, his demeanor calm. He cleared his throat before continuing.

“But another son, the one who had also killed his brothers, was not content. He, too, coveted the position of family head. With the help of his uncle, he began to sow discord between the father and the eldest son, and stirred up trouble among the brothers to undermine his elder sibling. As these conflicts accumulated and neared the breaking point he desired, he resolved to act.

The eldest son, feeling the growing estrangement from his father and recognizing his brother’s ruthless plots, underwent a profound inner transformation. Determined to emulate his father—but not through murder—he planned instead to confine his brothers under house arrest.

But on the very day he was to act, his brother learned of his intentions. It turned out that spies had long been planted by his side. Not only that, but his brother hurried to their father and falsely accused him of plotting parricide and usurpation.

Panic overtook the eldest son, for he had harbored no such intentions. Yet his father would not listen to his protestations. In his wrath, the father stripped him of his status as heir and expelled him from the family. Blood ties, however, held some sway: the father relocated him to a distant branch of the family far from the center of power.

The accusing son, delighted, was granted the position of heir. While his father lived, he concealed his true nature well, convincing the old man he had chosen rightly this time. Yet, in his father’s twilight years, an event occurred that overturned the father’s judgment entirely: the son became involved with the young concubine his father had taken in old age. By then, it was too late for the aged patriarch to remove his son from the position of heir, for two-thirds of the clan already supported him.

Nevertheless, the old man left a contingency. On his deathbed, he issued a decree for his eldest son to return and assume leadership of the family, sending his personal jade pendant as a token, along with a letter.

At this, the storyteller sighed deeply, as if mocking the folly and confusion of the aged patriarch.

Hearing this, the three listeners were utterly stunned—the plot seemed eerily familiar...

Page (2/3)

No, not merely familiar. Wasn’t that aged scion none other than the late Emperor Taizong?

At this realization, the three turned pale. For someone of the storyteller’s stature to veil such matters in allegory suggested the truth was far more complex than the histories recorded—implications of enormous gravity.

“And... what happened after that?” Li Fu asked.

“Afterwards...” the storyteller closed his eyes, silent for a long moment before continuing.

“That decree never reached the eldest son. The old patriarch sent his two most trusted servants to deliver the message; one was killed, the other vanished. All of this was orchestrated by the eventual heir. The old man did not die a natural death—he was murdered by his own son.”

At these words, shock no longer sufficed to describe the expressions of the three. If the old patriarch was indeed Taizong, then the founding emperor was not only a fratricide but also a patricide—a usurper.

“And that was not the end. The old patriarch never understood what consequences his acts of fratricide and murder would bring upon his clan. Not just his sons, but his grandsons, great-grandsons, and all his descendants—every succession in the family became stained with bloodshed...”

“And... what of the old patriarch’s eldest son?” Yang Zixu asked, thinking. If the old patriarch was Taizong, then the eldest son was the deposed crown prince. But the crown prince had died before Taizong, and was buried at Shangling.

“The eldest son was later killed by his brother, who even altered the genealogy to erase all record of him, including his death. In the family record, it was written: ‘The eldest son plotted rebellion, committed suicide out of fear, was despised by the clan, and buried among the weeds.’”

The storyteller shook his head and sneered, “Little did they know, years later, the survivor’s conduct would be even more shameful.”

“What happened to him?” asked Yang Zixu, changing to a more comfortable position, utterly engrossed as if this were no court secret but an exciting tale. His eyes shone with anticipation, entirely absorbed in the story, lacking only a plate of seeds to complete the scene.

Page (3/3)

The storyteller frowned slightly at Yang Zixu’s behavior but said nothing. He gestured for the grand tutor to remove the small ceremonial cup from the altar, then slowly opened the wine Li Fu had brought.

As the seal was broken, the scent of rice wafted through the ancestral temple. The storyteller poured a small bowl and held it before him. The three youths were puzzled—surely the storyteller did not mean to drink here, in the ancestral temple where the imperial ancestors were worshipped? Such an act would contravene the rites of Tang.

But he did not drink. Instead, turning his back to the others, he poured the wine over the offering table. The candle flames flickered as if alive, swaying in the direction of the ranks of ancestral tablets in the temple’s center.

Turning back, the storyteller gazed at the three kneeling youths. The dim candlelight cast deep grooves across his face, as though the wrinkles were carved in stone. His once-bright eyes were now clouded, like a fallen old man.

“Afterwards, that family head was murdered by his wife, who then took control of the clan. The irony is that his wife was the very concubine his father had taken in old age. Once in power, she began purging the elders who opposed her. The family split into two factions—her supporters, and those who opposed her, whom she either killed or exiled to the periphery. Of those who were not her children, few survived her reign—most died or went mad.

“Yet, during this period, an unexpected event occurred. Among her opponents, someone discovered that the old patriarch’s eldest son had living descendants, who possessed both the old man’s token and the letter he had sent before his death.” At this, the storyteller paused, his age and the length of his tale clearly weighing on him.

“What happened next?” Yang Zixu eventually asked in a hushed voice.

“What followed was carnage—the backbone of the family was washed in blood, whether they supported her or not. She was determined to erase every trace of the old patriarch. But no matter how thoroughly she purged, the seeds he had sown could never be utterly destroyed.”

The storyteller fell silent for a moment, then spoke again.