Under the relentless barrage of verbal assaults from the Song people, the Jin army—battered by the thunderous roar of hundreds of thousands of voices—finally sounded the gong for retreat beneath the walls of Bianliang.
As the enemy withdrew, our own Master Guo Jing—known to the people as the Great Immortal Guo—basked in the fervent cheers of tens of thousands of soldiers and civilians alike, while still taking care to rally their spirits with words of steel:
"True, we must not underestimate the martial prowess of the Jurchens—but neither should we revere them. They, too, are but flesh and blood, born of mortal parents. What justifies the saying, 'Ten thousand Jurchens are invincible under heaven'? If fear takes root in your heart, the battle is already lost. Blade to blade, spear to spear—it is real skill that determines the victor. There is no man who cannot be slain; it is only a matter of how. Even the so-called Iron Cavalry of the Jurchens are not beyond your reach…"
Meanwhile, Wang Qiu, Doraemon, and Nobita Nobi were diligently tallying the spoils of war.
"…Only 200 reward points for altering the entire course of the battle at Bianliang's East Water Gate? That's absurdly stingy!"
Wang Qiu furrowed his brows, staring at the meager point total displayed in the Chronicles of Transmigration.
At this rate, how long would it take to scrape together the 50,000 points required just to meet the minimum threshold for departure?
Yet, paltry as the point reward may be, the monetary gain for these otherworldly travelers was rather substantial.
Having stuffed the automated pawnbroker full with a wealth of looted treasures—rosewood furniture, huanghuali window frames, nanmu beams, aromatic herbs, jade ornaments, imperial porcelain—Doraemon raked in a fresh sum of 70 million yen.
When added to the profits from dismantling the abbot's chamber at Tianqing Temple the day before, Doraemon's total earnings on his first day in the Northern Song world had reached a full 100 million yen!
Although still far from the astronomical debt of 300 billion yen, this windfall at least gave Doraemon a sliver of hope.
Before the trio could devise a plan to strip Bianliang bare of all valuable relics and scavenge a few more hundred billion yen, a breathless eunuch arrived bearing a summons from the emperor.
Naturally, it was Immortal Guo Jing who was granted an audience with the sovereign. Wang Qiu, Doraemon, and Nobita, as mere attendants, had to wait humbly in a side hall—truthfully, it was a mercy they weren't left shivering outside the palace gates.
Evening descended quickly. Apparently enjoying his conversation with the emperor, Guo Jing was invited to remain for the imperial banquet. Wang Qiu and company, however, were offered a humble "work meal" in a small, cluttered chamber that resembled a storage room more than a dining hall.
The fare consisted first of a cold appetizer—salted crabapples. Then came two meat and two vegetable dishes: steamed lamb, bone broth, sesame tofu skin, and faux-fried meat—actually pan-fried winter melon. The "sesame tofu skin" was a paste of mung bean flour and sesame sauce, congealed into a tofu-like consistency, yellowish with specks of sesame, resembling poultry skin—hence the name.
To Wang Qiu, a modern Chinese man, the Song dynasty cuisine was rather unpalatable. The difference between Northern Song fare and contemporary Chinese dishes was vast—especially the salted crabapples, which he poked at with clear reluctance, unable to stomach the coarse grains of salt.
This heavy salting—used even to accompany wine—was downright bewildering to modern tastes.
Conversely, Doraemon and Nobita relished their meal.
Though Japanese cuisine favors subtle, cool flavors, it's notoriously heavy on salt—even rice porridge and tea often come salted.
Some have claimed that "Chinese tradition lives on in Japan and Korea"—perhaps even their dietary habits?
Despite their lavish use of salt, salt itself was exceedingly expensive in the Song dynasty. A popular saying went, "The salt of Jiechi is whiter than snow; a single bushel costs ten thousand coins."
Thus, the use of copious salt in cooking was not merely a matter of taste—but a display of wealth. If possible, Wang Qiu thought, salt speculation might even be a viable path to riches… but in times of chaos, looting was simply more efficient.
As it was a "work meal," no wine was served—only a small barrel of a pale liquid known as "jiangshui." This fermented millet drink tasted somewhat like modern yogurt—sweet and slightly tart, believed to aid digestion and appetite.
Unfortunately, with the winter chill biting, cold beverages were ill-advised. Wang Qiu merely sipped two cups before giving up.
After enduring a dinner that barely suited his palate, night fell, and the three transmigrators sat around a single candle in silent boredom, waiting for Guo Jing to return from court—not to take them home, but to request help from Doraemon!
"…Alas, he inquired not of the suffering of the people, but of ghosts and gods," Guo Jing muttered grimly. "It is true, then: this Emperor Qinzong—the central figure of the Jingkang Catastrophe—is an utter fool."
In truth, Guo Jing had been shocked at first sight of the emperor. The man was gaunt beyond belief—his pallid face drained of color, cheekbones sharply protruding, voice raspy, gait unsteady. He looked less a sovereign than a drug-ravaged husk, or a man in the last stages of some wasting disease.
A whisper from a eunuch provided the answer:
"His Majesty has recently overindulged in cultivation and frequently consumes immortality pills. His body has grown gravely weak."
So it was—His Majesty, in pursuit of immortality, had poisoned himself with alchemical elixirs rich in mercury and lead.
Just like his father, Emperor Huizong, Zhao Huan, the current emperor, was deeply enamored with poetry, painting, and Daoist esoterica. Obsessed with longevity, he consumed pill after pill crafted by pseudo-scientific methods of the age, laden with heavy metals.
Once a healthy crown prince, he was now an emperor under siege by Jin invaders, his mind crushed by mounting nightmares.
In desperation, he turned to both elixirs and ancient Eastern remedies, even resorting to the legendary Five-Stone Powder—a potent, hallucinogenic drug from the Jin dynasty, akin to but far more costly than opium.
It was a miracle the emperor had not gone fully mad.
At the sight of this skeletal, manic sovereign, Guo Jing could not help but think of Downfall, the film about Hitler's final days in a Berlin bunker—deluded, doomed, and utterly detached from reality.
But what choice did the emperor have? His position was the very definition of peril.
Why do so many emperors chase immortality?
Because being emperor is not merely a privilege, but a job of constant peril. Few monarchs in Chinese history die peacefully in bed.
Power may make an emperor the freest man in the world—but also the most imprisoned, bound by the very authority he wields.
Even abdicated emperors, "retired" and stripped of power, often met tragic ends—especially at the hands of their own children.
Every emperor lives surrounded by calculating elites, scheming night and day. They must outwit their officials, their nobles, even their kin—always vigilant, never resting.
In truth, the world is enslaved to the emperor, but the emperor is enslaved to power.
The psychological toll is immense.
Hence, history abounds with rulers who slipped into paranoia, megalomania, or worse.
One emperor pretended to be a beggar. Another hunted rats. Some vanished from court for decades. One built toys. Another killed indiscriminately. All, in truth, were mentally unwell.
And in a world without therapists, spiritual figures—monks and Daoist priests—became the emperor's only hope for salvation.
Which is why so many "immortal masters" and "sorcerer monks" have meddled in court politics throughout the ages.
And so, Guo Jing, having imagined himself a military commander summoned to raise divine troops, found instead he had been cast in the role of imperial psychiatrist.
Summoned before the emperor, he found the man less concerned with war than with transcendence.
Incredulous, Guo Jing could only lament:
"The capital is under siege, and His Majesty seeks immortality from ghosts and gods?"
Indeed, these Song rulers were practically suicidal in their absurdity.
Luckily, Guo Jing had Doraemon—a being of far greater power than any Daoist sage.
"…Doraemon," Guo Jing pleaded, "you must help me. Is there any way to grant this heavy-metal-poisoned emperor his wish of becoming an immortal?"
Wang Qiu, without hesitation, followed Nobita's example and turned an imploring gaze toward the robot cat.
"…This is tricky…" Doraemon muttered. "The Anywhere Phone Booth could transfer him to another parallel world, but it won't function in this realm.
The Lie-into-Truth Mouthpiece could make him an immortal—but the preloaded templates are all old white-bearded sages. The emperor isn't even thirty—if he suddenly turned into a wizened elder, would that be salvation… or sudden death?
"Besides, the Mouthpiece only works for half a day at best…"
"I know it's a lot to ask," Wang Qiu said seriously, "but please, Doraemon—only a rich patron like the emperor can help pay off your 300 billion yen debt. We're counting on you!"
"…Let me think… hmm… Fine, we'll bluff our way through this," Doraemon sighed. After a moment of grim contemplation, he produced several gadgets.
"First, we'll use the Auto-Medical Kit to detoxify the emperor. Then we'll dress him in this Superman Suit—I couldn't find a proper immortal's robe from the future, but this'll do. It flies, at least…"
——
Thus, on the following morning, when the ministers and courtiers assembled for court, they were greeted with a scene of unspeakable absurdity:
A swarm of eunuchs and palace maids stood in the courtyard, necks craned upward in alarm, chattering and pointing skyward.
There, soaring above in a tight blue bodysuit, a fluttering red cape, and a pair of red underwear worn outside his clothes, was Emperor Zhao Huan—laughing with unhinged glee:
"Ha ha ha! I've ascended! I've become an immortal!"
Clearly, His Majesty had no intention of disguising himself to aid the people or defeat the enemy. Instead, he had unleashed chaos within the palace.
Unable to control his newfound powers, he accidentally reduced an entire hall to rubble.
As for the stunned ministers, faced with this indecently dressed "immortal emperor," their reactions—shock, fury, panic—are best left to the imagination.
Meanwhile, Guo Jing, Doraemon, and the other transmigrators were equally jubilant as they embarked upon a new mission: the systematic demolition—or rather, imperially sanctioned dismantling—of the Northern Song's royal gardens.