Kaifeng, Dongjing — The Grand Ancestral Temple of the Song Dynasty
Within the imperial precincts of Kaifeng lay the majestic Grand Ancestral Temple of the Song Dynasty — an expanse of layered courtyards and stately pavilions, numbering in the hundreds. Save for the Imperial City itself, no other structure in Dongjing could rival its sheer scale and grandeur.
On this snow-laden day, the ancestral temple, veiled in drifting winds and white flurries, stood solemn and sacred, exuding an air of austere reverence.
Thousands of towering palace guards, the elite of the imperial bannermen, stood vigil both inside and out. Each was clad in his finest armor: iron-forged cuirasses polished to a mirror sheen, scarlet plumes swaying atop their helms, the cold gleam of their blades and rigid posture more imposing than any weapon they bore.
Inside the temple, music resounded in harmonious majesty — chimes, bells, and the resonant tones of courtly instruments carried through the city streets.
——Following the utter annihilation of the invading Jurchen forces, Emperor Zhao Huan's foremost thought was to make offering to his ancestors — to burn incense before the ancestral tablets, kneel in ritual obeisance, offer the heads of oxen, sheep, and swine, and in so doing, boast of his triumph in war, dispelling the ignominy and ill fortune that had dogged him since his ascension.
Thus did he finally doff the skintight "superman suit" that he had clung to day and night in recent weeks, donning instead the sacred ceremonial robes of the Son of Heaven — a black-and-red ensemble known as the Da Qiu Mian, adorned with the archaic twelve-beaded crown described in the Zhou Li as the "Crown of Twelve Pendants" — imperial regalia from the pre-Qin Warring States era, long obsolete in the Song court and resurrected only on occasions of solemn ancestral rites.
As court musicians played in stately rhythm, the emperor led the procession into the temple, trailed by imperial princes and descendants of the Zhao line. Ministers and officials followed in order of rank, passing through gate after gate, each one opening to reveal yet another layer of majesty. From the entrance, the distant Hall of Brightness — the Mingtang — stood half a mile away.
The Mingtang enshrined the spirit tablets of generations of emperors, while the ancestral lords and ministers honored in the temple were housed in the side chambers. This hall, lavishly rebuilt by the former emperor Zhao Ji (Huizong), stretched twelve zhang wide and rose more than six in height. With its double-eaved roofs and towering gables, its glazed yellow tiles shimmered in the pale light. Its gates, over two zhang high, were of thick beechwood painted crimson, adorned with polished brass studs that gleamed like gold.
The ceremonial music followed strict formality — twenty-four distinct compositions, no repetition permitted, the entire ritual spanning nearly half a day. Through this soaring, refined music, Emperor Zhao Huan passed through each successive portal until at last he stood before the great hall. Upon his dark outer robe and vermilion inner garment were embroidered twelve celestial emblems — sun, moon, stars, and more — symbols of heaven and earth borne upon his very body. With each measured step, the twelve strings of pearls upon his crown swayed gently, their motion restrained by the studied poise of imperial discipline.
The gates of the Mingtang stood wide, revealing the grandeur within. Upon the five-zhang long altar table stood seven tall tablets of fragrant sandalwood, engraved with the names of his forebears: Emperor Taizu Zhao Kuangyin, Emperor Taizong Zhao Guangyi, Emperor Zhenzong Zhao Heng, Emperor Renzong Zhao Zhen, Emperor Yingzong Zhao Shu, Emperor Shenzong Zhao Xu, and Emperor Zhezong Zhao Xu. As for the abdicated Huizong — now held under palace arrest — he was notably absent.
Standing at the threshold, Emperor Zhao Huan gazed upon the ancestral tablets, a thousand thoughts rising within him.
——Though only a year had passed since his ascension, it felt as though an age had turned.
Since the Jurchen invasion and the forced abdication of the previous emperor, scarcely more than a year had elapsed, and yet the emperor and his ministers felt as though they had endured a lifetime of suffering. The Central Plains, untouched by war for over a century, had been torn asunder; the Song's military strength, ground to dust in the maw of brutal conflict; millions of commoners left homeless, scattered, or slain.
In a single year, the Song people had endured a century's worth of calamity — and more.
Yet now, the nightmare seemed at last to have broken.
Though the hundreds of counties in Henan and Hebei remained devastated, though the Central Plains were still marred by ash and ruin, though Hebei and Hedong festered with bandits, and though Wanyan Xieye, the nominal supreme commander of the Jurchen southern expedition, still held sway in Yanjing with a formidable army — the complete destruction of the Jurchen main force before Kaifeng had irrevocably altered the tides of war.
——The Jurchens, born of the Wanyan clan, had begun as no more than a tribal force of two thousand men, with meager resources and few allies. Miraculously, they had risen in revolt against Liao and, within a decade, founded a sprawling empire. But their foundation was shallow, their cohesion fragile, upheld by nothing more than the myth of their invincibility: "Ten thousand Jurchens are invincible."
Now, with the core of their army annihilated, the gleaming façade of the Jin Empire teetered on the brink of collapse.
Of course, Zhao Huan lacked such clear strategic foresight. He only knew to offer thanks — to credit divine providence and ancestral blessing for preserving the Song.
——He approached the altar, knelt upon the earth, and performed the rites: three bows, nine kowtows. Rising, he read aloud a prayer composed by the scholars of the Hanlin Academy, then slowly burned the scroll over the altar flame. Ashes scattered, swept away by the winter wind.
Though vast swathes of the realm remained under foreign occupation, though the flames of war still raged beyond the horizon, the ancestral temple of the Song yet stood. The empire — fragile, battered — had survived.
And in the emperor's heart, he allowed himself, at last, a quiet breath of relief.
He had not shamed his ancestors.
…
While the "superman emperor" paused his court sessions to pay respects to his ancestors, his ministers had no such luxury of leisure.
The year's end was near, and snow once more blanketed the Central Plains. Though gentler than the previous month's blizzard, the snow fell upon snow, never melting, each flake another worry on the brow of Prime Minister He Su, whose hair had grown even whiter.
——To govern the realm in peacetime was never light work. To do so amidst the ruin of war was sheer torment.
With the fall of the Jurchen siege, Kaifeng's roads reopened. Yet before the officials could celebrate, a cascade of dire reports overwhelmed them. After months of war, the imperial treasury lay bare; food prices soared to the heavens; the people wailed in hunger. The Bian River, long frozen, blocked all shipments from the fertile south. Overland transport was a costly nightmare — a burden far beyond the Song court's means.
Though noble estates and merchant warehouses brimmed with grain, the court could not easily seize it. These powerful families had bet on prolonged war to inflate prices and now saw their hopes dashed. Their resentment simmered. Should He Su attempt to compel them to open their stores, they would rally the bureaucracy against him — perhaps even move to have him replaced.
To make matters worse, the resumption of roads brought waves of starving refugees into the capital. The countryside around Kaifeng, scorched by the "divine weapon" of Guo the Immortal, lay desolate; villages turned to ash; no crops, no livestock, not even vermin survived. From Luoyang to Zhengzhou and beyond, the land had been trampled into ruin. The northern provinces, ravaged time and again by war, fared even worse.
With no other hope, the desperate masses turned to Kaifeng, the feet of the emperor, praying for salvation.
But the capital itself teetered on the edge of famine. With so many new mouths to feed, chaos loomed. A single spark could ignite a riot. He Su's heart sank.
And then there were the so-called "righteous armies" — irregular bands roving across Hebei and Henan. Composed of deserters, destitute peasants, and ambitious landowners, they claimed the banner of justice, but acted as marauding brigands. In truth, they brought only suffering to an already broken land, and posed a grave threat to imperial authority.
Tradition dictated that such leaders be granted titles and folded into the official army — a policy proven over the last century. Yet such pacification required silver the court no longer possessed. Even the rites to Heaven at the southern altar had been canceled for want of funds.
——In ancient custom, the Son of Heaven was to sacrifice to the Lord Above at the southern altar on the winter solstice — a prayer for peace under heaven. But these ceremonies, with their lavish offerings and generous rewards, could cost millions. In practice, the Song held them only once every three years, if that.
Now that the capital had narrowly escaped ruin, Emperor Zhao Huan, who had never once offered such a rite since his enthronement, wished to do so in thanksgiving.
But with Kaifeng's granaries echoing with emptiness, such opulence was unthinkable. Prime Minister He Su and Qin Hui, with no other recourse, pleaded with the emperor to content himself with ancestral rites in the Grand Temple. Thus was a public extravagance transformed into a private austerity.
But even that solved little. Where would they find the grain, the silver, to relieve the starving, to rebuild the walls…?
Worse still, heavier than any ledger or report, was the dread that weighed upon every minister's heart.
He Su sighed, lifting his weary gaze from towering stacks of memoranda, staring north-eastward — toward Genyue, where the so-called "National Guardian," Guo the Immortal, now resided.
Once dismissed as fable, the arcane arts of Daoist immortals had revealed themselves in fire and fury. None in Kaifeng would forget the conflagration that soared to the sky and consumed the Jurchen host.
Thus, the Confucian scholars — men who prided themselves on reverence from a distance — found themselves cast adrift in awe and dread.
——An immortal descends, divine arts awakened, one strike to end a world…
In this epoch-shattering upheaval, was the appearance of such power a blessing — or a curse — for the storm-tossed Song?