Aotang
The Great Tang... inherited the refined elegance of Wei and Jin, yet embraced the wild abandon of the northern tribes. It did not suffer the rigid pedantry of Confucian scholars, nor did it tolerate the unbridled dominance of noble clans. This was the best of times: a vast land stretching for thousands of miles like a painted scroll, the empire at peace and prosperity blossoming like brocade. Yet, it was also the cruelest of times: imperial power demanded blood sacrifices of fathers and brothers, desire blinded the bonds of kinship. Since Emperor Taizong, sons usurped fathers, brothers murdered brothers, fathers killed sons, sons betrayed their kin, wives plotted against husbands, ministers rebelled against their lords. In the realm of the Li Tang, it was as if haunted by nightmares, endless slaughter among kin. The succession of imperial power was like a hellhound devouring its own kind to survive. The legend of “Nine Dogs and One Mastiff,” which tells of the Tibetan people taming mastiffs, may be of dubious truth, yet it vividly mirrors this flourishing age of Tang. So, if a young pup, abandoned in swaddling clothes, cast out from the pack, were to survive and be tempered into a mastiff against all odds—how could he carve out his own destiny in defiance of the world?
Aotang
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Before the Tale Begins:
Longtime readers know that Cangshan’s stories are marked by wild flights of fancy and shameless fabrication; I am a storyteller, not a historian. And for the sake of writing with abandon and delight, the era in this tale is semi-fictionalized. Though I still employ real historical figures and, by and large, remain within the bounds of history, the story itself is anything but orthodox.
For convenience, certain historical figures and events may have altered timelines; both the internal and external circumstances of the Tang dynasty will also be partly invented.
Let this be stated clearly.
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Dear readers, let us now embark on a new journey together!
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Great Tang, Autumn of the first year of Shangyuan—a time of strange omens. (AD 674)
Even before dusk had fallen, the palace gates were already locked, the four gates barred, patrols strict and unyielding. Just now, Lady Helan of the State of Wei had died suddenly within the palace.
She was dead, yet the identity of her killer remained unresolved.
The Emperor was furious, swearing to punish the culprit and restore justice to Lady Helan. However, it was an open secret, both at court and among the people, that the Sacred Emperor favored Lady Helan. Had it not been for the Empress’s opposition, Helan’s long residence in the palace would have made her elevation to consort only natural.
Yet as the old saying goes: what’s lost is lost.
This mighty imperial city seemed indeed as inauspicious as the Empress c
