Li Shimin faked his death? Then I will be powerful enough to conquer the world!

Looking back at Luoyang in the first year of the Long Years, the air of autumn had permeated every inch of the palace walls. When the rain stopped, water droplets still clung to the glazed tiles of the Wanxiang Temple. The setting sun, streaming through the clouds, transformed the water droplets into scattered golden fragments, which slowly rolled down the curved eaves and left dark marks on the bluestone slabs.

Di Renjie sat in a wheelchair, his fingertips unconsciously stroking the carvings on the edge of the armrest.

Today, the grain of the wood has been worn smooth by time, but one can still feel the grooves hidden deep inside, which look very much like the path he has walked in his life.

Li Yuanfang pushed the wheelchair across the Danbi. The sound of his footsteps was particularly clear in front of the empty palace gate, startling a few gray pigeons perched under the eaves. The flapping sound of their wings broke the tranquility of the sunset.

"Di Gong, the wind is cold, let's go home early."

There was a barely perceptible tremor in Li Yuanfang's voice.

He had followed Di Renjie for fifty-four years, until now he was the General of the Guards. He had seen the old man's sharp debates in the court, and his concentration in investigating cases in the prison all night long, but he had never seen him look so haggard.

Just now in the side hall of the Vientiane Temple, when Wu Zetian held Di Gong's hand and said, "I hope you are well, old king," he clearly saw that the hand that had signed countless decrees could hardly hold a teacup.

Di Renjie hummed softly, and the cough came back again.

This time it was more urgent than usual, as if he was going to cough out his lungs.

Li Yuanfang hurriedly took out a handkerchief to receive it. His Adam's apple rolled a few times and he swallowed back the words that were on the tip of his tongue. He just squatted down and straightened Di Gong's clothes that were messed up by the wind.

"Why are you crying?" Di Renjie took a deep breath and patted his shoulder.

Countless times, these hands had passed him a dagger when he was in danger, pointed him to the truth when he was confused. But now, they were as light as a feather. "A man's life is short, and the grass and trees have only one autumn. I have lived for seventy-one years. I have seen enough prosperity and protected the people. I have had enough."

The wheelchair rolled over the bluestone slabs of Luoyang Tianjie. The shops on both sides had already started to board up, the vendor selling Hu Bing was tidying up the charcoal stove, and the sign of the wine shop was swaying in the wind.

Di Renjie looked at the old locust tree at the corner of the street. The trunk still bore the marks he and Su Wuming had carved together. Back then, Su Wuming was still a young boy, chasing after him with files, asking him questions and even repeatedly reminding him how to stand during court sessions.

Now the child can stand on his own feet. A few days ago, he handed over a file in which he solved the theft case of the Persian caravan in the West Market. The sharpness between the lines of his writing was somewhat like that of himself when he was young.

"Yuan Fang, what do you think Wuming is doing now?" Di Renjie suddenly asked.

"He's probably still in his study," Li Yuanfang replied. "When I left this morning, I saw old files from the Longyou Circuit piled on his desk. He said he was investigating a corruption case involving military farms from ten years ago."

Di Renjie smiled, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes becoming furrows: "This kid always likes to bite the bullet."

"There will be no fewer twists and turns than me in the future."

He looked in the direction of Di Mansion. Dusk had already spread over Dingding Gate, and the familiar eaves were faintly visible in the mist.

He finally reached the end of this road.

From adjudicating cases in the Dali Temple during the Yifeng period, to speaking out against cruel officials during the Chuigong period, to turning the tide and persuading the crown prince to return during the Shengli period, every step he took was on the edge of a knife, but he also paved a path for the Tang Dynasty to continue on.

He remembered that when he was in prison, Lai Junchen's minions held a red-hot iron in front of him. He stared at the fire and said, "In the Great Zhou Revolution, all things are new. I, the old ministers of the Tang Dynasty, am willing to be killed." What he was thinking about was not his own life, but the "Tang" flag on the top of Luoyang City, and whether it would ever fly again.

The autumn wind blew the fallen leaves across my clothes, and in the rustling sound, I seemed to hear the voices of countless people.

There were the sobs of wronged souls at their desks, the arguments of colleagues in the court, the reports of victory from the border, and the cries of the common people in the marketplace. These sounds lingered around him like a silent elegy, singing from the Vermillion Bird Street where he first entered Chang'an as a teenager to the twilight of Luoyang City at this moment.

When he returned to Di's house, Su Wuming was standing in front of the steps waiting.

The young man was wearing a half-worn blue cloth robe and holding a copy of "Tang Law Commentary" in his hand. When he saw the wheelchair coming, he hurried forward to help, but his fingers retracted when they touched Di Gong's sleeve.

Di Renjie saw this and suddenly asked, "Wuming, do you remember what your master said to you?"

Su Wuming was stunned for a moment, then he straightened his back and said in a clear voice: "Speak for the dead and for the rights of the living."

That was three years ago. They were examining the body of an old soldier in Jingzhao Prefecture who was falsely accused of collaborating with the enemy. The deceased's throat bones were broken, and it was obvious that someone had strangled his throat and forced him to drink poison.

Su Wuming looked at the old soldier's curled fingers, his eyes red as if blood was about to drip. It was at that time that Di Renjie pressed his shoulder and said these words word by word.

Listening to the young man's voice now, there is less resentment than before, and more of a heavy determination.

Di Renjie nodded, moved his eyes away from his face, and looked towards the west wing.

"Master is going to sleep, go and close the door for me."

Su Wuming paused. He was young and couldn't fathom the intricacies of officialdom, but he could see the weariness in his mentor's eyes.

In the past, when his mentor took a nap, he would always ask him to move the files on the desk to the window, saying that the words would be clearer under the sunlight. But today, he didn't even have the energy to take another look at the files.

The young man bit his lower lip and finally responded in a low voice: "Master, Wuming will close the door for you."

The wooden door creaked shut, shutting out the twilight and human voices outside.

The only scent left in the room was the aroma of medicine and old wood. Di Renjie leaned back against the soft pillow and closed his eyes. His consciousness seemed to sink into warm water, and all the memories that had been suppressed by busyness and illness suddenly surfaced.

He recalled the first time he stepped into the Taiji Hall in the eleventh year of Qianwu.

He was only sixteen years old that year, wearing a washed-out robe, standing behind the palace pillar, watching Li Chengqian sitting on the dragon throne, holding a copy of "Han Shu" in his hand, and saying to the ministers standing by, "The people are the water, and the king is the boat."

Sunlight filtered through the caisson on the ceiling of the hall, illuminating His Majesty's approachable smiling face and the court robes of the civil and military officials on the steps. The red, purple, and green colors resembled a surging tide of flowers.

At that time, Emperor Qianwu stopped him after court was dismissed, patted him on the back and said, "This kid has sharp eyes and is a good judge. Go to the cabinet and learn from him."

At that time, the cabinet was located in the side courtyard of the Purple Palace, where there were two pomegranate trees.

He and Chen Fusheng always recited their books under the tree, one reading "Tang Code" and the other reading "The Art of War". Occasionally, they would look up and see pomegranate flowers fallen on the other's desk, and they would pick them up with a smile and put them between the pages of their books.

Chen Fusheng was the youngest disciple of Emperor Qianwu, two years younger than him, but he always liked to call him "Brother Di" with a stern face, saying that in the future they would work together in the Taiji Hall to support the Tang Dynasty for His Majesty.

Those two pomegranate trees should still be there, right? But the cabinet is long gone. The young men who used to recite the texts under the trees together have become an old man, Di Gong, and an envoy to Nanjing. I'm afraid I'll never see them again in this lifetime.

He remembered that last winter, a postman brought a letter saying that Chen Fu was too sick to get out of bed. The handwriting in the letter was crooked, but the letter still asked, "Is the snow heavy in Luoyang? Is Brother Huaiying's leg disease better?"

At that time, he held the letter and sat by the charcoal brazier all night. It was not until the morning light illuminated the letter that he realized that his tears had blurred the three words "Brother Huaiying".

The door suddenly creaked, as if someone had pushed it open a crack.

Di Renjie thought it was Li Yuanfang who came to deliver medicine again, and said in a daze: "Yuanfang, you are here."

No one answered. Only a soft "Huaiying" sounded like a feather landing on his heart, causing him to suddenly open his eyes.

The man standing before him, dressed in a pale purple robe, his hair and beard all white, stood tall and straight. Those eyes, having seen the bright moons of the Zhenguan era and the frost of the Qianwu era, now gazed at him with the same gentleness they had shown him fifty years ago under the pomegranate tree when they had seen him misreciting the Tang Code.

"Qi, Grand Tutor Qi..." Di Renjie's voice was trembling. He wanted to stand up, but found that he didn't even have the strength to lift his hands. He could only clench the quilt tightly with his fingers, like a teenager meeting his teacher for the first time, his knuckles turning white.

At this moment, the old man was standing there, smiling and nodding: "Huaiying, well done."

Outside the window, the sky darkened completely. The sound of the night watchman's drum from Luoyang City drifted in the distance, beating again and again in the silent twilight. Di Renjie looked at Master Qi's face and suddenly felt an incomparable peace in his heart.

All those unspoken regrets and unfinished tasks seem to have found a home in the phrase "well done".

He recalled that when he was young, he always asked Master Qi what a loyal minister was. Master Qi said that it was not shouting "Long live the king" in the palace, but standing up and speaking out when the people were crying.

When the country is in turmoil, we dare to stand tall.

He didn't understand it at that time, until he later rescued the wronged people at the execution ground and insisted on making Li Xian the crown prince in the court despite Wu Zetian's angry glare, only then did he realize that the weight on his shoulders was much heavier than the purple gold jade belt.

"Grand Master..." He wanted to say something, but his throat seemed to be blocked.

Master Qi simply smiled and turned to walk towards the door. The hem of his purple robe brushed the threshold, stirring up a gust of wind that made the candlelight sway gently.

Di Renjie looked at the figure from behind and suddenly remembered that fifty years ago, on a similar autumn day, the Grand Tutor had taken him by the hand and walked out of the inner chamber, pointing in the direction of the Taiji Hall and saying, "Look at that palace wall. It looks high, but it was actually built with the trust of the people."

"One day in the future, you will also make a brick like this."

It turns out that he really did it.

The candle flame crackled and finally went out.

The room was plunged into darkness, with only the moonlight outside the window pouring in through the window lattice, forming a thin layer of silver frost on the ground.

In September of the first year of the Jiu Shi reign, Di Renjie died of old age.

When the news reached the Vientiane Temple, Wu Zhao was looking at a map.

She paused holding the thumbtack for a long moment before saying, "Send the edict appointing the crown prince tomorrow."

The ministers standing in the hall lowered their heads and heard a barely perceptible tremor in His Majesty's voice.

Li Yuanfang was in the courtyard of Di Mansion, looking at the pomegranate tree in front of him.

The tree was moved from Chang'an last year. It was said that Chen Fusheng had someone send it there. Now there are still a few green and yellow fruits hanging on the branches.

He remembered what Di Gong always said: pomegranates have many seeds, just like the people of the Tang Dynasty. They are passed down from generation to generation, and there is always hope for endless life.

Su Wuming was sorting through files in his study when he came across the letter from Lu Lingfeng asking him to become his disciple. Suddenly, he noticed a small note from Di Gong on the back of the page: "This boy is too sharp and needs to be polished, but his heart is set on the right path and he can be of great use."

The autumn wind in Luoyang City is still blowing, rolling the fallen leaves through the streets, through the palace walls, and through ordinary alleys.

Some people say that the wind contains the voice of Di Gong, telling everyone who comes home late to "go home early."

Some people also said that he was just asleep, and by next spring, he would still be sitting in a wheelchair, looking at the flowers all over the city and listening to the laughter of the people.