Prologue I, Zhu Qizhen

Prologue

I, Zhu Qizhen

A child of eight or nine years, dressed in white mourning clothes, curled up beneath a brocade quilt—a small, pitiable figure. His complexion was poor, tinged with fear. Beneath trembling eyelids, his eyes quivered ceaselessly. His lips moved with a faint, inaudible stammer, as if trying to speak yet unable, or perhaps simply unwilling.

Layer upon layer of curtains hung down, with bronze braziers outside, burning precious beast charcoal. This fuel not only burned steadily throughout the night but also produced no trace of smoke. In the corner stood several bronze incense burners, their patina betraying the passage of years since they left the forge. Yet their forms were exquisite, the bronze patina a rich, deep hue. Each stood on three legs, capped with lids inlaid with green gemstones, from which delicate threads of fragrance drifted, seemingly soothing one into sleep.

Beneath each burner was an inscription: "Made in the Xuande Era of the Great Ming."

"Who am I? Who is me?" A voice, soft as a mosquito's hum, issued from the child. In that moment, a tremendous transformation was unfolding within his mind.

Countless disjointed fragments surfaced in his memory.

"My son, come look at your father's champion," said a man in his thirties. He wore a robe of blue silk, luminous and smooth, every detail marking him as a man of status, though he looked the part of a learned scholar. Slightly rotund, his face was rounded, his long beard meticulously groomed. In his hand, he held a round porcelain vessel—something like a bowl, but flat-bottomed. Within, two thumb-sized crickets vied, their cries fierce, as if two martial artists locked in a life-or-death duel, each poised to strike.

"I" reached out and knocked the vessel to the ground. The two crickets, startled by the sudden disaster, leapt free from the broken shards. Without hesitation, "I" stomped a small foot down, crushing one cricket flat. Its song ended abruptly.

The surrounding eunuchs, witnessing this, were aghast and dropped to their knees.

The man's face changed, his lips twitching uncontrollably. "I" reached out again, wanting to be held.

"Good," the man sighed. "My son is resolute—a true general of the realm."

This fragment flashed by, and another scene unfolded.

In a bright classroom, several boys chatted. "I" leaned against a desk at the back, balancing the chair on one leg, rocking it back and forth as a classmate in front said, "Do you think Kangxi passed the throne to Yongzheng by adding a stroke to the edict, changing 'the fourteenth prince' to 'the fourth prince'?"

"That's just a rumor," another replied. "Kangxi chose Yongzheng because he favored Qianlong, his 'good grandson.'"

"I" couldn't help but interject, "The story has an earlier origin—it's from when Yongle passed the throne to Zhu Gaochi. Yongle didn't like Zhu Gaochi, who was quite fat, but he admired Zhu Gaochi's son, Zhu Zhanji, so he chose Zhu Gaochi."

"That was the original 'good grandson' story."

The classmate laughed. "Isn't that the cricket emperor?"

"I" sat up, putting the chair down, ready to respond, when someone called out, "The teacher's coming!" There was a scramble of chairs and desks. "I" immediately adopted a studious pose, falling silent.

That scene faded, and another swept in.

In the void, a vague consciousness wondered, "Is he Emperor Xuanzong Zhu Zhanji? One should not speak the imperial father's name lightly. Why call him Xuanzong? No—why do I call him father?"

"Father!" "I" called, stumbling forward, but at my height, the world was all table legs and chairs. Suddenly, a pair of hands gripped me under the arms, lifting me high into an embrace.

He had changed into a bright yellow robe adorned with coiled dragons, a tiny black cap of intricate weave on his head, though its material was hard to discern.

"Look, does father's painting please you?" he asked.

All around the room were paintings—mostly flowers and birds, meticulously rendered, as if they might leap from the paper. "I" reached out, grasping at random. He let me do as I pleased. Somehow, I found a brush already dipped in ink and, with a vigorous flick, spattered black drops everywhere.

"My painting!" he cried in dismay, handing me to the nurse. Several paintings were now irreparably stained. With a sigh, he waved his hand. "Take them and burn them."

"Yes," the little eunuchs replied, removing the ruined works. Suddenly, he said, "Wait." He spotted a peony painting with only a single ink blot. Seizing a brush, he deftly transformed the mark with a few strokes into a lively bee hovering above the flower.

Finally at ease, he turned and gathered me up again. "My son, you mustn't do that. You'll ruin all your father's paintings."

That scene faded, and another took its place.

The lighting was bright but not harsh, drawing all attention to the glass display case.

A warm hand held mine. "This is an authentic work by Emperor Xuanzong of Ming. It's rarely exhibited outside the U.S.—today is a rare chance to see it. People think artist-emperors were all incompetent, like the Southern Tang's last ruler or Emperor Huizong of Song, but they forget Emperor Xuanzong. His bird-and-flower paintings are masterpieces. In art history, his status is considerable. The Xuande incense burner, for example, was his creation."

I said, "He really knew how to have fun, didn't he?"

"Come on," the gentle hand flicked my ear, the voice scolding, "Can't you be serious just once?"

"Alright, alright," I whispered. "We're in a museum. Don't embarrass yourself. I know you're an art major and I don't get any of this, so when we meet your friends, I'd just make a fool of myself. How about this? You highlight the important points, I'll memorize them, okay?"

"Forget it." She let go of my ear. "We're not right for each other."

I hurried after her as she walked away, long hair flowing to her waist, slender figure retreating. "I'm sorry, baby, I was wrong. I'll change. I swear, I'll study every work by Emperor Xuanzong tomorrow!"

"Is this about Emperor Xuanzong?" her voice, tinged with anger, floated back.

"No, it's my fault."

Her voice grew faint, fading into nothingness.

Another scene emerged.

"I" seemed older; so did he. Wrinkles had gathered at the corners of his eyes. He cradled me on his knee and asked, "When you become emperor, can you bring peace to the world?"

"I can," I replied.

"And do you have the courage to lead armies into battle yourself?" he pressed.

"I do," I answered.

"Good, my true son," he exclaimed, delighted. He removed his black silk cap and set it on my head. It was far too big, sitting at a crooked angle. Standing, he waved his hand, and all the eunuchs and maids in attendance knelt and bowed to me.

A powerful emotion surged forth. The will that had watched everything with detachment was suddenly and irresistibly drawn in, a torrent of thoughts and memories swirling together, two lives rapidly intertwining like gears spinning faster and faster, locking together.

Who am I? The question rolled endlessly, the answer always on the verge of utterance, yet somehow veiled, just out of reach.

Sweat-soaked and restless, the child on the bed tossed and turned, then abruptly opened his eyes wide.

"I am Zhu Qizhen. I am Zhu Qizhen," he declared.

His breath came in rough gasps, filling the quiet chamber. This familiar yet strange scene left him momentarily at a loss for how to face the world.