CG Chapter 129: The Fall of Han
A few days after the empire walls had fallen and the imperial palace had been breached, dusk came early to the capital.
Unfortunately, that night, it did not arrive in silence.
Clang!
The metallic cry of gongs echoed through the blood-soaked streets.
The wind carried with it the wail of flutes, the pounding of Dagu drums, and the maddening chants of monks with blood-covered foreheads.
They had not come simply to pray.
Rusty bronze bells rang as they struck them against their own skulls, again and again, until skin broke and blood poured. They did not flinch, nor did they stop.
Together, they created a high-pitched sound that, in any other setting, would've sounded horrible.
But in this moment, and on this day, that ugly, grating sound rang like a heavenly melody to those who gathered there.
The monks of the Silent Heart Monastery began to chant and cry wildly as they recited the Rebirth Mantra.
Only, they didn't recite it the way it should be done. Instead, they were reciting it backwards.
By reversing the heavenly order, they had turned the sacred mantra into something vile. As death and doom took the place of the blessings, the warmth of heaven curdled, becoming the searing breath of hell itself.
As they started to chant, some thought they could hear the sound of hungry ghosts wailing in joy as the gates of the underworld closed in the face of these people, leaving them with nowhere to go.
"O enlightened one above,
Guide these weak and feeble souls to your pure land.
Open the four graves,
Close the three gates,
May their souls never attain your divine wisdom."
The mantra's words twisted the heavens' laws.
Curses fell, and eternal condemnation came.
And beneath those chants, a sea of peasants surged around the great execution platform. Their cheers tore through the air like wild beasts, hungry and crazed.
Some clapped.
Some laughed.
Others howled like madmen.
But in the ocean of joy, a single figure stood, looking like he was about to be blown away by the wind. The small boy used his teeth to bite on the hemp of his robes to stop himself from screaming in front of the scene he was witnessing.
Yet even that could not stop the flood of tears and snot on his tiny and fragile face.
However, none seemed to notice his feeble existence as their eyes solely focused on the stage.
Hundreds of people stood bound to the rough stone poles, naked with their clothes torn open, their bodies torn by whips, and their skin peeling under dull knives.
The executioner's blade spared neither men nor women.
Neither the young nor the old.
All received the same treatment, one that was normally reserved for the vilest of criminals and the lowest of the scum.
But to the one who had ordered this execution, their crimes were far worse than murder or rape. These people had committed the gravest sin of all.
They bore the name Han.
And for that, death was far too merciful.
Only Lingchi, slow and painful death by a thousand cuts, could even begin to satisfy his hatred.
And the hatred he carried was something only he understood.
The executioner's blade sang its song, and each swing met with a cheer. But the one who ordered all of this remained silent.
At the heart of it all, kneeling on the stone ground with his knees wounded and blood flowing from the friction and heat of the stone, was a man with loose black hair falling over his face and long beard.
A thick wooden collar bound his neck, forcing his head upright, forcing him to watch everything.
Every blade, every cut, every cry.
Instead of screaming or crying, the man remained silent.
He watched as his family was tortured.
He heard their screams but said nothing.
He saw their tears but refused to close his eyes.
He endured it all in silence, eyes wide open, unwilling to look away for even a single second.
And not even did he shed a tear.
Not when his proud sons screamed, or when the heads of his young daughters were shattered, or when his wives begged for forgiveness.
He watched them all die, one by one, without blinking, without flinching, without shedding a tear.
The pain and suffering even made some of the people look away, but as the others cheered, their minds began to shift.
Maybe they all deserved it? What about the kids? Even if they are sinners of Han, if they didn't sin now then they would in the future.
And as time went on, they would slowly convince themselves that even the children were but demons and they were the righteous ones for slaying demons and bringing justice.
Tick-tock!
Tick-tock!
…
Time moved.
The sun bled into the horizon. Shadows stretched. The wails softened into dying whispers.
One by one, the members of the glorious dynasty that lasted for nearly 600 years all returned to dust.
Only when the last member of the imperial family drew their final breath did the crowd's gaze return to the man who remained.
He had watched his oldest son die.
His wives. His daughters. His youngest children.
All gone.
But still, he knelt, his eyes exhausted, his body unmoving.
Meanwhile, the young prince in the crowd struggled as he watched the same scene.
He did not understand how the man who had once played with him when he was young and even taught him the way of the sword now turned that sharp sword of his against them.
He remembered the laughter, the kind smiles, and the stories that the general would tell him every time he returned from the battlefield.
Internally, he had just one question come to his mind,
"Why?"
The pain the young prince felt might have been even greater than that of the emperor, as he did not simply see the general as a servant, but a teacher and somewhat of an older brother.