Volume One: The World’s Gaze on the New East Chapter 8: The Dai Prefecture – Nightfall as the Stars Gradually Brighten

Zhao Congjian recalled the classic story of the “scientist in the turkey farm”: A flock of turkeys was fed at fixed times each day, and most of the superstitious and simple-minded birds believed this was a sign of divine care. Yet among them, some turkeys were not content with idle consumption; through persistent inquiry, they gradually formed the role of “turkey scientist.” These clever birds paid little heed to feasting, focusing instead on the mechanisms that dispensed their feed. Over time, these scientists finally broke through the fog of ignorance and proposed a grand law: feed would unfailingly be delivered into the communal quarters at six, twelve, and eighteen o’clock each day. Numerous derivative theories and as-yet-unverified conjectures soon followed, including important discoveries on the patterns of food and water distribution and their effects on turkey health. Thanks to these insights, nearly all turkeys thrived, and the flock, in gratitude, allowed the scientists first choice at the trough.

All was well until Thanksgiving arrived. Not a single turkey survived the catastrophe—not because their food was poisoned, but because they encountered slaughter machines beyond their wildest imagination. Even as the scientists hurried forward, eager to observe and formulate new theories, disaster struck. The scientists, the pride of their kind, were the first to perish, taking with them the crystallized wisdom of their race. The rest, leaderless and lost, fell in turn to the new machinery. Only a handful of opportunists, acting on instinct rather than reason, managed to escape, becoming short-lived pets in human households until they met their end in private kitchens. The luckiest of all was the one turkey released to freedom for no reason other than sheer fortune.

In times of uncertainty about the future, people almost invariably revert to the conservative habits they once resisted. Thus, the royal kinsmen’s best recourse was to frantically expand their own power, ensuring the ruling class’s stability through an aristocratic republic. As a token gesture, they would ladle out a few scraps of meat-laden broth to the accompanying outsider ministers, demonstrating the principle of a “public realm.” As for the outsider ministers? They naturally wished for the court, previously monopolized by Guo Kai’s faction, to be opened up and become a forum where mid-level officials and nobles could collectively express their views—a primary reason they were willing to come at all. No one wished to be a mere ornament; they too were loyal subjects pained by the state of governance. Seeing that the nobility of Han had remained largely unscathed after their kingdom’s fall and were now willing to take risks to rebuild, it was clear their motivation was not the mere prospect of soaring power.

Looking at the attitudes of the chief officials of Dai Prefecture, one could infer the sentiments of the local officers in Yanmen, Yunzhong, and Jiuyuan: “Open government, not monopoly; serve at court, not remain in the provinces.” They sought pragmatic and effective new policies that would secure both their own futures and social stability—at the very least, a means to guard against being overthrown by mobs if central power from Zhao waned. If necessary, they would even accept the stationing of Qin troops and surrender, for the threat of slaughter posed by the restless nomads was even more terrifying.

How was one to balance these three groups’ power and desires, while considering the unseen lives of the common people—and the underlying “civil-military rivalry” hinted at in Feng Yi’s words? Zhao Congjian found himself at a loss. To directly answer Feng Yi’s deeply felt grievances was beyond him. Moreover, in such a situation, there could be no further tolerance for glib sophistry or surface-level counterattacks: hastily conceived solutions were always but superficial remedies.

Just as his frustration grew, aggravating his need to relieve himself, the senior minister Yu Boyan, who deemed himself fit to mediate, spoke up: “Your Majesty, I find much of value in Prefect Feng Yi’s remarks. Yet reason has not been clarified, and fault lies in the lack of debate. I petition that all provincial governors be summoned to attend, and that ten days hence we reconvene! Meanwhile, let us muster troops from all provinces to jointly defend Dai, and preclude any threat of Qin incursion!”

Upon hearing that the meeting would expand into a triad of royal kin, outsider ministers, and provincial officers, the royal kinsmen grew restless and rebuked Yu Boyan outright, disregarding the unity they had shared in Handan.

Zhao Congjian, now thoroughly angry, resolved to “feed” these nitpicking royal wolves and shouted, “All ministers present in Handan, regardless of rank or age, are henceforth elevated to the rank of noble, as a testament to loyalty and devotion to the realm. Any and all past crimes are forgiven—save for treason, no one shall be stripped of title or executed! Heaven bears witness: violate this oath, and may the gods abandon us, our nation be destroyed, and our clan exterminated by the Qin!” Without further ado, he left his seat, signaled for Miao Fengnian to clear the way, and gestured urgently that he needed to relieve himself, not even acknowledging the standing Prefect.

Even then, an unyielding left-seat minister shouted that titles must be clarified before adjourning. Zhao Congjian’s patience snapped. “You want the throne? Go and issue orders yourself!” His sudden outburst stunned the assembly. The right-row ministers, who had just been delighted by the sweeping promises, instantly became the staunchest defenders of the new king’s interests. When Prince Zhi tried to forcibly detain the king, they protested angrily. Understanding at last that the throne was a burning hot potato, Zhao Congjian, backed by the right-row ministers, lifted his head, gathered his strength, and delivered a resounding slap to the pampered prince’s broad face, leaving him dazed on the spot.

That blow shattered Prince Zhi’s secret dreams of usurpation. Zhao had countless royal scions; many heirs of former kings had become commoners, laboring in the fields. In such a strict and ritual-bound era, to lay hands on the king was at the very least to lose one’s own.

Awakened to reality, Prince Zhi instantly recognized his predicament and fell to his knees. The royal kin, too, were as wilted cabbage, their disappointment plain to see. Prince Zhi, seated at the leftmost place of honor, was quick to sense the shift in the wind. Without a trace of mercy on his face, he drew his sword from the floor and brought it down toward Prince Zhi’s hands.

Zhao Congjian stopped him at once. “I have just pardoned all capital crimes. This is not to be treated as treason—no punishment is to be meted out.”

The mood shifted. Prince Zhi was the first to kneel, weeping with gratitude for the king’s mercy, while the right-row ministers forced the other royal kin and Dai officials to kneel as well, hailing the king’s wisdom. Overwhelmed by the turn of events, Prince Zhi collapsed in a faint. Witnessing this, Miao Fengnian sneered inwardly, quietly resolving that from this day forward, he belonged wholly to the king.

Outside, the sky was pure and clear, and the sun had begun its western descent, its rays mingling with the auspicious clouds atop distant peaks—a vast and stirring scene unique to the borderlands. Before order is forged, chaos is inescapable. To those who come after, it may seem grand, but to those living it, it is nothing short of harrowing. The debates of rank and station were now, for today, laid to rest.

Twelve bright new stars rose above the central basin of Dai, reaching towards the low-hanging sky beyond the frontier. In time, their light would shine over every man, woman, and child on the northern rim of Chinese civilization. What new history would be carved out under these modern stars, refracting with the brilliance of a different age?

At the door, catching only a glimpse of the eunuch chief, this palace officer brought the unofficial conclusion to the day’s council: “It’s finished—disperse for now. We’ll reconvene tomorrow.” Each present nursed their own feelings—resentful or contented—but such was the way of monarchy. Compared to the days when King Qian was hoodwinked by Guo Kai, Lord Chunping, and the palace eunuchs, things were tenfold better now. At least the king could be spoken to directly, and all possibilities remained open; all was still in time.

As for Zhao Congjian, who felt he may have gone too far, his hand trembled a little. Who could have foreseen the true nature of power? The visible arises from the invisible, and the source of the invisible is unfathomable. Yet today, a modern man had wielded these forces with consummate skill.

To wield authority and bestow favor—when done smoothly, it was indeed exhilarating.

He decided, even as his bladder threatened to burst, to hold on a moment longer and returned to the main hall’s entrance, leaving behind a phrase that would shape the fate of the Dai officials: “Prefect Feng Yi has shown remarkable judgment. From this day forth, he is promoted to Governor; the current governor will receive new orders tomorrow and will be reassigned to an important post!”

Thus, the first devolution conference of the Zhao exiled court, convened in the prefectural seat of Dai, drew to a close in a forced calm.