A live-streamed Chinese language lesson under the sky—the ancients were taken aback.

As darkness fell, the sky, along with the bright moon, hung silently in the air.

"I understand," Du Fu replied softly to the sky.

Gao Shi stood to the side, gazing at the night sky, and said in a deep voice, "The heavens say An Lushan will raise his army in November, and it is autumn now... Eleven years from now, in autumn, we will have eleven years."

Upon suddenly learning of his fate, Li Bai simply took a sip of wine. In such chaotic times, there was no room for luck.

"Eleven years," Li Bai repeated, tilting his head back to finish the last sip of wine in his cup. "Eleven years is enough for me to write many poems, enough for Zimei to become his Poet Saint, and enough for us to do something different."

Du Fu turned around, his face bearing a complex expression, a mixture of sorrow and determination. "Yes, eleven years."

He paused, then glanced in the direction of Chang'an.

"The sky has laid out the future for us, so... we can't pretend we didn't see it."

"Let's go to Chang'an."

Meanwhile, in Luoyang.

Yan Zhenqing pushed open the door to his study and came out. His elder brother, Yan Gaoqing, was standing in the courtyard, his hands behind his back, gazing at the sky.

The two brothers looked at each other, neither of them speaking. Tianmu said that they would raise their flag behind the rebels, but he also said that their family would be slaughtered, and the city would fall and everyone would die.

Yan Gaoqing spoke first, "Aren't you scared?"

"I'm afraid." Yan Zhenqing said he was afraid, but his voice was very steady. "But even if I'm afraid, I have to do it. Tianmu said we did it, so we appeared on Tianmu."

He picked up a lantern, pushed open the courtyard gate, and the two of them walked into the night.

They were going to Chang'an.

Someone set off from Liangyuan and galloped towards Chang'an.

A man was walking along the official road in Luoyang, carrying a lantern and braving the night wind.

Someone pushed open the door of the side hall of the East Palace and bowed to the Crown Prince in the darkness.

But deep within the alleys and lanes of Chang'an, others are awakening.

Wang Zhongsi heard Tianmu's voice. Tianmu didn't mention him, but he had long been dissatisfied with An Lushan, and the result was as expected.

He was still the military governor of four garrisons at the moment, holding the most elite border troops of the Tang Dynasty in his hands, and he had to do something for the future of the Tang Dynasty.

Deep within the Prince's mansion, by candlelight, a scholar nearing forty was hunched over his desk, writing furiously.

His writings contained plans for re-measuring the land, investigating runaway households, and rebuilding the military system.

His name is Liu Yan, and the heavens have given him enough time to change his future destiny.

The road ahead is unknown, but we must still move forward.

-

744 AD, Chang'an.

The sky lit up and then went dark, lit up and then went dark again.

On the first day, the people of Chang'an wept.

Cries rose from all directions: old people cried for their sons, women cried for their husbands, and children cried for their fathers.

Some people collapsed to the ground, pounding the bluestone slabs and wailing; some clung to the pillars of the wall, trembling all over; some stood blankly in place, their lips moving as they murmured the names they heard in the sky: Li Linfu, Yang Guozhong, and An Lushan.

No one was speaking, yet it seemed as if everyone was speaking; the crying itself was a language.

The people waited the next day.

The shops in the East Market were open, but no one was doing business.

The camel caravan in the West Market was still parked by the roadside. The camels were chewing dry grass, and the camel driver was squatting in the corner, smoking and extinguishing a bag of tobacco.

Someone was walking around the neighborhood, going from house to house, and said in a low voice, "The person Tianmu was talking about is An Lushan, the military governor of Fanyang, who has 180,000 soldiers under his command."

The listener nodded, his face pale.

Someone else said, "Tianmu said the imperial guards only number 80,000, they can't win."

The listener stopped nodding and just clenched their fists.

On the third day, the people began to discuss it.

Someone pasted a piece of paper on the wall between the East Market and the West Market, with a few words written crookedly on it.

"Please dismiss the treacherous minister Li Linfu," and "Please execute An Lushan."

The paper was torn off by the Imperial Guards in less than half an hour, but it was torn off and pasted again, torn off and pasted again.

Day 4, Day 5, Day 6, Day 7.

No news came from the palace. The sounds of sheng and xiao (traditional Chinese wind instruments) continued to play on the Qinzhengben Tower as usual. The disciples of the Pear Garden performed new songs, and Yang Guifei's Rainbow Feather Dance was performed again and again.

A palace servant secretly spread the word that His Majesty had only uttered four words about the Heavenly Canopy at the banquet: "spreading heresies and misleading the public."

It is said that Li Linfu submitted a memorial in court, claiming that the Heavenly Curtain was "a sorcerer's illusion intended to shake the foundations of the nation," and His Majesty nodded in approval.

On the eighth day, the people of Chang'an finally understood something.

The emperor had no intention of doing anything.

Li Linfu is still the prime minister, Yang Guozhong will continue to wield immense power, An Lushan is still the military governor of Fanyang, soldiers are still being conscripted on the frontier, the Nanzhao Kingdom is still at war, the land is still being seized by powerful clans, and taxes are still being collected in full.

Despite Tianmu's many words, the emperor didn't listen to a single one.

On the morning of the ninth day, an old man stepped out of his house.

He lives in Yonglefang, his surname is Zhang, he is sixty-two years old this year, both of his sons died at the border, and he only has a thirteen-year-old grandson left.

He wore a brown coat covered in patches, leaned on a cane, and walked step by step toward Xingqing Palace.

Someone on the street asked him where he was going, and he said, "To demand an explanation."

Behind the old man came a second person, a third person, and a tenth person.

The old man selling sesame cakes put out his stove and followed; the sugar figurine vendor handed over his stall to the woman next door and followed; the man whose brother had died at the border followed.

The veteran, who had served as a soldier in Fanyang and later returned to Chang'an after his demobilization, put on his only unpatched garment and followed.

They emerged from different neighborhoods, forming a silent flow of people on Suzaku Avenue.

There was no one to organize it, no one to lead it, and no one to shout slogans.

They simply walked, passing through the East Market, Pingkang Ward, and Zhuque Gate, before stopping in the square in front of Xingqing Palace.

The Imperial Guards were already lined up in front of the palace gates.

A long spear lay across his body, shields pressed tightly together, and the general leading the troops sat on his horse, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his face ashen.

Behind him was the vermilion palace gate, studded with nine rows and nine columns of copper nails, which gleamed coldly in the morning light.

The people stopped in their tracks before the spears of the Imperial Guards.

More and more people gathered in the square in front of the palace gate.

Old Zhang from Yonglefang, military dependents from the East Market, camel caravan drivers from the West Market, and ordinary people from all the neighborhoods and streets.

They had no knives, no spears, no armor; all they held in their hands were the tools for daily life: a rolling pin, a carrying pole, and a fire poker.

Someone was holding the memorial tablet of their deceased son.

Someone held up a piece of coarse cloth with the words "Please execute An Lushan" written on it in soot from the bottom of a pot.

The Imperial Guards did not move, and a young soldier's hand holding the spear trembled.

He recognized a face in the crowd; it was Aunt Wang, the tofu seller next door.

Aunt Wang recognized him too and shouted at him, "Ergou! Your father also died in battle at the border! What are you doing standing over there!"

The young soldier named Er Gou moved his lips slightly, and the shaft of his spear sank an inch downwards.

The general leading the group frowned and drew his sword three inches from its sheath.

The blade flashed in the morning light, the light passing over the heads of the crowd and reaching the tallest building in the palace.

Inside the building, Li Longji stood behind the beaded curtain.

He saw the people in the square.

Looking down from above, the heads were densely packed, like a gray tide.

He heard their voices, though they were far away and he couldn't make out what they were shouting.

Li Longji's hands were behind his back, his knuckles clenched so tightly they turned white.

His face showed no remorse, no hesitation, and none of the reflection that the people expected.

There was only one thing on his face.

anger.

An emperor's anger after being offended.

"What are they trying to do!"

"I have reigned for thirty-three years, ushering in the prosperous Kaiyuan era. The rice they eat, the cloth they wear, the roads they walk on, the houses they live in—everything they have been provided by me. Now they kneel outside my palace gates, demanding the execution of my prime minister and the removal of my border generals. Do they even want me to abdicate?"

Gao Lishi knelt on the ground, his forehead pressed against the crack in the brickwork, not daring to lift it.

"Issue the decree." Li Longji turned around, no longer looking at the crowd outside the palace gate, as if those densely packed heads were just an insignificant scene.

"The Prefectural Government and the Imperial Guards shall immediately disperse the crowd gathered outside the palace gates. Anyone who insists on not dispersing..." He paused, his tone as calm as if he were discussing what to have for dinner, "...shall be punished for treason."

Gao Lishi's shoulders twitched, and he got up and walked out slowly, knowing what it meant for this decree to be sent out.

The Imperial Guards would draw their swords, the Imperial Army would fire arrows, and the common people holding memorial tablets in the square would be pierced by spears and trampled by horses' hooves.

He stopped abruptly as he reached the door, because he heard a voice.

The sound erupted from the direction of the square, as if it had been ignited by something.

A high-pitched, hoarse, teeth-gritting shout erupted simultaneously from the throats of thousands upon thousands of people.

At first, I couldn't make out what they were shouting; the words were overlapping and buzzing.

Then, the scattered shouts began to merge, to align, and to become a single sentence that everyone could hear clearly.

"We must live!"

When the first explosion occurred, Li Longji's eye twitched.

He was still standing there, his hands behind his back, but his fingers unconsciously tightened.

"We must live!"

The second sound was louder, more unified, and more resonant.

The people in the square stopped kneeling and all stood up.

Old Zhang stood at the front, leaning on his cane, his gray hair fluttering in the wind.

The people behind him—military families, peddlers, camel drivers, veterans, widows, orphans—all stood up.

There were no tears in their eyes anymore, only a fierce determination to advance instead of retreat after being cornered.

"We must live!"

The third bang made the copper nails on the palace gate tremble.

The imperial guards' warhorses trotted restlessly and snorted.

The young soldier named Er Gou put his spear back, took a step back, and then another step back.

The general leading the group glanced back at him, wanting to curse, but he opened his mouth and didn't say anything.

Because he saw several soldiers in the back row retreating.

Then Old Man Zhang from Yonglefang spoke up.

His voice wasn't loud, but because everyone had quieted down, everyone could hear him clearly.

"Your Majesty! Tianmu says An Lushan is going to rebel, that the Imperial Guards can't defeat him, and that many people will die! I only have one grandson left, he's thirteen this year, and I don't want him to die!" His voice was hoarse and urgent.

"We just want to live! Your Majesty, please dismiss Li Linfu and Yang Guozhong! Execute An Lushan! Conduct a thorough investigation of the land! Give us a way to survive!"

Old Zhang's voice began to tremble.

"Your Majesty says that Tianmu is spreading heretical rumors and misleading the people! Are the things Tianmu says true—that An Lushan has troops? That we, the common people, have lost our sons and husbands? Is it true that the rich feast while the poor freeze to death on the streets? Is it true that the borders are flowing with blood like the sea?!"

"It's true!" the people shouted in unison.

Old Zhang took a deep breath and then slammed his cane on the ground.

"I have lived for sixty-two years and have never had the thought of rebellion. I will not rebel today either, but I will say this here."

He raised his eyes, and a startling light began to shine in his cloudy old eyes.

"We must fight for our own survival. We believe what Tianmu says. We won't wait until the An Lushan Rebellion is eleven years away, as he said. We won't wait until the rebels enter Chang'an before we regret it. If His Majesty wants to change, we'll follow him. If His Majesty doesn't change..."

He didn't say the second half of the sentence.

But everyone heard the word he didn't say.

It's not a threat, it's not intimidation, it's just a fact.

A fact repeatedly proven by history is that when people have no way to survive, rebellion is not a question of whether to choose to rebel, but a question of sooner or later.

Is it okay to wait for death in the country of death?