Tang Zhuan

Dream back to Chang’an: blood stains Xuanwu Gate, sorrow fills the depths of Taiji Palace. The words “the people are water, the ruler is a boat” still echo, yet foreign iron hooves once again break through the Jade Gate Pass. Even in his tomb, how could Li Shimin not rage at the suffering of his people, watching the Nine Provinces sink? My own chest is heavy with frustration—if only I could cross time, seize sun and moon, and overturn heaven and earth. So be it. As ghosts cry in the autumn rain, I take up a worn brush to extend the glory of the Great Tang, stripping away its shadows. In my Tang, there is no sorrow—only iron steeds and clashing blades, emperors who swallow sun and moon, bat...