The ambitious populist literature initiative drafted by Zhuge Liang and his colleagues was, honestly speaking, not a particularly urgent matter.
Compared to military reforms, farming, taxes, and the small issue of reunifying a fractured empire, historical storytelling ranked pretty low on the to-do list.
So after a brief chat, everyone agreed to leave it for later.
The project itself wasn't hard. The biographies of famous Han generals like Wei Qing and Huo Qubing already existed. Plenty of material. In fact, there was so much documentation that future historians would probably spend centuries arguing over details nobody else cared about.
Paper was cheap. Ink was affordable. The Shu treasury wasn't exactly overflowing, but it wasn't going to collapse because someone wanted to publish a few stories.
The real problem was talent.
Or more specifically, the wrong kind of talent.
Nobody doubted Zhuge Liang's knowledge. If the Chancellor suddenly decided to give a three-hour lecture on military logistics, half the audience might actually learn something important.
The other half? They'd be asleep.
Knowledge and entertainment are related. Unfortunately, they're not the same thing.
Pang Tong was another example. The man could analyze a military campaign from ten different angles before most people finished reading the title. Impressive. But not necessarily useful when trying to entertain a bunch of farmers drinking cheap wine after sunset.
Same problem with Zhang Song. And Liu Ba. And most government officials, really.
Excellent scholars. Not professional storytellers.
Turning historical records into something ordinary people actually wanted to listen to required a completely different skill set.
A good storyteller knew how to build suspense. A great storyteller knew how to make an audience forget they had work tomorrow. The truly terrifying ones could probably convince listeners that a routine supply convoy was the most exciting event in human history.
Those people existed. They just weren't employed by the government.
At least, not yet.
As the meeting drew to a close, Pang Tong leaned back in his chair and looked at Zhuge Liang with a strange smile.
"Putting politics aside for a moment, Kongming, answer me honestly. Do you actually know any Daoist magic?"
Several people immediately looked over. Even Liu Bei seemed interested in the answer.
Zhuge Liang met Pang Tong's gaze and fell silent for a moment. His expression looked very much like that of a physician discovering that a patient had somehow become even stupider since the last visit.
"If I truly possessed the ability to command ghosts and gods," Zhuge Liang finally said, "then I would've summoned lightning to strike Cao Cao years ago. Make him extra crispy. Why would I still be sorting through tax reports?"
Laughter broke out.
Zhuge Liang ignored them.
"If I could command the winds, every campaign would end before sunset. If I could talk to immortals, I wouldn't be here worrying about transportation and wrecking my mental health."
Pang Tong stared at him for a second.
Then he laughed.
"Okay. Okay. Fair point. I walked right into that one."
Liu Bei nearly spilled his tea from laughing.
"Exactly. If Kongming really possessed supernatural powers, the first thing he would eliminate wouldn't be Cao Cao. It would be paperwork."
This time, even Zhuge Liang laughed.
After the laughter died down, he shook his head.
"Besides, compared to what future generations can do with actual science, most Daoist magic seems pretty unimpressive, don't you think?"
That got everyone's attention.
Of all the things the Light Screen had shown, modern science fascinated Zhuge Liang the most. In his view, the future's methods were far more reliable than old myths about summoning winds or performing rituals to live longer.
What made it extraordinary? It didn't need destiny, heavenly favor, or secret family techniques. If a principle was right, anyone could test it. If a method worked, anyone could reproduce it. Didn't matter who you were.
To Zhuge Liang, that was far more impressive than any miracle.
Liu Bei nodded.
"No Daoist priest can summon Dongfeng, the eastern wind, whenever he wants. But future generations?" He smiled. "They built Dongfeng too. Except theirs isn't wind. It's a weapon. The kind that can reshape entire battlefields."
He looked at Zhuge Liang.
"You borrowed the wind, Kongming. They became the wind."
Fortunately, Zhuge Liang had never been the type to dwell on intimidation for very long.
"If a single military commander can change the course of history," he said, bringing everyone's attention back, "then an entire generation can do the same."
Pang Tong immediately understood.
They didn't need to compare themselves to the modern world. Didn't need to compare themselves to the Tang either. First goal was simpler. Build a state stronger than the Western Jin after unifying the realm.
Honestly? That wasn't particularly hard.
One of the Jin's most important architects was currently alive, thoroughly documented by history, and sitting right inside their strategic calculations.
The thought crossed Pang Tong's mind for a moment.
Then he dismissed it.
Nah. Punishing someone for something they hadn't done yet? That went against everything Liu Bei's government stood for. If the Shu Han started executing people based on future possibilities, the line between lawful rule and tyranny would disappear pretty fast.
Besides, Pang Tong suspected that if they adopted that standard, half the empire would be under investigation by the end of the year.
[Lightscreen]
[If military history had a category called "people blessed by fate," Li Jing would be one of the strongest candidates for first place.
Looking back on his life, it is difficult not to feel that history showed him a remarkable amount of favor.
He started as a relatively obscure official under the Sui Dynasty, rose to become the Duke of Wei, and secured a place among the greatest commanders in Chinese history. Somehow, he also managed to avoid nearly every disaster that usually brought famous generals to ruin.
At first glance, his background does not seem particularly extraordinary.
He was born into a military family and happened to be the nephew of the famous general Han Qinhu. That certainly gave him advantages, but Chinese history is full of relatives of powerful figures who accomplished very little. A famous uncle might open the door, but it cannot walk the path for you.
What made Li Jing remarkable was everything that followed.
Over several decades, he built a reputation that placed him alongside legendary commanders such as Wei Qing and Huo Qubing.
Those two became famous for repeatedly crushing powerful enemies and expanding imperial influence through decisive military victories, and Li Jing eventually earned a place in the same conversation.
Yet military success alone was not enough.
Later generations did not simply remember him as a great commander. They eventually elevated him to the status of the Pagoda-Bearing Heavenly King, turning him into a figure of worship.
Temples were built in his honor, incense was offered in his name, and prayers were directed toward him.
Most commanders are fortunate if history remembers them kindly.
Li Jing conquered kingdoms while alive and gained worshippers after death.
Of course, even extraordinary talent requires the right circumstances.
Li Jing was fortunate enough to encounter Li Shimin, and together they formed one of the most successful emperor-general partnerships in Chinese history.
Their relationship was defined not by suspicion or political intrigue, but by mutual trust and competence.
Combined, they helped create the military strength and political confidence that made the early Tang Dynasty one of the most formidable powers of its age.
Viewed from a distance, Li Jing's career almost seems unfair.
He navigated an era of chaos, won major victories across multiple campaigns, wrote influential military treatises, retained the emperor's trust, preserved his reputation, and lived to the age of eighty.
Most historical figures would be delighted to achieve two or three of those accomplishments.
Li Jing somehow managed to collect all of them.
In his writings, Li Jing argued that military operations depended on three fundamental elements: morale, terrain, and adaptive opportunity.
The statement sounds simple enough, but he devoted considerable effort to explaining exactly what those concepts meant and how they interacted on the battlefield.
One of the most interesting aspects of his military thought is that he never treated warfare as a fixed formula.
He believed successful commanders needed to understand underlying principles rather than memorize rigid patterns.
This approach is particularly visible in his discussion of orthodox and unorthodox tactics.
His argument was that a commander should blur the distinction so thoroughly that the enemy could no longer distinguish genuine intentions from deception.
Once that point is reached, even ordinary actions begin to appear unpredictable.
The concept sounds straightforward in theory, but in practice it is considerably more difficult.
Causing an enemy to misunderstand a single thing is challenging enough.
Causing them to misunderstand everything at the same time requires exceptional skill.
Building upon the foundations laid by thinkers such as Sun Tzu and Wu Qi, Li Jing developed a style of warfare that emphasized mobility to an extraordinary degree.
Under his influence, heavy cavalry became a central component of Tang military doctrine.
Armies moved faster, struck deeper into enemy territory, and exploited opportunities before their opponents fully understood what was happening.
Modern historians often identify mobility as one of the Tang Dynasty's greatest strengths.
Everyone understood that speed was useful, but Li Jing treated speed as a weapon in its own right.
After all, an enemy who cannot predict where the next attack will fall is already operating at a disadvantage.
His offensive methods reflected this philosophy perfectly.
Li Jing was particularly fond of wedge formations.
The concept itself was not new and could be traced back to Sun Bin, but Li Jing refined and employed it with exceptional effectiveness.
With a sharp spearhead supported by strong flanks, the formation was designed to punch directly through enemy lines and create opportunities for decisive breakthroughs.
What makes Li Jing especially frustrating for later military scholars is that he was not content with mastering offensive warfare alone.
He devoted serious attention to defense, retreats, and siege operations as well.
Many commanders spend their entire careers attempting to excel in a single field.
Li Jing seemed determined to excel in several.
His theories on defensive withdrawal emphasized discipline, coordination, and the preservation of order under pressure.
His writings on siege warfare reveal a sophisticated understanding of battlefield organization and command structure.
The underlying principle was simple: when problems inevitably arise, an organized army can adapt and recover, while a disorganized one quickly collapses.
Centuries later, military historians noticed something interesting.
Certain aspects of Li Jing's thought resembled concepts that appeared elsewhere in the world.
Comparisons with Napoleon's assault columns are particularly common.
Although the two men lived in vastly different eras and circumstances, both recognized the value of concentrated force, flexibility, and momentum.
For that reason, Li Jing's reputation does not rest solely upon his battlefield victories.
Even if every detailed account of his campaigns vanished tomorrow, his military theories alone would still secure his place among history's most influential commanders.
At the same time, it is impossible to examine his life without acknowledging the importance of timing and fortune.
Talent matters, but talent alone has never guaranteed success.
Chinese history is filled with brilliant individuals who were born in the wrong era, served the wrong ruler, or died before their abilities could fully mature.
Li Jing avoided all three problems.
He lived long enough to develop his talents, was born into a period that desperately needed them, and served an emperor who trusted him to do his job.
That final point deserves particular attention.
History contains no shortage of generals who defeated every enemy before them, only to fall victim to suspicion and political insecurity at home.
Li Jing received a much rarer opportunity.
He served a ruler confident enough to value results over paranoia.
Combined with Li Jing's own abilities, that trust produced a commander who achieved almost everything a historical figure could reasonably hope to achieve.
He earned victories, honors, prestige, and a permanent place in history.
More importantly, he managed to keep all of them until the end of his life.
There is an old saying that famous beauties and famous generals rarely grow old.
History often prefers dramatic endings.
Heroes die young, victors fall from grace, and legends burn brightly before disappearing.
Li Jing refused to follow that pattern.
He lived a long life, died peacefully, and left behind a legacy so complete that later generations could only admire it.
If success is measured through talent, opportunity, achievement, longevity, and the absence of major regrets, then Li Jing's life comes remarkably close to a perfect score.
And with that, we conclude today's episode.
Next time, we're looking at how this same commander shattered rival kingdoms, captured sovereign rulers, and marched across insane distances. The guy was basically the model Tang commander for a reason. Trust me, you don't want to miss it.]
[Chat Log Server]
[User_9921: "Man, I watched this whole detailed breakdown, and my brain still defaults to him being Nezha's grumpy dad who carries a miniature pagoda. Pop culture brainrot is real."
Tactical_Couch_Potato: "Let's be honest. The early Tang was overflowing with cheat-code tier figures. The talent pool was completely stacked. Li Jing taking the top spot is like scoring a perfect hundred on an exam where the class average is ninety-five."
History_Buff_99: "It's still debated whether the best commander of that era was Li Jing or Li Shimin himself. The issue is that once Li Shimin pulled off his coup and took the throne, he had to stop riding out to farm achievements. He had to stay home and rule."
Sui_Tang_Fanatic: "If we're talking about characters who got butchered by the novels, Li Ji isn't even the biggest victim. Poor Li Shimin got nerfed hard. In the novels, he's either trapped in a dungeon or screaming for help on his way to being rescued."
Drama_Lover_22: "That's just narrative balance. If they kept Li Shimin as overpowered as he really was, the novel would have been three chapters long."
Meme_Lord: "The contrast is gold. Historical Li Shimin invents new ways to dominate enemies. Novel Li Shimin invents new ways to get captured. K-Drama Li Shimin gets shot in the eye, begs for mercy, and surrenders."
Wandering_Scholar: "Oh, it gets wilder. Recent historical dramas claim Goguryeo launched a full invasion, captured Chang'an, forced Li Shimin to his knees, and annexed everything north of the Yangtze."
Netizen_404: "What? I took a nap and woke up to discover my ancestors were apparently citizens of an ancient Korean empire? Truly incredible."
Academic_Purist: "Let's maintain accuracy here. Goguryeo was a regional separatist regime within traditional Chinese borders. It has zero continuous lineage with modern peninsular states."
Iron_Commander: "Regardless, the real standards set by the Tang were terrifying. Starting from Li Jing, if a Tang general didn't personally topple an empire during his summer campaign, he was too embarrassed to call himself legendary."
History_Nerd: "At this moment, Wang Xuance has slowly entered the chat room, accompanied by a glittering golden question mark."
Ghost_of_Warrior: "To the official Tang historians: go eat dirt! You recorded Wang Xuance's solo conquest of an Indian kingdom using borrowed mercenaries, but you forgot to write down Wang Xuance birth and death years!"]
"A life entirely devoid of regrets?"
Inside Ganlu Hall, Li Jing silently repeated the phrase to himself, turning the words over in his mind.
If he were being completely honest, that assessment was not entirely accurate. There were still a few regrets that lingered within his family. In the original timeline, his eldest son, Li Deqian, would become entangled in a treason case and spend the rest of his life in exile.
Yet when measured against the fates that had befallen so many legendary commanders throughout history, such regrets seemed comparatively minor. He had survived the collapse of a dynasty, risen to the highest ranks of military service, secured lasting glory, and preserved both his reputation and his family line. Few commanders could claim to have achieved so much while losing so little.
Li Jing slowly rose from his seat, adjusted his formal robes, and bowed deeply toward the throne.
"This old servant was truly blessed to serve a sovereign of such immense grace and magnanimity."
The words were sincere.
As he remained bent in salute, memories from his youth surfaced once more. He could still remember the fear he had felt when he was dragged to the execution ground after his failed attempt to report the rebellion. At the time, he had genuinely believed that his life was about to end.
Had the old Emperor spared his neck out of a sudden flash of pity? Or had the young Li Shimin intervened behind the scenes, using his political leverage to pull him from the brink?
Li Jing had never discovered the true answer. But from that afternoon onward, his blade, his intellect, and his loyalty belonged exclusively to the young prince.
Now, receiving validation from future generations, a quiet sense of relief settled over his chest. He had done his duty. He had fought well.
Li Shimin waved his hand, brushing aside the grand gesture.
"Stop bowing. You're embarrassing me." He paused. "A good general is hard to find. A loyal one is even harder. I wasn't going to let you lose your head over some bureaucratic mess."
Li Jing stared at him for a long moment.
Then he laughed. A genuine laugh. The kind that came from decades of unspoken understanding finally surfacing.
"You could have told me sooner, Your Majesty."
"And miss the look on your face right now?" Li Shimin grinned. "Absolutely not."
The hall's laughter grew louder.
In Li Shimin's mind, exercising clemency in such circumstances hardly qualified as an extraordinary achievement. Any ruler who wished to be remembered as truly great needed to understand when punishment was appropriate and when it was wasteful. Saving a capable and loyal subordinate was simply common sense.
As for the Heavenly Screen's lengthy discussion of Li Jing's military theories, he found himself far less impressed than the scholars around him. To civil officials, these principles might seem profound and mysterious. To someone who had spent his youth riding with armies and planning campaigns, much of it felt perfectly natural.
His attention soon shifted elsewhere.
More specifically, it settled on a single unfamiliar word that had appeared repeatedly in the modern commentary.
"Xuanling."
Fang Xuanling immediately looked up from his notes.
"This place the future generations call 'Europe.' The Heavenly Screen has mentioned it before, has it not?"
"It has, Your Majesty."
Fang Xuanling rose and retrieved a large map compiled from information gathered during previous broadcasts. After unrolling it across the table, he pointed toward the western regions.
"According to modern geography, the land we inhabit is part of a continent called Asia. Beyond the Western Regions lies Central Asia, and beyond that is the area future generations call the Middle East."
His finger continued moving westward.
"After crossing those lands and the seas beyond them, one eventually reaches Europe."
Li Shimin studied the map carefully. The sheer scale of the world still felt astonishing. His thoughts drifted across deserts, mountains, rivers, and oceans. Somewhere beyond all those distances existed kingdoms he had never heard of, peoples he had never met, and entire civilizations unknown to the Tang Empire.
For a brief moment, he found the prospect fascinating.
Then his eyes returned to the comments displayed on the light screen.
The fascination vanished.
"I dropped to my knees and surrendered? And then voluntarily abandoned everything north of the Yangtze?"
His eyelid twitched.
For a moment, he seriously wondered whether future generations had invented entirely new methods of insulting people.
Then he read the explanation attached to the comment and gradually understood what had happened.
The irritation immediately disappeared. In its place came a look of cold amusement.
"Claiming one's greatest enemy as an ancestor," Li Shimin muttered, letting out a dry laugh. "Rewriting history to satisfy one's vanity and then repeating the lie until one begins believing it. Even among future generations, I imagine such behavior cannot be particularly common."
Several ministers exchanged amused glances. Others looked thoughtful.
A rather dangerous idea briefly crossed Li Shimin's mind.
Since Goguryeo was apparently destined to become such a persistent problem, perhaps he should alter his plans. A temporary alliance could be formed, Silla and Baekje could be eliminated first, and the entire peninsula could then be dealt with in a single campaign.
The thought lingered for only a moment before he dismissed it.
An empire could not be governed through irritation alone, nor could military strategy be built upon momentary impulses.
The Tang Dynasty's immediate priority remained unchanged. The Western Regions.
Before the appearance of the Heavenly Screen, his plans had been relatively straightforward. Destroy the Eastern Turks, secure the Hexi Corridor, and restore the frontiers once held by the Han Dynasty.
Now the situation looked rather different.
Future generations had revealed the existence of another rising power to the southwest. A state that would one day dominate the plateau and become one of Tang China's greatest rivals.
The Tibetan Empire.
With that information in hand, even the small kingdom of Tuyuhun appeared in a new light. It was no longer merely a peripheral state occupying inconvenient territory. It had become a potential buffer between two great powers.
Li Shimin lowered his gaze to the map. After a moment, he looked toward Li Jing.
If the Tang intended to secure the west while preparing for future challenges elsewhere, then some adjustments would be necessary.
A slow smile appeared on the Emperor's face.
"Come closer, old general," Li Shimin murmured, his finger tapping on the map. "We have a lot of planning to do."