Chapter 1 An Imperial Marshal's Blunder #thewatermargin #outlawsofthemarsh

The Water Margin, Chapter One. It's the preface to one of China's huge classic novels. The ones fundamentally about rebellion. Very dense, very mythological stuff. That's right. And this preface, well, it's not just an intro. The sources show it's more like a declaration of cosmic law. So our mission today is what? To kind of strip back the history layer. Pretty much. We want to get to the core argument, understand how this text frames history. Not as, you know, human choices, but as this inevitable cyclical thing. Destiny. I like that, destiny. Because right away when you hit the text, the language is, well, it's deep. It kicks off talking about how ambition fades, right? All these famous names, empires. They just rise and fall. Yeah, it says life is like an empty boat floating on the water. Sort of puts human effort in its place immediately. Tells the reader straight up, whatever you think you're building, it's temporary. And if human efforts are temporary, then history itself must be following some bigger pattern. A predetermined one. That seems to be the idea. To justify the chaos that comes later in the main story, the preface first has to build up the total opposite. A time of absolute, almost divine order. Before that order. Yeah. There's the opposite, right? The chaos. Absolute disorder. We need to start there to see what the Song Dynasty supposedly fixed. OK, let's set that scene. What was this low point the dynasty needed to correct? The sources talk about this really terrifying anarchic time just before the Song Dynasty. They call it the 50 autumns of turmoil. Fifty years. Fifty years where everything just fell apart. Order gone. Power flipping constantly. And the preface nails it with this really concise, chilling little rhyme. Give us the rhyme, the scorecard of disaster. OK. It lists the families, Zhu, Li, Shi, Lu, Guo, those families between them. They put 15 different emperors on the throne. Fifteen in 50 years. Yeah. The line is, all told, 15 emperors stirring up 50 autumns of chaos. Just total anarchy. Like the mandate of heaven was completely lost. OK, so that's the absolute bottom. Utter chaos. What signals things are turning around. The end of the wars. Well, the change is marked by this sage, Mr. Kangjie. Xiao Yafu, a famous scholar. And he sees the fighting stop. He does. And he writes this line of poetry. Once the clouds part, the sky reappears. Simple, but powerful. The chaos is done. The real Song Dynasty is starting. And this isn't just politics changing hands, is it? The text makes it sound mythological. Oh, absolutely. The founder, Taizu Wood Emperor. He's not introduced as just some smart general who grabbed power. No, no. How was he introduced? He's presented as literally a divine being. The great celestial thunderbolt descended from heaven. Wow. And the sources give us this whole mythic birth story. Born in a military camp, there's this red light, strange perfumes filling the air. He's basically a walking cosmic sign. Heaven approves. And the legend supports that power. Right. The source mentions him conquering hundreds of prefectures. Four hundred military prefectures. Yeah. And how? With one staff equal to his height. That's it. So it's not about military strategy. It's like an elemental force pushing back chaos. Exactly. And the text really wants to hammer home this divine right. There's that great story about Ch'en T'uan. The Taoist master from Mount Hua, the hermit. That's the one, a figure of, you know, supreme spiritual insight. The laughing guy on the donkey. I love this bit. So he's just traveling. Here's people talking. Just minding his own business. Yeah. And he overhears that Zhao Kuang-Yin, that's Taizu, has taken the throne. And what happens? He just bursts out laughing. He does. This huge belly laugh falls right off his donkey. Imagine this really revered, probably quite stoic spiritual master just tumbling into the dust, giggling. People must have thought he'd lost it. They rush over, asking him, what's so funny? And his answer? It just perfectly captures that shift from chaos to cosmic order. What does he say? He declares, the world is settled from this moment on. Just like that. Settled. Because from his mystical viewpoint, this new dynasty perfectly aligned everything. Heaven, earth and man. Hurrah. The chaos is truly cosmically finished. So Taizu reigns 17 years. Then Taizong for 22. We're deep into this golden age now. Right. The foundation is solid. And the focus shifts to the next emperor, Ren Zong. But his story starts with, well, a problem. A crack in the system already. A very strange one, yeah. Ren Zong himself is supposed to be another divine being. The barefoot great immortal come down to earth. OK, another celestial emperor. But as a baby, he just cries day and night, nonstop. And nobody can figure out why or how to stop it. So this perfect harmony. It has this immediate, weird little flaw. The air is inconsolable. Exactly. The dynasty is set, but the successor is troubled. It's the first tiny sign that maybe things aren't eternally perfect. And if the problem is cosmic, divine baby crying, the solution has to be cosmic, too. Right. Can't just be medicine or soothing. Right. The court can't fix it. So they put out a notice. Basically asking for help. And this old man shows up. Who is really the planet Venus. Tai Bai Jin Xing, the great white star, descended specifically to cure the prince. It shows, you know, the highest level of celestial intervention is still needed. And the cure is amazing. So simple, but loaded with meaning. Yeah. The old man just holds the baby prince, whispers something in his ear. Eight characters. And boom, crying stops instantly. And then he vanishes, vanishes. What did he whisper? What were the eight characters? What's fascinating is the text tells us exactly what the future needs. The whisper was, Lu Xia, literary star, military star. Wen Quo Quo. It's basically a prophecy. Don't worry. The talent you need to protect this era, it's coming from heaven. And these aren't just abstract concepts. These stars become actual people, right? Two incredibly famous figures from the Song dynasty. Immediately. Wen Quo, the literary star, manifests as Bao Zheng. Judge Bao, the famous incorruptible judge of Kaifeng. His fairness kind of defines this golden age. The ultimate symbol of justice. And Wu Qua, the military star, becomes Di Qing, the grand marshal, famous for conquering the Western Xia. So they're not just great men who rose through the ranks. The text insists they are literally star spirits sent down. Signed to maintain this perfect order under Ren Zong. And with these two, these guiding spirits serving Emperor Ren Zong, the dynasty hits its absolute peak. He rules for what? Forty two years? Forty two years. And the sources really linger on how unbelievably perfect this time was. It's called the Three Harvest. The Three Harvest. The text is really specific here. It's three periods back to back each nine years long. So 27 years. Twenty seven years total of continuous perfect abundance. The crops never failed. Think about that. Decades of perfect harvest. It sounds like the ultimate utopia. What was life like for ordinary people? The description is incredible. It says people were so happy, so secure that yi yu. Ming. Meaning nobody bothered picking up stuff someone dropped in the street. You didn't need to. And people didn't lock their doors at night. Wow. Just absolute peace. Absolute trust. That's the narrative high point. It has to be. But that level of perfection. It creates this tension, doesn't it? If history is cyclical, if yin and yang always have to balance out. You can't stay at perfect joy forever. Exactly. This kind of utopian order. Well, by definition, almost it must contain the seeds of its own downfall. It has to swing back. So what happens when history has reached the peak? Nowhere to go but down. That's the pivot. The source itself says it. Extreme joy breeds sorrow. It's like a law of nature in this narrative. And the turning point comes suddenly. Very suddenly. Irreversibly. In the GAU rain period, year three, early spring, an unstoppable disaster hits. What is it? A plague, a massive epidemic that just sweeps across the whole country. And the text makes a point of saying this isn't a normal problem, not something humans can fix. Definitely not. It goes out of its way to show that even the best human agents of this golden age are powerless. Even Bao Zeng, the literary star himself. Even him, the incorruptible Judge Bao, divinely mandated. He tries everything, uses his own money, gets medicine for the state pharmacy, the huimin heiji. But it doesn't work. Total failure. The plague rages on. And his failure is crucial, you see. It underlines that this crisis is beyond human agency. It's cosmic. It's fate. So the plague forces the government's hand. They're desperate. What do they do when medicine fails, when even Bao Zeng fails? They have to turn to ritual, to the heavens. They need to perform these huge elaborate prayer ceremonies, the yuo, begging the heavens to step in. And this act of desperation, this ritual, that's the trigger. That's exactly what the cosmic forces were waiting for, it seems. This human ritual, born of suffering and failure. It opens the door. Opens the door for what or who? For the main event, really. The descent of the divine forces that will drive the rest of the story. Specifically, the 36 heavenly spirits, Tehi, and the 72 earthly fiends. The 108 star spirits in total. The future heroes or anti-heroes of Ling Shan Marsh. That's them. And the source is crystal clear about why they're coming down now. Not to fix the plague. Oh, no. They're coming to Eyohum, Sinom, Sinom, to stir up the entire universe of the Song dynasty, to disturb the Zhao family's empire. They aren't descending to save the dynasty from the plague. They're descending to enact the next phase of the cycle, the counterbalance to all that earlier perfection and peace. We're in the great Song dynasty. Emperor Ren Zong is on the throne. And the setting is the capital? He's supposed to be heart of the empire, right? Order, prosperity. But it's not like that at all. The city is gripped by this terrible pestilence. A plague A. Yeah, a really devastating one. It's hitting everyone, soldiers, civilians. It's a major crisis. So the court has to respond. What's the first move? Well, they go for the traditional playbook. Two top ministers, Zhao Zi and Wen Yanbo. They suggest, you know, acts of imperial mercy. Like what? Lessening punishment. Exactly. That reducing taxes, setting up prayers and rituals in the local temples, basically trying to appease heaven and fix things through standard government actions and piety. Makes sense. Did it work? And here's the first crucial point the author makes. No, it absolutely failed. The text is really clear. Despite the emperor's decrees, his compassion, all of it. The plague actually got worse. Wow. So that failure is significant. Hugely significant. It's the hinge moment. It tells you, the reader, this problem isn't just political, it's not something the usual methods can fix. It needs something more, something supernatural. So the political system hits a wall. The emperor must be getting desperate. He is. The text says he's deeply troubled. And that's when another minister, Fan Zhongyan, steps up with a new plan. With the plan. The definitive one. He says, look, we need the ultimate spiritual intervention. We need to summon the heavenly master. Zhang Zengren from Dragon Tiger Mountain. That's him. Zhang Zengren from the absolute heartland of Taoism. And why him specifically? What can he do? He's needed to perform this incredibly elaborate ceremony. The three thousand six hundred part grand ritual. The Wu San. Three thousand six hundred parts. That's immense. It is. And it has to be done right there in the forbidden palace grounds. It's a direct appeal to the highest deity to stop the plague. The court is basically admitting defeat. Bureaucracy failed. Only pure spirit can save them now. So who gets the job of fetching this powerful master? They appoint Grand Marshal Hong Shin, a very high ranking military official. He's designated as the imperial angel, the Te, for this mission. An angel. So it's a sacred task. Absolutely. He carries the emperor's own handwritten edict, the Te, and a stick of sacred imperial incense. The weight of the empire's survival is literally on his shoulders. And he sits off from the capital, Tokyo or Bianjing, as it was known then. Right. Heading south to Jiangxi province, towards Suzhou and Greci County. And the book takes a moment here. To describe the journey. Yes. And the descriptions are beautiful. Things like remote mountains piled with jade green or tender willow dances, gold threads sweeping the ground. It paints this picture. What's the effect of that, do you think? Well, it creates this stark contrast, doesn't it? You have Hong Shin carrying this urgent, desperate mission from the plague ridden capital. Into this serene, almost perfect landscape. Exactly. Chaos meets tranquility. It really highlights the stakes and the shift in environment. So after this journey, Marshall Hong finally reaches Dragon Tiger Mountain. What kind of reception does he get? Oh, it's a huge welcome. Befitting an imperial envoy, right? Local officials are there, but also the Taoist residents of the main temple complex, the Shanking Palace. They've come down to meet him. They do. With all the ceremony bells, drums, banners flying, playing celestial music. They're receiving the emperor's edict with full honors. It shows you the kind of respect these, well, seemingly reclusive figures command. And the palace itself, Shanking Gong. The description immediately signals its importance. Gold script on the gate plaque, jade seals mentioned, ancient towering pine and cypress trees all around, water flowing. It's presented as a genuinely sacred, powerful place, not just some building. And inside, the iconography must be significant, too. Definitely. The author lists all the divine figures depicted there. It's like the celestial government has its headquarters on this mountain. You've got heavenly generals, mighty warriors protecting the main deities. Right. Flanking figures like the Supreme Unity True Lord and surrounding the Purple Subtlety Emperor. Any specific gods mentioned? Oh, yes. Powerful ones. The Northern True Martial Emperor, Ayasudi, shown treading on the tortoise and snake. The Antarctic elder subduing the dragon and tiger. Even the 28 constellation lords are there. Wow, that's quite a lineup. It is. And the point isn't necessarily for you, the reader, to memorize every name. It's to establish the overwhelming spiritual authority of this place. Right. If help is going to come from anywhere, it's from here. Exactly. It raises the stakes enormously. If Hongxin succeeds here, the empire might be saved. If he fails. Well, there's nowhere higher to appeal. So Hongxin arrives. He's welcomed, shown the splendors. He rests, has a vegetarian banquet. A proper Taoist meal, everything appropriate. And then he gets down to business. He asks the abbot, the head Taoist there, OK, where's the heavenly master? And this, this is where the whole mission takes a sharp turn. He's not there. He's not. The abbot explains that the current master, known as the pure void heavenly master, well, he avoids society. Avoids society. Yeah. The text says he finds receiving guests tiresome. Fengshui. He prefers solitude. So where is he? He lives in a simple thatched hut. A sheng, way up on the mountain peak, just cultivating his spirit. And he's got these legendary powers. He can ride the fog and summon clouds. His movements are unpredictable. Except. So you can't just send message up? Nope. He's essentially unreachable through normal channels. The imperial edict, the marshal's high rank. None of that matters up here. So how can Hongxin meet him? Ah, here's the test. The abbot lays it out. If Hongxin truly wants an audience, he has to prove his absolute sincerity. His sincerity. How? This is the core of it. Hongxin has to undergo a kind of ritual purification himself. He must fast, bathe and crucially dismiss all his attendants. Go alone. Completely alone. He has to change out of his marshal's robes into simple cloth clothes, wear basic grass sandals. Wow. That's a huge step down for a grand marshal. It is. And he has to personally carry the emperor's edict wrapped in yellow silk on his back and carry the burning stick of sacred incense himself all the way up the mountain. Does him, the edict and the incense climbing the peak. That's the requirement. It's a direct challenge, isn't it? Humility over hierarchy. The spiritual authority demands the representative of imperial power strip himself bare. How does Hongxin react? He's a proud military man. He accepts immediately. He insists he's been sincere all along, even points out he's eaten only vegetarian food since leaving the capital. He agrees to start the climb at dawn. His resolve is clear. So the next morning. At the fifth watch, very early, the Taoists help him prepare the ritual bath, the simple clothes, a final vegetarian meal. Then he takes the edict, lights the incense and begins his ascent. And the mountain itself, the description must be intense here. Oh, it is. The writing shifts again. The mountain isn't just scenic background anymore. It's portrayed as this immense, almost cosmic force. How so? It's described as rooted to the corner of the earth, its peak connecting to the heart of heaven. Massive scale. And the author uses all the specific classical terminology for mountain features, Papu, for side paths, for jagged trails, for deep water, for isolated peaks. Showing the ruggedness, the difficulty. Exactly. It emphasizes the sheer effort involved. This isn't a leisurely stroll. It's an ordeal. The imagery becomes wilder, too. You get lines like tigers roar, generating wind in the valley or apes cry when the moon falls on the mountainside. It feels primal, dangerous. Almost like nature itself is testing it. It feels that way. The rocks are described as being dyed with azure black into a thousand pieces of jade. It's beautiful, but also harsh, intimidating. And Hong Seng keeps going. He does. He's chanting the name of the celestial venerable for strength. The text stresses his mindset. He has to push on without any thought of giving up or regretting his decision. He's fully committed to this physically and mentally grueling climb to save the people. It gets pretty intense, fast. The mountain doesn't seem to care about his title. Not one bit. He just started his internal whining, feeling sorry for himself and bam, first trial. The tiger. Yes, but not just any tiger. The description is, well, it's mythical gold fur, eyes like lightning, a tail like a steel whip, teeth like actual halberds. So it's designed to inspire absolute terror more than just an animal. Definitely. It's a manifestation of pure ferocity. And Hong's reaction. Complete meltdown, right? Total collapse. He yells, ah, yeah. It's kind of primal scream and just falls backward. The text describes him shaking uncontrollably, his heart pounding like crazy, feeling completely numb, like he's had a stroke. All that courtly poise just evaporates. Instantly, his status means nothing to this creature. But then something interesting happens. The tiger eventually just leaves. It doesn't actually attack him. No, it looks at him, terrifies him and then wanders off. And Hong, surprisingly, pulls himself together. He doesn't just run back down. No, he actually lights the special dragon incense he brought, the Long Xing, and decides to keep going, despite the terror, despite the suffering. So there's some resolve there. Maybe fear of the emperor is stronger than fear of the tiger. Could be. The imperial mandate is a powerful force. But the mountain isn't done with him, not by a long shot. OK, so he survives the tiger. What's next? Almost immediately, the atmosphere changes again. A sudden wind kicks up, but this time it brings this thick, noxious vapor. A toxic mist. Ugh, doesn't sound good. And then it appears. A colossal snake. Another one. Oh, yeah. And this one is described as being as thick as a hanging bucket. Its scales are like scattered jade, its tail like piled silver. Its sheer size is immense. They say its movement could crack valleys and topple ridges. OK, that's not just a snake. That's a force of nature. Exactly. Geological, almost. And Hong's reaction this time, even worse. If that's possible. He drops the incense burner he's carrying, screams again and collapses against a rock. This time, the description is more spiritual. His three souls wandered, seven spirits floating, like he's coming apart at the seams, spiritually speaking. So the tiger was maybe a physical test, is more existential terror. Feels that way. And the snake, it gets right up close. It looks him over, breathes that toxic mist right onto his face and then it leaves, too. It doesn't harm him either? Physically, no. It's another display, another test. But Hong doesn't see it that way. What does he think is going on? He recovers, still terrified, but now he's angry. He's convinced the local priests, the ones who pointed him up the mountain, are deliberately messing with him. Ah, so they're the problem. They set up these, quote, man-eating animals to sabotage his mission. That's his conclusion, not, wow, this is a profound spiritual place or maybe I'm being tested. Nope. It's those priests are mocking my authority. His arrogance is really something. It's like a shield against self-reflection. It absolutely is. His status filter is working over time. But he's had enough. He's exhausted, furious, probably smelling faintly of snake mist. He's ready to give up. But he doesn't turn back just yet? No. Just as he's about to abandon the climb, he hears something. Faintly at first. The sound of an iron flute. OK, that's unexpected. After tigers and snakes, a flute. Exactly. And this is where things get really interesting because the source of the music appears. Is it the Celestial Master? Finally, looking all majestic. Not quite the image Hong had in mind. It's a young Taoist boy, a Datom. A boy. A young boy. And get this, he's riding a yellow ox. Backward. On an ox. Riding it backward, playing his flute. His appearance is the definition of simple. Hair in two little knots, plain blue robe, a grass sash, hemp shoes. Nothing like the grandeur Hong represents or expects. And that backward riding. That has to mean something, right? It feels deliberate. Oh, it's deeply symbolic in Taoism. It represents looking inward, nonconformity, seeing things from a different perspective, not following the conventional path. It's a massive clue if Hong had the eyes to see it. But Hong Taowei probably doesn't see symbolism. He sees. Rudeness. Insolence. He calls out to the boy, you know, probably expecting deference. And the boy ignores him, just keeps riding backward, playing his flute, completely unfazed by this important official yelling at him. That's brilliant. Hong must be fuming. Absolutely. He finally gets the boy's attention, presses him for information, and the boy just laughs. Laughs at the Grand Marshal. Laughs. And then tells him something crucial. He says the celestial master already knew Hong was coming. Knew he was coming. How? Doesn't say how, just that he knew. And that the master had already left for the capital, Tokyo, went there riding a crane and cloud. Riding a crane and cloud. So supernatural travel. OK. And the boy warns Hong the mountain is dangerous. He should turn back. So Hong gets the message. Mission basically accomplished even if he didn't meet the master face to face. What does he do? This is the key moment. He's just survived Mythic Beasts. He gets a direct message about the master from the only person he's seen up here. And he dismisses the boy completely. Dismisses him. How? He decides the boy must just be a local shepherd. An unruly peasant kid. Why he soosh, the text says. He figures the real master must have just told this kid what to say. Wow. He can't accept the information because of the source. Exactly. The packaging isn't right. Wisdom and simple clothes riding backward doesn't compute. He needed, you know, mystical robes and auras. So he doesn't believe the boy is anything special. Nope. Just some kid. So Hong decides, OK, fine, the master's gone. I have my excuse. And he turns around, ready to head back down. He's not risking another snake encounter. The mental gymnastics there. He accepts giant magic snakes, but not a wise boy on an ox. It's incredible, isn't it? He's prepared for grand, terrifying displays of power, but humble, unconventional wisdom that he cannot process. His filters are just too strong. OK, so he heads back down. What happens when he meets the priests again? He must be ready to give them a piece of his mind. Oh, he is. He gets back to the temple base where the priests are waiting. And he is absolutely livid. He lays into them, recounts the tiger or the snake, accuses them of setting him up, trying to kill him, mocking him. Still stuck on that theory. Completely. But the head priest is calm. He gently explains that Hong has it all wrong. Oh, so? He tells Hong, this was the patriarch testing the grand marshal's heart. The animals weren't random monsters or traps. They were tests, deliberate spiritual challenges. Exactly. Sent by the celestial master himself to gauge Hong's sincerity, his courage, his inner character. Could he overcome fear? Did he truly value the mission? So he kind of passed the physical courage test, maybe, by pressing on after the tiger. Arguably, yes. But he utterly failed the interpretation test, the humility test. He saw malice, not meaning. And then comes the really painful part, I imagine. Right. Because Hong, still fuming, then complains about the disrespectful kid on the ox. This rude shepherd boy who gave him the news. Oh, no. I can see where this is going. The priest just looks at him and drops the bomb. The shepherd boy, he says, was precisely the celestial master. Oof, right there. The person he dismissed as an unruly peasant. Was the Dachung Zongshi, the patriarch himself, the very sage he'd risked life and limb to find? He literally walked past the answer because it didn't look the part. That's devastating. How does the priest explain this? This master who appears as a boy? The priest explains that this master is, well, extraordinary. Friton Sionke. He's capable of manifestation, Sifang Sinhua, anywhere, in any form. He transcends appearances. So he chose that form deliberately. Almost certainly. To test Hong. To see if Hong could recognize wisdom even when it wasn't dressed in finery. It was the ultimate subtle test. And Hong failed completely. Utterly. He even admits it himself then. I truly had eyes but did not recognize the true master. Yingbi Wu Shizong Shi. He saw the surface, not the substance. A brutal moment of self-awareness finally. So what about the plague? The whole point of the mission? Was it all for nothing? Actually, no. And this is also part of the master's power. The priest reassures Hong that since the master said he'd already gone to the capital, he had. Like he actually teleported or something? Essentially, yes. Riding his crane and cloud. The priest tells Hong the great ritual to end the plague will be completed successfully. Probably before Hong even makes it back to report. So the mission succeeds despite Hong's personal failures. Yes, thanks to the master's foresight and power. Hong's mandate, the decree and incense are respectfully stored at the temple. They even host him for a banquet before he heads home. He survived. He learned a harsh lesson and the emperor's will gets done anyway. But Marshal Hong being Marshal Hong. A bit full of himself. You could say that. He sort of turns this solemn duty into his own private VIP tour of the mountain. And that's where things start to go wrong. That's the first domino, really. If he'd just stuck to the plan, maybe none of it happens. So his little sightseeing trip takes him past the main temples, the official spots. Right. Past those and then towards this other building. Kind of tuck away behind a corridor. Definitely not on the standard tour. It sounds suspicious already. Oh, it screams, keep out. It's separate. It's sealed. And it's very, very clearly forbidden territory. And the moment they get there, the whole feeling changes, doesn't it? The description makes it clear this isn't just some dusty old shed. Absolutely not. This isn't your average locked door. The way it's described tells you everything. Generations of effort went into keeping whatever's inside. Well, inside. That's what's it called? It's the Hall of Subjugated Demons. Fumo Jaiden. The name itself is a warning. Subjugated demons. Yeah, not subtle. Not at all. It's not a treasure vault. It's a prison, a spiritual one. Imagine these really thick walls made of red clay. OK. And the locks aren't just normal locks. They're described as being as sick as a man's arm. Huge brass things. Wow. Heavy duty. And then on top of all that, layered over the locks, over the door itself, you've got 10, maybe more, layers of these paper seals, official looking seals. Like talismans. Exactly. Spiritual seals, all stamped with this bright red ink. It's like a giant, multi-layered do not open sign. Visually, it's screaming danger. Centuries of danger. Yeah, the head priest there, the Celestial Master, he backs up that visual warning with some serious history. He explains what this place is. He does. He tells Hong, look, this hall was sealed way back, centuries ago, by the great national master during the Tang Dynasty. Strange in history. Very. And every single celestial master since then, like eight or nine generations of them, has added their own seal, reinforcing the original warning. Which was? Must not be rashly opened. Wudu Wan Kai. Explicitly. Because if you do. The demon lords get out. Mo Jun. Yeah. And they will cause very severe peril. That's the phrase used. Fuchang Lihai. Extremely dangerous. OK, so you have this ancient, sacred, very clear warning system. Crystal clear. But then you have Marshall Hong. Mr. Skepticism. Mr. State Authority. Exactly. And this is where it all comes to a head. Tradition versus modern bureaucratic power. And Hong doesn't hesitate, does he? He hears the solemn warning and just laughs. Pretty much dismisses it instantly. He doesn't buy any of it. He basically shouts. Who should come? It's like nonsense or rubbish. He thinks they're making it up. Completely. He accuses the priests right there of staging the whole thing. Says they're just trying to incite the good people, you know, fool the loafles. And show off their magic tricks. Yeah. Why Sanyan Nima Daoshu show off your Taoist magic. He flat out says he doesn't believe you can lock up demons. It's such a clash of worldviews. The bureaucrat who only trusts what the state sanctions versus this ancient spiritual practice. And Hong knows he has the emperor's backing. Yeah. That gives him all the power in this situation. And he uses it brutally from what I remember. Oh, yeah. The celestial master is pleading with him. Don't do this. It'll cause immense harm. Trying to save everyone. Really. But Hong doesn't hear a warning. He hears someone telling him no. He hears insubordination. And he immediately hits back with a massive threat. A political threat. What does he actually threaten them with? It wasn't just a telling off, was it? No, no. It was serious. He threatens to report them to the emperor for violating imperial decrees. That's a huge deal. And take away their credentials. Their ordination certificates. The duty. Which for a priest, that's everything. Is their license to practice their status, their connection to the state gone. That's career ending, life ending almost. And if that wasn't enough, he adds that he'll have them banished, exiled to some awful remote military outpost to suffer. Chipei Yuani Junzushuku. Wow. So he basically holds a gun to their head. Ruin your lives right now or open the door and risk whatever's inside. Exactly. He weaponizes the state against their spiritual duty and faced with that choice, immediate ruin versus potential future disaster. They cave. Fear of the marshal. Fear of the state. It wins out. They're forced to call in workers. The seals get ripped off. The massive lock is smashed open. The ancient barrier is broken. And the moment it's open, the description inside kind of proves the priest's right, doesn't it? Instantly. It validates every warning Hong just ignored. It's not just a room. It's like stepping into deep time. How does the source describe it? It really emphasizes the age and the isolation. Hundreds of years without seeing sunlight. Millions of eons without glimpsing moonlight. So just complete darkness. Utter darkness. And the air itself is described as this thick black mist or smoke. Hey, I sort of puffs out and feels chillingly cold. It's to your own hands. A salty with cold. It's immediately clear this place is wrong. So they bring in torches, push back the darkness. What do they actually find in there? Just one thing right in the middle. Not some monster chained up, but this stone monument, maybe five or six feet tall. Standing on something. Yeah. It's resting on the back of a big stone tortoise half buried in the earth. A shiggy. OK. A monument on a tortoise. What's on the monument? Well, the front is covered in this script that nobody can read. Like divine calligraphy, dragon script and phoenix patterns. Long Zeng Feng Xuan. Heavenly stuff. Tianzhu Fulu. Unknowable. Reinforcing that ancient mystery vibe. Exactly. But Hong, he's not interested in mysteries he can't solve. He walks around to the back. And there? There carved clearly are four big characters that everyone can read. This is the crucial bit, isn't it? This is the pivot. The characters read. Yu Hong or Kai? Opened upon meeting Hong. Bingo. Oh, wow. Talk about dramatic irony. Right. Hong is absolutely thrilled, overjoyed. He sees this and it's instant justification for everything he just did. He thinks it means him. Like destiny. 100 percent. He doesn't see a warning or a trap or anything ambiguous. He sees Tianzhu, a sign from heaven, cosmic preordination proving he was meant to do this, that he is the chosen one. So his arrogance finds the perfect excuse. It transforms into destiny in his mind. He actually spells it out. He says this proves three things are happening. One, it's time for the heavenly stars, these powerful spirits, to be released. OK. Two, that their release means loyal and capable officials are destined to rise and serve the Song Dynasty. Convenient for an official like him. Very. And three, the clincher. Look, my name, Hong, is right here. Proof that I'm the guy meant to kickstart this whole glorious process. But hang on. If fate wanted the stars released, maybe the inscription was just stating a fact, not necessarily endorsing Hong's methods. That's the million dollar question, isn't it? It really muddies the water about free will versus destiny here. Was his name there because he was fated to be the opener or did his specific brand of arrogant curiosity just happen to be the tool fate used to make the inevitable happen? He certainly didn't interpret it that way. He felt totally justified. Absolutely. Which makes what happens next even worse. The Celestial Master sees this interpretation and he's horrified. He knows this is bad. He tries to warn him again. Frantically. Yay. Tai Wei, Buqi, Zhudong, Kong, Yuli, Hai. Marshall, you mustn't dig. I fear terrible consequences. Hong's riding high on his destiny now. Completely deaf to it. He orders the workers, forces them to first move the heavy stone tablet aside. And then dig. Then dig up the stone tortoise it was sitting on. They dig down several feet beneath where the tortoise was. And they hit something else. The final layer. A massive slab of bluestone. Huge. Described as being a fang zang around maybe 10 feet square. Colossal. The ultimate seal. Seems like it. And the poor Celestial Master tries one last time. Who goes? Who leaves, who don't. Don't disturb it. But Hong's gone too far. He's not stopping now. No way. He's invested. He orders them to lift the slab. And the workers. They manage it. They struggle. But yeah, they use levers, ropes, sheer manpower and heave this massive stone slab out of the way. And that's it. The point of no return. That's the breaking point. The catastrophic climax. Because lifting that slab doesn't reveal treasure or another room or anything mundane. How does it reveal? A hole. A chasm. An abyss. Described as being who the. One song. Shingen. Shinkan. 10,000 fathoms deep. An impossibly deep pit straight down into the rubble. And from that pit comes. A sound. Not just any sound. I bet the descriptions are pretty wild, right? They're epic. The source really wants you to feel the scale of this breach. It's not just loud. It's world breaking. Give me the highlights. OK, it's like. Kiyong Quidita. Johansson Bang. Heaven collapsing. Earth tearing apart. Mountains shaking and crumbling. Wow. OK. The volume is compared to the massive tidal bore on the Kantang River surging out to sea. That's famously huge, that tide. Exactly. And even more mythically, it's compared to the sound of the water god, Gong Gong, in a rage, smashing down Mount Boozoo, one of the pillars holding up the sky in mythology. It's the sound of cosmic order shattering. OK, so terrifying world ending noise. What comes out of the hole? After the sound, this thick black vapor. A swirling column of blackness just boils out of the chasm. And it's powerful. Incredibly. The moment it hits the air, it's so potent it actually causes a corner of the hall of subjugated demons itself to just collapse into rubble. It's the force of it. Apparently. Right. Then this black cloud shoots straight up, blasts through the roof of the hall and goes high into the sky. And then does it stay as one cloud? No. Once it's up there, it breaks apart. That single mass of darkness shatters into hundreds of golden lights. Golden lights, not black. Like the essence of these beings, maybe. These hundreds of lights then scatter instantly, shooting off in all directions, dispersing across the land. The stars are loose. And down on the ground, it's absolute chaos. People running. Everyone. Laborers, priests, attendants screaming, dropping their tools, tripping over each other, trying to get away. Total panic. The release is complete. And Marshall Hong, the man of destiny. He's left standing there in the ruins, basically frozen. The text says, Uzenkodai, Wangzisoko, Myansarutu. Staring, speechless, totally bewildered, his face ashen like clay. The skeptic finally sees something he can't explain away. He's confronted by the undeniable reality and the consequences. And the celestial master who comes creeping back confirms it. Those were the demon kings, he says. They're free now. Disaster accomplished. Totally. And the narrative immediately hints at the fallout. The emperor is going to lose sleep over this. The realm is in for trouble. It foreshadows the gathering of these released forces later on. Tigers and leopards hide in Wanziching. Divine dragons gather in Liaowala. That line. That's the one. It sets the stage for everything that follows.