In the thirteenth year of the Tianbao era: I became Yang Guozhong's eldest son.

Yang Xuan was awakened by a glass of wine being splashed on him.

No, to be precise, I was woken up by a 300-pound fat man who made me drink.

The scalding liquid spilled from the corner of my lips, burning my throat.

He suddenly opened his eyes and saw an absurdly thick hand holding a gilded wine cup, which was steadily placed to his lips.

"How did you get so drunk, young master? Come, come, this wine is a new Western Region grape wine bestowed by His Majesty. We are uncle and nephew, why should we stand on ceremony?"

His voice was deep and resonant, with a distinctive, somewhat muffled accent characteristic of northern nomadic peoples.

Yang Xuan's pupils suddenly contracted.

He saw the face opposite him clearly—round like a copper plate, fleshy with prominent eyebrows, and when he smiled, his eyes narrowed into slits, looking adorable, but the gaze flowing from those slits scraped across his face like a knife.

An Lushan.

An Lushan, the military governor of three towns, commanded over 200,000 troops and was about to overthrow the entire Tang Dynasty.

Yang Xuan's mind went blank, as if he had been hit hard with a hammer.

A deluge of memories flooded in—not the memories of this body, but his own.

His name is Chen Yuan, a graduate student in the history department. His thesis was about the political situation during the Tianbao era and the An Lushan Rebellion.

He was still staying up all night in the library researching the "Old Book of Tang" yesterday, and now he is sitting in the most luxurious restaurant in Chang'an, with An Lushan in front of him, wearing a purple official robe and a gold fish pouch tied at his waist.

He is Yang Xuan.

Yang Guozhong's eldest son, served as Minister of the Court of Imperial Sacrifices and concurrently as Acting Vice Minister of the Ministry of Revenue.

He married Princess Yanhe.

Yang Guifei called him nephew.

Even Emperor Xuanzong of Tang would nod and smile when he saw him.

And more than a year later at Mawei Post Station—

He would be riddled with crossbow bolts by the mutinous Imperial Guards.

"Eldest brother? Eldest brother!" An Lushan waved his thick hand in front of him, his fleshy face full of concern. "Why do you look so pale? Is the wine not to your liking?"

Yang Xuan took a deep breath.

He forced himself to smile.

"Uncle An, what are you saying?" He raised his hand to take the wine cup, his hand as steady as a mountain. "I was just momentarily distracted and remembered something. I apologize for my rudeness."

Looking around—vermilion-lacquered beams and pillars, embroidered screens, and the faint sound of string and wind instruments drifting from the adjacent private room. There were seven or eight other people seated there, dressed in purple and crimson robes, each with a flushed face, clinking glasses and exchanging toasts.

This was a welcome banquet held for An Lushan's arrival in Beijing to report on his duties.

Yang Xuan quickly retrieved the historical knowledge in his mind—the second month of the thirteenth year of the Tianbao era.

An Lushan's last trip to Beijing to pay homage to the emperor.

He met with Emperor Xuanzong at Huaqing Palace and tearfully complained about Yang Guozhong's persecution of him. Emperor Xuanzong comforted him with kind words and bestowed upon him numerous rewards.

He will soon leave the capital and return to Fanyang, never to set foot in Chang'an again.

The next time his army appears in the Central Plains, it will be an iron cavalry marching south, slaughtering cities and breaking through passes.

One year and nine months after the outbreak of the An Lushan Rebellion.

Two years and four months after the Mawei Post Station Mutiny.

Yang Xuan tightened his grip on the wine cup slightly.

"Is His Majesty satisfied with Uncle An's visit to the capital?" he asked calmly.

An Lushan laughed heartily, his fat body trembling with laughter.

"His Majesty treats me like his own son, bestowing upon me a magnificent Akhal-Teke horse and this grape wine." He patted his belly, squinting at Yang Xuan. "But your father—the Right Chancellor—always says I, An Lushan, am going to rebel. Tell me, young master, do I look like someone who would rebel?"

He pointed to his chubby face, making an extremely aggrieved expression.

Everyone present laughed, and the atmosphere seemed harmonious and joyful.

But Yang Xuan noticed that there were two people standing behind An Lushan, neither speaking nor drinking, their gazes sweeping over the guests in the room.

The two men stood with their feet shoulder-width apart and their center of gravity slightly lowered.

They were An Lushan's personal guards brought from Fanyang.

In the most bustling restaurant in Chang'an, in front of a full house of high-ranking officials, An Lushan still had his killers with him.

Yang Xuan felt a chill run down his spine, but his expression remained impassive.

"Uncle An is joking." He raised his wine cup. "Father often said at home that Uncle An is a pillar of the Tang Dynasty and a vital minister of the state. Come, let me toast Uncle An."

He tilted his head back and drank the wine in one gulp.

An Lushan stared at him for two seconds, then laughed, his laughter even louder than before.

"Excellent! Excellent! As expected of the eldest son of the Right Chancellor, he has great bearing!"

He tilted his head back and downed the wine in his glass, the liquid rolling down his chin onto his brocade robe, but he didn't care at all.

The banquet continued.

But Yang Xuan had no interest in listening to these insincere social niceties anymore.

His mind was racing.

February of the thirteenth year of the Tianbao era – An Lushan entered the capital.

In March of the thirteenth year of the Tianbao era, An Lushan left the capital and returned to Fanyang. He traveled day and night along the way, like a dog with its tail between its legs, because he was afraid that Yang Guozhong would pursue and kill him.

In November of the fourteenth year of the Tianbao era, An Lushan raised an army in Fanyang, under the pretext of "punishing Yang Guozhong," and led an army of 150,000 southward.

In June of the fifteenth year of the Tianbao era—Tongguan fell, and Emperor Xuanzong fled in panic.

On the 14th day of the sixth month of the 15th year of the Tianbao era—at Mawei Post Station, the Imperial Guards mutinied. Yang Guozhong was hacked to death, and Yang Guifei was strangled in a Buddhist hall.

He, Yang Xuan, was killed by a hail of arrows during that mutiny. He was riddled with arrows and fell to the ground dead.

His younger brother, Yang Bu, was captured and killed by the rebels.

His younger brother, Yang Xiao, fled to Hanzhong but was beaten to death.

His younger brother, Yang Xi, fled to Chencang but was hunted down.

The entire Yang family perished without exception.

Yang Xuan picked up the freshly poured wine, his gaze passing over the rim of the glass to An Lushan, who was still laughing loudly across from him.

He suddenly realized that this wine was damn bitter.

-

The banquet ended close to dusk.

The sunset over Chang'an City burned like a raging fire, turning the glazed tiles of Zhuque Avenue a fiery red.

As Yang Xuan stepped out of the restaurant, a chilly evening wind swept into his collar, making him shiver and his mind become even clearer.

Four attendants followed behind him, all servants of the Yang family, waiting respectfully.

A small sedan chair with a blue curtain, carried by four people, was ready, with the curtain half rolled up.

"Young Master, the sedan chair is ready," the head servant whispered.

Yang Xuan did not get into the sedan chair immediately.

He glanced back at the restaurant—An Lushan was walking out surrounded by a crowd, his massive body blocking half the entrance.

He laughed heartily and patted an official on the shoulder, acting as if they were old friends.

But the moment he turned around, Yang Xuan saw An Lushan's smile vanish instantly.

The expressions on that fleshy face changed so rapidly that only someone staring intently could catch them—

The moment his smile vanished, An Lushan's eyes turned cold.

It was as cold as the February snow in Fanyang.

Then he laughed again, transforming back into the lovable, chubby man, and climbed into the sedan chair carried by eight men.

Yang Xuan withdrew his gaze, lifted the curtain, and got into the sedan chair.

"Return to the residence."

The sedan curtain fell, blocking out the noise outside. Yang Xuan closed his eyes, leaned against the sedan wall, and finally let out a sigh of relief.

My back was soaked with cold sweat.

He spent the entire banquet processing the fact that he had transmigrated, transmigrated into the body of someone destined to die.

It's not the sense of crisis of "I might die," but the certainty of "history has written down in black and white how you died."

He was struck by a hundred arrows and fell.

These six characters were engraved in the Old Book of Tang, and he copied them no less than ten times in the library.

Now those six words have become his future.

"Unless—" Yang Xuan murmured, "I can change this history."

The sedan chair moved slowly along Zhuque Avenue.

On both sides was the last vestiges of Chang'an's prosperity before nightfall—foreign merchants hawking their wares, singing girls playing the pipa, and large red lanterns hanging in front of taverns.

The Tianbao Era (a period of great prosperity).

The last golden age.

Yang Xuan lifted a corner of the sedan curtain and looked at the magnificent city.

A little over a year later, An Lushan's iron cavalry will crush all of this. Chang'an will fall, and millions will be displaced.

The golden age of the Tang Dynasty will come to an end from this point on.

And now, everyone is still living a life of singing and dancing.

Only he knew that a fire was imminent.

The sedan chair turned into Qinrenfang—this was the Yang family's territory.

Yang Guozhong and his younger brother Yang Jian each built their own residences, living in extreme luxury, and half of the market town belonged to the Yang family.

Yang Xuan alighted from his sedan chair at the main gate, and the gatekeeper jogged over to greet him.

"Young Master is back! The Prime Minister is waiting for you in the study, saying he has important matters to discuss."

Yang Xuan paused slightly.

Yang Guozhong wanted to see him.

His father.

The man who single-handedly led the Yang family to their demise.

"Understood." Yang Xuan straightened his clothes. "I'll go right away."

He stepped into the gate of the Yang residence.

The vermilion gates are deep and dark, and the lights are as bright as day.

He didn't know what awaited him, but there was one thing he had figured out—

In this game of chess that is about to overturn the world, he can no longer be a pawn waiting to die.