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[The An Lushan Rebellion hit the Tang Dynasty like a flood.
In just a few short years, the dazzling cultural world of Chang'an was smashed to pieces.
The poets, scholars, calligraphers, musicians, and officials who once gathered beneath the lanterns of the capital were scattered across the empire like leaves in a storm.
Some fled west with the imperial court. Some were trapped behind rebel lines. Some died in the chaos before they even understood what was happening.
And just like Yan Zhenqing, many of them were dragged headfirst into the grinding machinery of history.
Let's run through the roster of China's greatest poets and see how they handled the chaos.
Now we need to talk about one of the most unfortunate deaths of the entire An Lushan era.
Wang Changling.
The absolute monster of seven-character quatrains.
Now, before we go further, let's take a moment to understand what that title actually means. A seven-character quatrain, or qiyan jueju, is one of the hardest poetic forms in Chinese literature. Seven characters per line. Four lines total. Twenty-eight characters to say everything you need to say. No room for filler. No space for wasted words. Every single character has to carry its weight.
And on top of that? There are strict tonal rules. Rhyme schemes that must be followed. A musical rhythm that has to flow naturally when read aloud. The first two lines usually paint a scene. The last two lines deliver the emotional punch.
Mastering this form is already insanely difficult.
Now imagine doing it while writing about war, death, loneliness, and the freezing cold of the frontier. Not pretty landscapes. Not love poems. But the brutal reality of soldiers dying far from home.
That was Wang Changling's specialty.
And he was so good at it that over a thousand years later, he is still called the Master of Seven-Character Quatrains. Not a master. The master.
If you have ever read Tang poetry, chances are you have already encountered this man without realizing it. Wang Changling was not just famous during his lifetime. He was considered one of the greatest poetic craftsmen of the entire dynasty.
And somehow, this literary titan did not die on a battlefield. Did not die resisting rebels. Did not die in the collapse of Chang'an.
No.
He got murdered by a jealous local official.
During the outbreak of the rebellion, Wang Changling left his post temporarily to travel through the provinces and check on surviving relatives. Pretty understandable decision considering the empire was currently on fire.
While passing through Bozhou, he encountered the local governor, a bureaucrat named Lüqiu Xiao.
Now this man was the exact type of petty official that appears whenever a dynasty starts rotting internally.
Lüqiu Xiao looked at Wang Changling, saw a celebrity scholar with enormous prestige, and immediately developed terminal jealousy.
So he did what corrupt officials throughout history always do.
He weaponized paperwork.
Using the chaos of the rebellion as an excuse, he accused Wang Changling of abandoning his assigned duties. Then he quietly threw the poet into prison.
The next year, Wang Changling was executed in his cell.
Fifty-seven years old.
Just like that, one of the greatest poets of the Tang Dynasty disappeared because a mediocre official could not handle existing in the same province as a genius.
Honestly, this part says a lot about the late Tang political environment.
When a civilization enters decline, external enemies are dangerous. But internal parasites become lethal.
Now here is the satisfying part.
History occasionally decides to balance the scales.
Later that same year, Chancellor Zhang Gao marched troops into the region during the imperial counteroffensive against the rebels.
And guess what he discovered?
Governor Lüqiu Xiao had been delaying military operations and obstructing troop mobilization.
In other words, while pretending to defend state discipline, this clown was actively sabotaging the war effort.
So Zhang Gao arrested him immediately.
The moment Lüqiu Xiao saw the execution block, he completely collapsed.
He knelt on the ground crying and begging for mercy, screaming that he had an elderly mother and children at home depending on him.
Zhang Gao listened quietly.
Then he asked one question.
'If you die, who will care for your family?'
The governor nodded desperately.
And Zhang Gao replied:
'Then tell me. Who is caring for the family of Wang Changling?'
Lüqiu Xiao had no answer. The execution was carried out on the spot.
Honestly? One of the cleanest endings in Tang history.
Next comes the man future generations would eventually crown the Saint of Poetry.
Du Fu.
And honestly, the guy's life reads less like a literary biography and more like the universe personally bullying one specific scholar for several decades straight.
Right before the An Lushan Rebellion exploded, Du Fu's family had already fallen into severe poverty. Things got so bad that one of his infant sons starved to death because the household could not afford enough grain.
Imagine carrying that guilt into the collapse of an empire.
Then the rebellion hit.
Nomad cavalry rolled toward Chang'an, refugees flooded the roads, and the entire country descended into panic. Du Fu hurriedly shoved his surviving family members onto a cart and relocated them to Fuzhou, hoping the region would be safer.
Then he heard rumors that Crown Prince Li Heng had established a provisional court out in the northwest desert.
And this is the part that perfectly summarizes Du Fu as a human being.
Instead of hiding somewhere safely and protecting what remained of his family, he immediately decided to walk north on foot through a war zone to serve the dynasty.
No horse. No escort. Just vibes and patriotism.
Unfortunately, heaven apparently hated this man.
Halfway through the journey, Du Fu ran directly into rebel patrols and got hauled back to occupied Chang'an as a prisoner.
Catastrophic luck.
Later, when Guo Ziyi's forces prepared to retake the capital, Du Fu managed to escape the city by slipping through enemy lines himself. Risking death, he crossed the battlefield and successfully reached Li Heng's court.
Li Heng was moved by this display of loyalty and rewarded him with a small official appointment.
And then Du Fu immediately sabotaged his own career.
Because unlike normal politicians, Du Fu possessed the dangerous personality trait known as honesty.
When Fang Guan fell out of favor after military failures, the entire court rushed to distance themselves from him.
Du Fu did the exact opposite.
He openly defended Fang Guan in court.
Now historically speaking, Fang Guan absolutely deserved criticism for his disastrous command decisions. But Du Fu wasn't defending military incompetence. He was defending the principle that one failed campaign should not automatically erase a man's entire political existence.
Li Heng did not appreciate this nuance.
So the poet quietly landed on the Emperor's blacklist.
Fortunately for Du Fu, Chancellor Zhang Gao intervened politically and prevented the situation from escalating into execution.
But by this point, the Tang state was already rotting internally.
Corruption spread everywhere. Military disasters piled up. Court politics became increasingly toxic.
Then came the disaster at Yecheng.
That defeat shattered Du Fu's remaining faith in the dynasty.
So he resigned.
No dramatic rebellion. No grand speech.
He just gave up on the court and drifted south like countless displaced refugees of the era.
Eventually, Du Fu settled in Sichuan, where he built the famous thatched cottage future generations still remember today.
And here is the cruel irony.
The darkest, poorest, most miserable period of Du Fu's life accidentally became the peak of his literary career.
Nearly forty percent of his surviving masterpieces were written while he was living as a broke refugee struggling to survive in a leaking hut.
History really does love tormenting artists before making them immortal.
In the winter of 770, Du Fu died alone aboard a small wooden boat traveling between Tanzhou and Yueyang.
He was sick. Poor. Exhausted. Fifty-nine years old.
The Saint of Poetry spent his final years wandering through the ruins of the empire he loved most.
Then we arrive at perhaps the most spiritually exhausted survivor of the entire An Lushan era.
Wang Wei.
The Buddha of Poetry.
Now unlike Du Fu, whose life was constant suffering, Wang Wei actually began as one of the great success stories of High Tang society.
Gifted scholar. Elite painter. Musical genius. Top-tier poet. Successful official.
The man basically completed the cultured aristocrat starter pack.
And on top of all that, he possessed a deeply Buddhist worldview. Detached. Quiet. Elegant. His poetry feels like drifting through mountains wrapped in mist.
Then the rebellion happened and reality kicked the door down.
When Chang'an fell, Wang Wei was trapped inside the city alongside many high-ranking officials. The rebels rounded them up and presented a very straightforward career choice:
Join the new regime. Or die.
And honestly, this is where history becomes morally uncomfortable.
Because Wang Wei chose survival.
He accepted an official position under the rebel administration.
Now to be fair, this was not some enthusiastic ideological conversion. Historical records make it pretty clear Wang Wei was miserable during the entire experience. But from the perspective of the restored Tang court later on, nuance did not matter much.
After imperial forces recaptured Chang'an, every official who had remained under rebel occupation suddenly looked very suspicious.
And Wang Wei got thrown straight onto death row.
One wrong political gust and the Buddha of Poetry was about to lose his head.
This is where his younger brother Wang Jin entered the story.
Wang Jin was a respected imperial minister who had performed well during the war. The moment he heard his brother was facing execution, he marched into court, removed his official robes, and offered to surrender his entire career and status in exchange for Wang Wei's life.
Imagine throwing away decades of political success just to save your older brother.
But even that might not have been enough.
Then someone uncovered a poem Wang Wei had secretly written while trapped inside the rebel headquarters.
The poem described the desolation around Ningbi Pool after the fall of Chang'an. Beneath the surface, it was openly mourning the Tang Dynasty and quietly condemning the rebels occupying the capital.
In other words, Wang Wei had been hiding anti-rebel sentiment directly inside his poetry the entire time.
And somehow... it worked.
The Emperor accepted the poem as proof of loyalty.
Wang Wei was pardoned.
But survival came with a price.
The rebellion shattered him psychologically.
The elegant serenity that once defined his work slowly transformed into exhaustion and spiritual emptiness. Over the next few years, Wang Wei withdrew further and further from political life, eventually abandoning much of his official status altogether.
He retreated into Buddhist practice, countryside living, and quiet isolation.
Four years later, he died from illness.
Honestly, Wang Wei's story perfectly captures one of the ugliest questions produced by civil wars:
If survival itself becomes morally compromising, what does loyalty even mean anymore?
On the opposite end of the spectrum, we find Gao Shi, a man who navigated the political storm like a seasoned corporate player.
When Tong Pass collapsed and the imperial front imploded, chaos swallowed the roads west of Chang'an. Generals were dying, officials were panicking, and the imperial court was basically speedrunning total collapse.
Gao Shi saw the writing on the wall immediately.
The moment he realized Emperor Xuanzong was preparing to flee the capital under cover of darkness, Gao Shi rushed out to intercept the royal convoy and delivered an extremely polished strategic recommendation.
Translation: he said exactly what the Emperor needed to hear.
Xuanzong was pleased. Very pleased.
So pleased, in fact, that Gao Shi received an immediate promotion to Imperial Censor right there during the retreat.
Now here is the important thing about Gao Shi.
Unlike many idealistic scholars of the Tang era, Gao Shi possessed excellent political instincts and zero attachment to romantic loyalty narratives.
When the dynasty split into two political centers, with Li Longji hiding in Sichuan and Li Heng establishing a new regime in the north, Gao Shi adapted instantly.
No hesitation. No emotional conflict. No dramatic speeches about legitimacy.
He smoothly transferred his allegiance to Emperor Suzong and continued climbing.
And to be fair, he was genuinely competent.
Li Heng appointed him Military Governor of Huainan, where Gao Shi successfully crushed the rebellion launched by Prince Yong. Military victories stacked up. Promotions followed. Noble titles arrived one after another until he eventually became the Marquis of Bohai.
From a purely career-oriented perspective, Gao Shi absolutely mastered the chaos of the An Lushan era.
But politically successful people rarely become beloved historical figures.
Especially not among poets.
Because Gao Shi's rise came with a social cost.
Back in their younger days, Gao Shi had traveled the empire alongside Li Bai and Du Fu. The three men drank together, exchanged poetry together, wandered through taverns together. They called each other lifelong brothers.
Then history tested that brotherhood.
Li Bai fell into political disaster. Du Fu sank into poverty and displacement.
And Gao Shi?
Gao Shi quietly disappeared behind the walls of officialdom.
He stopped responding to letters. Stopped offering help. Stopped acknowledging old friendships altogether.
While Du Fu wandered through famine and exile, Gao Shi sat inside military headquarters commanding troops and managing estates.
Now to be fair, this was probably the rational decision.
The An Lushan era was politically radioactive. Associating with disgraced figures could absolutely destroy your own career.
But emotionally? Future generations never really forgave him for it.
Because there is something deeply painful about watching old drinking companions become strangers the moment survival becomes inconvenient.
And honestly, Gao Shi's story raises another uncomfortable question.
During an age of collapse, what matters more?
Remaining loyal to your ideals and suffering beside your friends?
Or preserving your own power so you can continue surviving inside the system?
And finally, we arrive at the strongest poet in the Tang Dynasty. Unfortunately, we are also arriving at one of the weakest political lifeforms ever produced by human civilization.
Li Bai.
The Immortal of Poetry.
Now before we dive into his spectacular political failures, let's establish why this man matters. Because on paper, Li Bai should have been nothing more than a footnote. A guy who failed at every official position he ever held. A guy who backed the wrong prince and got himself exiled. A guy who spent his final years drifting between relatives like a broke uncle who can't hold down a job.
But here's the thing. Li Bai's poetry was so good that none of that mattered. His verses didn't just describe beauty. They made you feel like you were flying. Mountains, rivers, moonlight, wine, friendship, loneliness, the vastness of the cosmos. He wrote about these things with a wildness and freedom that nobody had ever achieved before. His imagination didn't walk. It soared.
Reading Li Bai feels like standing on the edge of a cliff during a thunderstorm and realizing you're not afraid. That's why later generations called him the Immortal of Poetry. Not because he was perfect. Because his words felt like they came from somewhere beyond the mortal world.
So when we talk about Li Bai's stat distribution being unbalanced, understand the scale here. His poetry stat wasn't just high. It was maxed out. Level capped. Broken. And then his political stat was sitting at absolute zero.
The heavens poured every single talent point into poetry, imagination, charisma, confidence, swordplay, drinking ability, and pure protagonist aura. Then they looked at his political judgment and allocated nothing.
This man possessed the strategic awareness of a deer walking toward a hunting trap because the scenery looked pretty.
Despite this, Li Bai spent basically his entire adult life trying to enter government service. The man dreamed of military glory. He wanted to achieve great accomplishments, stabilize the empire, assist the Emperor, and leave behind a legendary political career. The problem? Li Bai understood politics the same way a fish understands mountain climbing.
When the An Lushan Rebellion exploded across the empire, Li Bai genuinely produced some incredible patriotic poetry mourning the fall of Luoyang. Emotionally, he was loyal to the Tang Dynasty. Practically speaking, however, the man immediately wandered into one of the worst political decisions imaginable.
Prince Yong, Li Lin, invited Li Bai into his personal staff.
Now, a normal official seeing this situation would stop for maybe five seconds and ask several important questions. Why is this prince gathering troops? Why is he recruiting officials? Why are there warships? Why is everyone around him speaking like they're about to commit treason?
Li Bai asked none of these questions. He packed his bags instantly and boarded the rebellion express with the enthusiasm of a tourist joining a poetry club.
Unfortunately for him, Prince Yong was not building a literary salon. He was preparing to fight his own brother, Li Heng, for control of the empire. The moment Prince Yong lost, Li Bai's situation transformed from "famous poet" into "active political accomplice to armed rebellion." And to make things even worse, Li Bai had enthusiastically written poems praising the prince's military campaign. From the perspective of Li Heng's court, this was not artistic confusion. This was propaganda.
Under normal circumstances, this ends with an execution. The only reason Li Bai survived was because his reputation had already ascended into the stratosphere. Killing him would've been like publicly executing the living embodiment of Tang poetry itself.
So the court compromised. Instead of chopping off his head, they exiled him to Yelang, a distant southern frontier famous for disease, isolation, humidity, and generally terrible living conditions. By sheer luck, an imperial amnesty arrived before Li Bai fully reached the destination.
He survived. But the years of chaos, exile, stress, and illness had already hollowed him out.
The Immortal of Poetry spent his final years drifting between relatives and friends, physically weakened, politically disillusioned, and far removed from the dazzling glory of the High Tang world he once knew. Eventually, Li Bai died quietly in the home of his uncle Li Yangbing.
Nearly nine centuries after the An Lushan Rebellion ripped the Tang Dynasty apart, the Ming Dynasty found itself staring into the exact same abyss.
The capital had fallen. The mountains and rivers were broken. The old world was dying in fire.
Two years after Beijing collapsed, a scholar named Chen Zilong chose to drown himself in a river rather than bow his head to the advancing Qing army.
Before his death, during those final months of resistance, Chen Zilong wrote a line heavy enough to crush an era:
'Dreaming of Chang'an thirty thousand li away, the ocean wind snaps across the western desert peaks.'
Notice something fascinating here.
Chen Zilong was a man of the late Ming Dynasty. The Tang Dynasty had already been dead for nearly a thousand years.
Yet when he tried to imagine the absolute peak of Chinese power, when he searched for a symbol of civilization strong enough to save a collapsing world, his mind still instinctively returned to Chang'an. Returned to Tang. Returned to the age of Li Shimin.
That is the cultural gravity the Tang Dynasty left behind.
And the phrase 'Chang'an thirty thousand li' wasn't random poetic decoration either. It referenced an old legend from the Zhenguan era.
According to historical rumors, during Li Shimin's reign, a giant stone monument once stood near Kaiyuan Gate in Chang'an. Carved onto it were words supposedly written by the legendary calligrapher Yu Shinan:
'The Western Extreme Road lies nine thousand nine hundred li from this point.'
The meaning was simple. Do not fear the distance. The Tang road reaches the edge of the world.
Basically, this was imperial psychological warfare disguised as tourism marketing. Imagine being a merchant preparing to cross the deserts of the Western Regions, terrified that you were marching beyond civilization itself, and then the government plants a giant sign at the city gate saying: Relax. The Tang Empire already owns half the map ahead of you.
Now, modern historians absolutely love arguing about this story. Because technically speaking, the timeline is nonsense. Yu Shinan died in the twelfth year of Zhenguan. But Li Shimin didn't conquer Gaochang until the fourteenth year. Meaning the Tang Dynasty hadn't even secured the territory necessary to measure that kind of western route yet.
In other words, Li Shimin may have been flexing borders he hadn't conquered yet. The man saw unexplored territory and basically said: 'Future Tang problem. We'll own it eventually.'
And honestly? Considering this is Li Shimin we're talking about, that level of confidence sounds completely believable.
But historical accuracy stopped mattering after a certain point. Because from the High Tang onward, Chang'an itself evolved into something larger than a physical capital city. It became a cultural coordinate. A symbol. Whenever later generations imagined a powerful, prosperous, confident civilization, they imagined Chang'an. Whenever poets dreamed about restoring lost glory, they dreamed about Tang.
So for the next chapter, we are turning the clock backward. Far backward. Before the rebellions. Before the decadence. Before Yang Guozhong. Before An Lushan.
We are going back to the beginning.
Because if we want to understand how the Tang Dynasty fell apart, first we need to understand how this terrifying ten-thousand-li empire was built in the first place.]
"This is nothing less than cold-blooded murder disguised as administrative duty!" Wei Zheng roared, his eyes flashing with fury as the light screen faded into a gentle glow.
He held the sacrifices of the Yan family in the highest regard, and seeing a literary titan like Wang Changling butchered over a bureaucratic ego trip made his blood boil. "Even if the man had left his post without authorization, our imperial code dictates a sentence of military exile. Execution is a blatant violation of the law!"
Du Ruhui nodded firmly, his fingers tapping a sharp rhythm against his ivory tablet.
"Xuancheng is correct. Even under strict wartime protocol, a governor does not possess the legal authority to summarily execute an official of Wang's standing. He should have been bound in chains and escorted directly to the Supreme Court in Chang'an for a formal trial."
The light screen began to cycle through the surviving fragments of Wang Changling's border poetry, the large characters illuminating the dark wood of the palace beams.
Li Jing stood still, his eyes locked onto the verses. A look of respect settled across the old general's weathered face.
"The rhythm of these lines... it carries the clash of iron shields and cavalry charges. This is not the soft, decorative verse of a palace bureaucrat. This is the authentic voice of the frontier. A man who can write like this belongs on a horse, leading men into battle, not dying in a damp provincial dungeon."
---
Down in the Three Kingdoms theater, the atmosphere inside the Shu Han command tent was remarkably different.
Zhang Fei was staring at the light screen with a look of sudden clarity, his massive fists resting on his knees.
"Well, everything finally makes sense now," Zhang Fei muttered, his voice rumbling through the canvas walls. "I used to watch these future broadcasts and wonder why this Du Fu fellow was so obsessed with our Kongming. Every time he wrote a poem about Chengdu, he was practically weeping over the Wuhuo Shrines."
He turned to look at Kongming, who was sitting quietly by the lamp. "Think about it from his perspective. He lived through an disaster where every single politician he met was either a corrupt parasite like Lu Qi or a treacherous opportunist like Gao Shi. Then he finally drifts down into Sichuan, walks into a local temple, and discovers that the people are still voluntarily worshiping a Chancellor who died decades ago."
Zhang Fei slammed his hand onto the table. "Who wouldn't fall in love with a strategist like that? A man who took a broken state, accepted command in the middle of a military disaster, and carried the entire weight of the realm on his back without ever stealing a single copper coin from the treasury? It's just a shame that when the late Tang finally got their hands on a brilliant mind like Li Bi, the emperors treated him like an inconvenience."
Kongming remained silent, his eyes lingering on the text of Du Fu's Deng Gao displayed on the light screen.
The sorrow in those lines, the image of an old, sick poet climbing a terrace alone in the bitter autumn wind, struck a deep chord within his own soul.
He felt a strange connection to this future friend he would never meet.
Liu Bei glanced at Kongming, who was still staring at Du Fu's poem. "You know," Liu Bei murmured, "this Du Fu fellow... he never met you, yet he understood you better than most men who shared a tent with us."
He paused. "I wonder if anyone will write about us like that, a thousand years from now."
---
Fang Xuanling studied the verse carefully, his analytical mind breaking down the subtle political subtext hidden within the imagery. "The structural integrity of his loyalty is still visible here," he murmured to the other Tang ministers.
"The line regarding the ten thousand households mourning amidst the wild smoke proves that his heart never belonged to the rebel administration. He was a prisoner of war writing under extreme duress."
Wei Zheng let out a cold snort, his posture rigid. "A safe defense, Fang Qiao. It is easy to write passive-aggressive poetry by a garden pool while your colleagues are being executed in the streets for refusing to sign the rebel manifesto. Compare his survival to Du Fu, who crawled through a warzone to find his rightful sovereign. The difference in moral courage is night and day."
"And what of Gao Shi?" Zhangsun Wuji asked, a sharp, knowing smile playing on his lips.
"The future descendant calls him an opportunist, but from a purely administrative standpoint, his maneuvers were flawless. He preserved his army at Tongguan Pass, secured the personal trust of two successive emperors, crushed a major royal rebellion in the south, and died with a marquisate. That isn't just luck; that is exceptional political survival."
Li Shimin didn't join the debate. He was focused on the section regarding Li Bai, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
"Maxed-out poetic genius, zero political intelligence," Li Shimin repeated the streamer's phrase, amused by the modern terminology.
"The boy writes a poem celebrating two suns in the sky and wonders why the reigning Emperor wants to chop his head off? It's a miracle he survived long enough to die of old age. If a man like that walked into my court, I would confiscate his political clearance, hand him a lifetime supply of wine, and lock him in a library for his own safety."
The light screen suddenly flashed, shifting its focus away from the Tang Dynasty entirely, plunging the viewers into the dark, rain-soaked final days of the Ming Dynasty.
The image of Chen Zilong standing by the edge of a rushing river, his eyes filled with defiance as the Manchu banners approached the horizon, filled the hall.
The text of his final poem appeared in bold, silver characters: 'Dreaming of Chang'an thirty thousand li away...'
Li Shimin's laughter vanished. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as the narrator began to detail the ancient legend of the stone monument at the Kaiyuan Gate.
"Wait a moment," Li Shimin muttered, his ears turning a subtle shade of pink as he felt the collective gaze of his entire cabinet slowly turn toward the throne.
"The future commentator is making wild assumptions. I am a man of administrative precision! Why would I order Yu Shinan to carve a specific distance onto a milestone if we hadn't verified the territory?"
Wei Zheng slowly turned his head, a flat, unimpressed expression on his face.
"Your Majesty, if I recall the imperial journals correctly, Yu Shinan passed away in the twelfth year of your reign. We didn't launch the western campaign against Gaochang until the fourteenth year. Would you care to explain how our surveyors managed to measure a nine-thousand-li imperial highway through a sovereign kingdom that was hostile to our borders at the time?"
Li Shimin cleared his throat loudly, shifting his weight on the dragon throne.
"It was an exercise in long-term strategic planning! A great ruler must project confidence to his people. I knew with certainty that Gaochang would fall within twenty-four months. Printing the distance early was simply a method to save on municipal construction costs!"
Zhangsun Wuji smoothly stepped forward, stepping into the line of sight to break the tension.
"The Emperor's foresight is a blessing to the state. Besides, as the future voice stated, the technical timeline is irrelevant. The monument served its purpose. For the next thousand years, every soldier, poet, and martyr who bled for this land carried the image of Chang'an in their hearts. That isn't bragging; that is the foundation of an empire."