[Lightscreen]
[Historically speaking, the island nation of Japan maintained an intermittent and complicated relationship with the Korean Peninsula. They were the noisy neighbors across the water who constantly wanted to involve themselves in continental drama, like that one relative who always shows up uninvited to family gatherings.
To fully understand their mindset, we have to rewind the clock back to the era of the Sui Dynasty. The Japanese imperial court sent a famous envoy named Ono no Imoko to visit the Sui capital. This diplomat carried a formal greeting letter intended for the sovereign of the Central Plains.
The opening line of this diplomatic missive read exactly like this: "From the Son of Heaven in the land where the sun rises, to the Son of Heaven in the land where the sun sets."
Now, imagine handing that letter to Emperor Yang of the Sui Dynasty, a man whose ego could rival the size of a mountain.
The historical records diplomatically state that Emperor Yang, frequently mocked by later generations as 'the Grandiose Emperor', was incredibly displeased. In reality, he probably wanted to execute the envoy on the spot. The sheer audacity of a peripheral island nation placing themselves on equal footing with the supreme ruler of the Chinese mainland was mind boggling.
But Emperor Yang, being the pragmatic despot that he was, still sent envoys back to Japan because he needed their support against Goguryeo. Politics makes strange bedfellows.
While the diplomatic relationship with the Sui Dynasty soured rapidly after that hilarious blunder, the Japanese court did not isolate themselves. Instead, they aggressively strengthened their political and trade connections with the various kingdoms on the Korean Peninsula.
Through these peninsula networks, the Japanese leadership finally learned a terrifying truth. They discovered that the Korean Peninsula had a heavily armed father figure looming in the north. That father figure was Goguryeo.
The Sui Dynasty was geographically far away. Goguryeo, however, was comfortably close. For decades, the Japanese government viewed the mighty Goguryeo empire as the single greatest obstacle preventing them from projecting their own military power into the Korean Peninsula.
Then came the nineteenth year of the Zhenguan reign. Li Shimin personally led a military expedition to the east. He slammed into Goguryeo with the force of a meteor. He grabbed this supposedly invincible northern powerhouse by the throat and proceeded to beat them senseless.
The Tang army smashed fortresses and slaughtered legions. They proved that the real apex predator of Asia had arrived. Of course, Li Shimin ultimately failed to take Pyongyang itself, but the message was clear: Goguryeo was no longer invincible, and the Tang were coming for everyone.
When the detailed battle reports of Li Shimin's brutal campaign finally filtered across the ocean and reached the Japanese islands, the domestic reaction was sheer panic. The Japanese aristocracy experienced a collective geopolitical earthquake. They realized they were outmatched and outclassed.
By the early months of the twentieth year of the Zhenguan reign, this overwhelming external pressure triggered an internal political crisis. A violent coup d'état swept through the Japanese capital. This was the famous Incident of Isshi, where Prince Naka no Ōe and his ally Nakatomi no Kamatari burst into the imperial palace and assassinated the powerful minister Soga no Iruka in front of Empress Kōgyoku herself. The Empress was so shocked that she immediately abdicated the throne, and her younger brother ascended as Emperor Kōtoku.
The new Emperor's very first administrative action was to issue the sweeping Edict of Reforms. Furthermore, for the first time in their national history, the Japanese court adopted an official era name. They chose the characters for 'Great Transformation', known historically as the Taika era. Therefore, this entire political overhaul is famously recorded as the Taika Reforms.
If we strip away all the fancy historical terminology, the Taika Reforms can be summarized in one simple sentence. The Japanese government looked at the Tang Dynasty operating system, hit copy, and hit paste.
Because the logic was flawless. If the Great Tang Empire possessed the military capacity to easily crush Goguryeo, then studying the Great Tang Empire was the only path to national survival. You learn from the strongest guy in the room. That was just common sense.
They plagiarized everything. They copied the absolute core of the Tang central government structure, implementing the Three Departments and Six Ministries system. They tweaked the names slightly and called it the Dajōkan, the Grand Council of State, with its Eight Ministries and Hundred Officials system. The function was identical, though the titles had a distinctly Japanese flavor.
They looked at the Tang model of regional administration, specifically the Prefecture and County system. They scratched out the serial numbers, relabeled it the Province and District system, and rolled it out across their islands. The geographical boundaries changed, but the underlying logic remained pure Tang.
They studied the complex Equal Field system used to manage Tang agricultural lands. They made a few localized adjustments and proudly announced their brand new Allotment Land system, known in Japanese as handen shuju. And when it came to the famous Zu Yong Diao tax code, the foundational economic engine of the Tang Dynasty? The Japanese officials did not even bother trying to hide the theft. They copied the tax system word for word, character for character. They imported the entire financial structure without changing a single punctuation mark.
But here is the funny thing. While Japan copied the Tang administrative structure, they fundamentally missed one crucial element: meritocracy. In Tang, officials were promoted based on ability and performance. In Japan, only the most powerful aristocratic families could hold important positions. The Fujiwara clan, the Soga clan, the imperial relatives. It was a system designed by elites to keep elites in power. The copies looked the same on paper, but the spirit was completely different.
The sudden infusion of these advanced, efficient Tang administrative systems brought transformative changes to Japanese society. Their state capacity skyrocketed. Their economy centralized. And predictably, their national ego inflated to catastrophic proportions. Like a teenager who just learned a few fancy words and suddenly thinks they are an intellectual.
Fueled by this new centralized power, the Japanese court began to actively and aggressively intervene in the chaotic politics of the Korean Peninsula. Remember that military alliance where Baekje and Goguryeo teamed up to viciously attack Silla? If you dig into the historical shadows behind that war, you will find Japanese diplomats whispering in corners, actively instigating the conflict and offering backroom support. They were the puppet masters pulling strings from across the water.
However, Li Zhi was not a fool. When it came to sniffing out political treachery, he possessed the instincts of a bloodhound. The man had been trained by his father, after all.
Right before General Su Dingfang officially launched his amphibious invasion to annihilate Baekje, Li Zhi made a brilliant preemptive move. He diplomatically isolated Japan, cutting off all communication channels between the islands and the peninsula. No ships, no messages, no envoys. The Japanese court was left completely in the dark, unable to send reinforcements or warnings to their Baekje allies. By the time the Japanese government finally pieced together what was happening, the war was already over. Li Zhi was already standing in Luoyang, accepting the formal surrender of the captured Baekje royal family. It was a masterclass in strategic information control.
Now, the Tang army had established a physical, heavily armed presence on the peninsula. Back in Japan, Empress Kōgyoku, who had once again ascended the throne as Empress Saimei after her brother's death, watched the situation unfold and started sweating bullets. She correctly deduced that if she waited any longer, the Tang Dynasty would consume the entire peninsula, leaving Japan with absolutely nothing. Driven by a burning desire for conquest, the Empress pushed for immediate military mobilization. She even declared her intention to personally lead the invasion fleet. Her name was Takara, and she had ambitions as big as her spirit.
But history loves a good plot twist. Right on the eve of this grand naval deployment, Empress Saimei suddenly died in the summer of 661 at the imperial camp in Kyushu. She simply expired, leaving her grand ambitions unfulfilled and her generals scrambling.
The newly crowned Emperor who took her place was her son, Prince Naka no Ōe, who would later be known as Emperor Tenji. He lacked his mother's fiery aggression. He looked at the Tang war machine and got cold feet. His first move was to hit the brakes on the invasion fleet. He officially pivoted their foreign policy from direct military intervention to providing logistical aid and weapons to the Baekje resistance fighters and the Goguryeo army.
However, while he publicly preached a defensive strategy, he secretly ordered the shipyards to continue building warships. He continued drafting thousands of peasants into the military. His strategic posture was obvious. He wanted to play both sides of the fence. The man was not brave enough to fight, but he was too greedy to just walk away.
His calculation was simple. If the Tang army proved to be an invincible juggernaut, the Japanese forces would stay home and pretend nothing happened. But if the Tang army started losing, if they stumbled in the mud, the Japanese fleet would immediately cross the ocean, stab the Tang in the back, and steal the peninsula. It was a classic hedge strategy, the kind that makes everyone hate you but technically keeps you alive.
This fence sitting strategy was perfectly logical for Japan. From their perspective, why rush into a bloody war when you can sit back, watch your enemies bleed each other dry, and then swoop in to claim the leftovers? Smart move. Calculated. Safe.
But for the besieged forces of Baekje and Goguryeo, it was a total disaster. They were currently getting hammered by Tang steel. Their cities were burning. Their soldiers were dying. And their supposed ally across the water, the one they had made secret deals with, the one who had promised to have their backs, was suddenly getting stage fright?
Come on. That is not how brotherhood works. There is a basic rule of human society, one that even street thugs understand. When your brother is in a fight, you show up. When your friend is getting beaten to a pulp, you do not just stand there and watch. You pick up a brick and you jump in. That is the deal. That is what it means to be allies.
But Japan was not showing up. Japan was sitting on the sidelines, weighing their options like merchants calculating profit margins. The leaders of Baekje and Goguryeo stared at the reports from across the water and felt nothing but boiling rage. Their cities were falling, their people were dying, and their supposed ally was asking for a risk assessment?
Absolutely not. If Japan would not come willingly, then they would have to be tricked into coming. The Japanese needed to be dragged into the meat grinder by any means necessary. Lies, exaggerations, fake news, whatever it took. The survival of their kingdoms depended on it.
Thus began one of the greatest campaigns of fake news in military history.
The remnants of the Baekje leadership, despite having their actual country wiped off the map, started capturing straggling Tang soldiers. They packaged these isolated captives and shipped them to the Japanese court as physical proof. They spun a wild narrative, claiming the Tang army was actually weak, disorganized, and collapsing under the pressure. Some historical records say they sent about a hundred Tang prisoners to Japan just to make their case convincing.
Meanwhile, the leadership of Goguryeo, who were currently trapped behind the walls of their capital city while Tang siege engines battered their gates, wrote letters to the Japanese Emperor with zero shame.
The Goguryeo propaganda letters read like pure fantasy. They claimed their warriors were braver than lions. They lied, stating they had recently destroyed two Tang military bases. They admitted that two specific fortresses were currently blocking their glorious counterattack, but promised those walls would fall any day now.
The most hilarious part of the Goguryeo letters was their description of the Tang expeditionary force. They literally wrote: 'The soldiers of Tang sit on the frozen ground, hugging their knees and weeping openly. Their weapons are dull, their physical strength is exhausted, and they lack the power to even pull their boots from the mud.'
By combining forces, the propaganda departments of Baekje and Goguryeo executed their traditional con game flawlessly. They completely scammed the Japanese government.
Reading these glowing reports of Tang incompetence, the Japanese leadership bought the lie hook, line, and sinker. They became frantic with greed. They mobilized their fleets and rushed to deploy troops to the peninsula to secure their piece of the pie before it was all gone.
There was only one tiny problem. The Baekje and Goguryeo diplomats had done their job too well. They had convinced the Japanese that the Tang army was already defeated. The Japanese commanders did the math. If Baekje and Goguryeo were already winning the war against the Tang, they obviously did not need to send their best troops to the main battlefields.
So, the Japanese invasion force bypassed the heavy combat zones entirely. They sailed straight toward the territory of Silla! The Japanese commanders thought they were being brilliant. They figured they would crush Silla, the weakest link in the Tang alliance, while their allies finished off the Tang in the north. Together, they would usher in a glorious new era of peninsula harmony.
When the Japanese fleet actually landed and began attacking Silla, the leaders of Baekje and Goguryeo were stunned. They stared at the reports in sheer disbelief. This was absolutely not the script they had written! They needed the Japanese to fight the Tang army, not start a random side quest against Silla! The idiots had completely misunderstood the assignment!
But standing in the muddy, frozen ruins of a besieged fortress, a recently promoted Tang commander named Liu Rengui read the chaotic intelligence reports. A brilliant smile spread across his face.
His decision to hold Sabi city against the Emperor's orders had been vindicated. His analysis that the enemy alliance would fracture from within had been proven correct. And now, the Japanese, the wild card he had been most worried about, had just made the most brilliant mistake he could have ever hoped for.
His script was finally ready to play.]
Inside the Ganlu Hall, the heavy scent of sandalwood incense could not mask the sudden shift in atmosphere.
"'The Grandiose Emperor'..." Emperor Li Shimin repeated the nickname slowly. A bemused, slightly mocking smile touched the corners of his mouth. He shook his head in amusement.
He did not fully understand the modern slang the screen was using, but his political instincts were sharp. Judging by the context and the snarky tone, he knew it was not a compliment for Emperor Yang of the Sui Dynasty.
They are mocking his name, Li Shimin thought. Yang Guang, turned into "Guang-shen" - "Lord Guang". A sarcastic jab at the man who inherited the richest empire in history and burned it to the ground in less than ten years.
Pushing the humorous insult aside, Li Shimin leaned back in his throne. He focused his attention on the breakdown of the Japanese political reforms. The Taika Reform situation was fascinating.
"These foreign upstarts certainly have an easy path," Li Shimin chuckled, gesturing toward the map. "My ancestors spent hundreds of years shedding blood, engaging in brutal philosophical debates, and refining our laws through trial and error to create the Tang system. These islanders simply sail over, copy our homework, and overhaul their entire civilization overnight."
The Emperor found the plagiarism amusing. Like a student copying the answer key and getting an A without doing any of the work.
However, sitting a few paces away, the brilliant minister Du Ruhui did not share the humor. His face was a mask of cold stone. The man looked like he had just bitten into a lemon.
"They eagerly copy our hundred systems of governance," Du Ruhui said, his voice dropping to a quiet register. "They steal our tax codes, our ministry structures, and our military organization. Yet, they deliberately ignore the single most important aspect of our civilization. They refuse to learn the morality, the ethics, and the righteousness of Hua-Xia."
Du Ruhui narrowed his eyes, staring at the location of the Japanese islands on the map like he was trying to set it on fire with his gaze alone.
"Because they possess power without morality, they remain beasts in human clothing. It is truly a source of deep hatred."
The entire pavilion fell silent. The chilling reality of the female Japanese Emperor's ambition instantly triggered a dark memory for everyone present. The magical screen had previously shown them glimpses of a distant, horrific future. A future where this exact same island nation, centuries later, would unleash catastrophic suffering and untold atrocities upon the Chinese mainland.
Because of those future visions, a smoldering resentment had taken root in Du Ruhui's heart. He analyzed the timeline. First, their historical envoy showed blatant disrespect to the sovereign of the Central Plains. Then, a mere few decades later, they developed the military capacity to actively dream of conquering the mainland. And thousands of years later, they actually attempted to execute that nightmare.
These people were not a quirky neighbor. They were a festering wound waiting to happen. They harbored predatory hearts. Du Ruhui was not about to forget that anytime soon.
Every single high ranking minister in the room nodded in grim agreement. The atmosphere grew heavy with collective hostility. You could almost feel the temperature drop.
Take a rebellious vassal state like Baekje, for example. The Tang Dynasty could analyze that conflict objectively. Yes, Baekje rebelled, but the Tang army had slaughtered their civilians first. The Tang court could swallow their pride, accept a portion of the blame, and treat it as standard geopolitical friction. It was ugly, but it was business.
But Japan was a different story. They had crossed the ocean as humble students. They had absorbed the greatest administrative and technological advancements the Tang Dynasty had to offer. They drank deeply from the well of Chinese civilization to elevate themselves from tribal obscurity. And what was their immediate response to this gift? Their very first independent thought was to organize an army to conquer their teachers.
Even a common street dog knows better than to bite the hand that provides its meals. To the Tang court, these islanders were displaying a level of treacherous ingratitude that placed them below feral animals. It was like raising a child, teaching them everything you know, and then having them try to stab you in your sleep.
Sensing the rising bloodlust in the room, Li Ji stepped forward. The legendary veteran general bowed deeply, his armor clinking softly in the quiet pavilion.
"Your Majesty," Li Ji spoke, his voice ringing with clarity. "I humbly request permission to study the arts of naval warfare. Allow me to take command of the ocean fleets, so that I may personally eradicate these treacherous enemies for the glory of the throne!"
This was not a spontaneous outburst of emotion. Li Ji had been carefully calculating his career trajectory ever since the magical screen appeared. He knew the western frontier was an empty desert, far too distant for his liking. Who wanted to chase nomads through endless sand when there were actual enemies with actual cities to conquer?
Furthermore, when he honestly evaluated his own tactical skills, he did not consider himself a peerless god of cavalry maneuvers like Su Dingfang or Li Jing. Those guys were on another level. He was good, but he was not that good.
He knew his true strengths lay elsewhere. In the historical timeline revealed by the screen, his future self was destined to crush the Xueyantuo khanate. But he knew exactly why he succeeded in that timeline. He had spent years stationed in Bingzhou. He knew the internal politics, the tribal feuds, and the backstabbing nature of the northern nomads better than anyone alive. It was a victory of intelligence, not raw martial genius. He knew who to bribe, who to threaten, and who to ignore.
Recognizing this reality, Li Ji decided to pivot. Why fight for scraps in the snowy north when a new theater of war was opening up? If he volunteered to command the nascent Tang navy, the opportunities for glory were limitless. To the east lay the volatile Korean Peninsula and the treacherous islands of Japan. To the south lay an uncharted archipelago full of exotic lands. He would never run out of targets to destroy. It was a general's dream.
Emperor Li Shimin looked at his eager general and offered a measured nod. He raised a hand, signaling for Li Ji to remain calm. Not yet, old friend. Not yet.
Currently, the Tang military was in the preliminary stages of organizing an expedition to secure the large island of Yizhou, known in modern times as Taiwan. The island was populated by fierce indigenous tribes who did not appreciate outsiders. The court desperately needed a unique type of leader for this mission. They needed a Governor-General who possessed the diplomatic skills to pacify the local populations, while simultaneously wielding the martial competence required to build and command a naval strike force. It was a tall order.
Li Shimin quietly filed Li Ji's name at the very top of his mental candidate list for the Yizhou command. It was a perfect fit. The man wanted to sail. Let him sail.
Pushing thoughts of naval appointments aside, the Emperor turned his mind back to the historical events on the screen. He analyzed his son's counter-intelligence operation in Luoyang.
"Zhi-nu handled that situation exceptionally well," Li Shimin noted, a hint of paternal pride coloring his voice.
His son might have displayed a lack of strategic vision on the battlefield, but in the realm of cutthroat domestic politics, the boy was ruthless. Moving decisively to imprison foreign diplomats to protect military secrets was a cold-blooded maneuver. It was the kind of move that made enemies think twice.
He acts exactly like me, Li Shimin thought proudly. The apple does not fall far from the tree.
As he formed that thought, the Emperor's eyes naturally drifted across the room, landing directly on Zhangsun Wuji. The silent communication was clear. Speaking of ruthless political operators...
Zhangsun Wuji felt the Emperor's gaze burning into him. He looked up, entirely confused by the sudden attention. He assumed the Emperor was silently demanding a geopolitical analysis of the situation. Better to speak than to wait, he decided.
Adjusting his wide sleeves, Zhangsun Wuji cleared his throat. He looked at the shifting political map on the screen and formulated an educated hypothesis.
"Based on this erratic behavior," Zhangsun Wuji deduced, speaking with the authority of a master statesman. "It is highly probable that the Japanese imperial court currently contains a prominent 'Pro-Tang faction'."
The phrase 'Pro-Tang faction' was a modern political term he had picked up from the screen's earlier broadcasts regarding the chaotic politics of the Western Regions. It was a useful concept, and he loved using it. Made him sound sophisticated.
Zhangsun Wuji had spent the last few weeks meditating on the internal dynamics of small bordering nations. He concluded that human nature was identical everywhere. When a tiny, fragile kingdom is forced to interact with the terrifying might of the Great Tang Empire, their internal politics will inevitably fracture. It was basic physics.
Trying to fight the Tang Dynasty was suicide. Naturally, every small nation possessed a handful of fanatical loyalists willing to die for their homeland. But the vast majority of politicians were pragmatists. They were men exactly like the cowardly grandson of the Baekje King. Men who desperately wanted to surrender and be rewarded with wealth, silk, and comfortable titles in Chang'an. They just needed the right push.
"If the ambitious Empress had truly died of natural causes," Zhangsun Wuji continued, building his argument logically. "The core military strategy of the nation should have remained consistent. The sudden, violent flip-flopping of their foreign policy implies something deeper."
Everyone in the Ganlu Pavilion was a master of political survival. The implication hit them instantly.
The messy transition of power between the dead female Emperor and the hesitant new Emperor was not a smooth succession. The sudden policy shifts proved it. Behind the closed doors of the Japanese court, a bloody factional war was raging between the war hawks and the pragmatists. Someone was winning, and someone was losing.
Li Shimin fell silent, his mind racing with possibilities. He understood the mechanics of factional warfare perfectly. The real challenge was figuring out how to weaponize it. How could the Tang Empire reach across the ocean, identify the pro-Tang politicians, and financially sponsor them to seize absolute control of the island? It was a deliciously sneaky idea.
It was normal for small kingdoms to send tribute missions to Chang'an. If they wanted to visit frequently, the Tang court welcomed them with open arms. But actually establishing a permanent, heavily armed political presence inside a foreign capital to dictate their domestic policies? That was next level.
A bold strategy began to form in the shadows of Li Shimin's mind. He chewed on the idea, feeling a slight twinge of hesitation.
Would engaging in such blatant regime change be considered too tyrannical for the Heavenly Khan? he wondered silently.
Then he remembered what the screen had shown him about the future. He remembered the suffering. He remembered the atrocities. The hesitation vanished.
Standing quietly near the edge of the pavilion, Liu Rengui was oblivious to the Emperor's dark machinations. His eyes were locked onto the magical screen, glowing with an uncharacteristic fire.
If you stripped away the polite humility expected of a Confucian scholar, the truth was simple. Who does not want their name carved into the annals of history? Who does not dream of achieving martial glory so profound that their legend is passed down for a thousand years? Everyone wants that. Everyone.
For most men, achieving eternal fame was never a question of desire. It was entirely a question of capability. You could dream all you wanted, but if you did not have the skills, you were just another official pushing papers until you died.
Liu Rengui had spent his entire life believing he was aggressively average. He was a stubborn magistrate who followed the rules. The only time his name had ever generated serious gossip was that unfortunate incident a few months ago. He had legally ordered a corrupt military officer to be beaten, and the man accidentally died during the punishment.
Back in Chencang county, every single official had treated Liu Rengui like a walking corpse. They all assumed he was going to be dragged to the capital, thrown into a dark cell, and executed for murdering a royal soldier. Liu Rengui himself had spent weeks mentally preparing for a gruesome death, making peace with his fate. He had said goodbye to his family in his heart. He had written his final letters.
Instead of an executioner's blade, he received a commendation from Emperor Li Shimin for upholding the integrity of the law. The Emperor had actually praised him. Liu Rengui still could not quite believe it.
And now, staring at this miraculous artifact from the future, reading about a man with his exact name manipulating armies and destroying empires on a frozen peninsula, an intoxicating thought bloomed in his chest.
Could it be true? Liu Rengui thought, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Do I actually possess the hidden soul of a supreme commander?