Phi-Fic Chapter 400 Fire-Resistant Cloth
Chapter 400 Fire-Resistant Cloth
Outside the Danfeng Gate of the Daming Palace in Chang'an, the rain had just stopped and the sky was clear, a rainbow arching across the horizon like a newly polished jade pendant. Little Sizi—Princess Jinyang—dressed today in a crimson gauze robe and a soft turban, quietly blending into the welcoming procession of the Honglu Temple officials. She was only twelve years old, yet she had already memorized the *Illustrated Gazetteer of the Western Regions* and the *Great Tang Records on the Western Regions* perfectly, carrying in her heart a road longer than silk.
Three drumbeats resounded, the imperial guards cleared the way, and the palace gates slowly swung open. The first thing that caught the eye was a group of white-clad knights, their hats adorned with snow-white feathers, and their waists adorned with silver-sheathed scimitars—they were an envoy from "Belarus," calling themselves "White People," sent to court by the Khan. Little Si blinked, recalling the description in the book, "In the far west there is a country, its land covered in snow, its people brave and fierce," and today he was actually witnessing it firsthand.
Following them was a caravan of merchants from "Western India and Persia" wearing long green silk robes and white headscarves—she recognized the banner as bearing the name "Pakistan." The bearded general leading the caravan carried a glass box containing a crescent-shaped dagger inlaid with seven jewels, which he said was a gift to the Tang Emperor to celebrate "eighty years of victory of the Eastern Lands over the Japanese pirates."
Behind them came a line of camel bells, with golden bells and felt embroidered with flame patterns hanging from their backs. The official in charge of the Court of State Ceremonies reported in a low voice: "These are the 'Kazakhs' and 'Uzbeks' who came after the Kingdom of Shi and the Kingdom of Kang, both from the Pamir Mountains." The camel bells jingled crisply, like shattered jade being scattered in the wind.
Little Sizi raised her head and saw her father, Emperor Li Shimin, and her mother, Empress Zhangsun, standing side by side on the imperial steps, with hundreds of officials standing solemnly behind them, banners obscuring the sun. Amidst the sound of drums and horns, she suddenly felt a warmth in her chest:
—The “royal crowns of all nations” described in history books could actually come to life right before my eyes.
She quietly took out a small gilded bronze mirror from her sleeve. The back of the mirror was engraved with the four characters "The One Under Heaven," which she had polished herself. She held the bronze mirror high and looked it at the setting sun. The mirror reflected camel bells, snow feathers, a green robe, a white handkerchief, and also the gilded bronze nails on the Danfeng Gate.
“If my brother were here, he would be happy too,” she said softly.
She recalled the Crown Prince Chengqian, who had passed away three years earlier, and his words: "The territory of the Tang Dynasty extends beyond the drums of Chang'an, and to the places where camel bells can be heard."
At this moment, the sound of camel bells is passing through Zhuque Street, through the willows of Baqiao Bridge, through the sandstorms outside Yumen Pass, all the way westward until the last ray of sunset on the horizon.
Little Sizi smiled, a smile as radiant as a newly blossoming pomegranate flower. She tucked the bronze mirror into her sleeve, stood on tiptoe, and softly recited a line in the wind:
May this world never again be ravaged by war.
The drums sounded again, officials bowed, and all nations came to pay homage.
She quietly etched this scene into her heart, like hiding a tiny spark in the deepest brocade box, illuminating her long life thereafter.
Outside Danfeng Gate, the ceremonial procession had not yet dispersed, and the drums and horns still resounded. Just as Xiao Sizi was about to turn back, the street drums in the distance abruptly ceased, and a column of black-armored cavalry galloped in, their hooves striking the stones, sparks flying. The Minister of the Court of State Ceremonies rushed to the steps and bowed to report: "Your Majesty, an envoy from the 'former territory of Goguryeo' in the east has arrived, claiming to be 'King of Korea,' Kim Jong-un, riding in a golden-embroidered carriage and carrying a black dragon flag, and has reached Baqiao!"
The drumbeats changed again, a deep, resonant three times, like a frozen river suddenly breaking apart. The officials turned to see a magnificent eight-horse chariot, its wheels red and its canopy black, adorned with red leopards and yellow bears, slowly enter through the wide-open city gates. The chariot curtains hung low, revealing a white background with red patterns of the "Seven Stars" embroidered on black silk—Little Sizi recognized it as the emblem of the new ruler of Haidong. The knights beside the chariot wore short blue satin tunics, longbows on their backs, fine blades at their waists, their steps heavy and their eyes piercing.
The carriage stopped at the foot of the steps, and the curtains slowly rolled up. First, a female official stepped forward, dressed in a plain robe with wide sleeves, a white camellia tucked behind her ear—the Grand Secretary whispered, "This is Choi Seon-hee, the Minister of Foreign Affairs of Korea, a female prime minister." Then, a young monarch, wearing a black silk robe with a round collar and a jade belt, bowed and stepped forward. He was barely twenty, with serene features and a single vermilion dot on his forehead, like a cold star in the snow. He did not follow custom by removing his sword, but merely raised his hand to bow slightly towards the steps, his voice low but clear:
"Our small state in the east of the sea has been blessed by the late Emperor of the Great Tang Dynasty. Now we hear that the Heavenly Khan is commemorating the 80th anniversary of the fight against the Japanese pirates. We wish to offer ten thousand bolts of white ramie cloth, a thousand catties of ginseng, and a pair of gyrfalcons to Your Majesty for your longevity, and also to pray for an end to war for all the people."
Li Shimin answered the greeting in a loud voice, his voice carrying through the palace walls like the roar of a dragon and the cry of a phoenix: "I have heard that the land of Korea once belonged to Gija, and that people have always upheld propriety and righteousness. Now that you have come from thousands of miles away to commemorate our past glories, I am very pleased."
Little Si Zi hid behind the gilded bronze lion, her heart pounding like a deer's. She had never seen such a solemn procession, yet she caught a glimpse of a similar loneliness in the young monarch's brow. She suddenly remembered her mother's words: "The most precious thing in the world is a young person who can endure loneliness."
Kim Jong-un looked up, his eyes meeting those of the young boy. In that instant, the sounds of drums, camel bells, and wind on Suzaku Avenue all faded away. The boy nodded slightly, as if greeting him, or perhaps bidding him farewell. The young boy involuntarily returned the bow, his fingertips touching the small, gilded mirror in his sleeve. The mirror reflected the crimson maple leaves embroidered on the young man's black robe—a color that only appears after the first frost in Haidong.
The drums sounded again, and the officials shouted "Long live the Emperor!" Kim Jong-un turned and boarded his carriage. The carriage curtains fell, and black silk concealed the last trace of the autumn leaves. Little Sizi stood there, suddenly feeling that the autumn wind in Chang'an was colder than in previous years, but for the first time, she understood:
The drumbeats of the Tang Dynasty could summon not only the camel bells of the Western Regions, but also the frost-covered maples of the East Sea.
She raised her hand and held the small mirror in her sleeve up to the setting sun. In the mirror, the red maple leaves and golden clouds intertwined, like an invisible long road stretching from Chang'an all the way to the Yalu River.
May this road be long and free from war.
She thought to herself, her voice as soft as a maple leaf falling to the ground, yet heavy enough to overwhelm a thousand years of war drums.
[Continued - Du Family Night Talk]
At 1:30 a.m., in a trading room of less than ten square meters in Gaoqiao, Pudong, Du Laozhao slammed his enamel mug down next to the screen, causing ripples to spread across the remaining Longjing tea at the bottom. The K-line chart was still hovering around the "old position" of 64-69, so he grabbed a pen, wrote "Houthi rockets = a shot in the arm, effective in one hour" on a sticky note, and slapped it onto the monitor frame like a picture of the Kitchen God.
In the WeChat group "Du Family Oil Mill," Du Xiaobing, the daughter, posted a ship inspection chart: "The Indians say they didn't run a laundry, but the Ural premium shrank to -$6 in August! They're all talk and no action." She added an eye-rolling emoji at the end.
Du Laozhao replied with a voice message: "Little girl, he's called Bharat now, not Ah San."
“Okay, Sister Bharat.” Du Xiaobing replied instantly, “But if Sister Bharat keeps buying Urals like this, sooner or later she’ll have to tweet her name to Trump.”
The group chat erupted in laughter, but Lao Zao stared at the 3 short positions on the INE order book—like icicles forming on a stove in winter, cold and hard.
He leaned back in his chair, the plastic armrests creaking: "The dollar is still down from 97.68, and US Treasury bonds are also deflated at 112.36. Oil should be rising, but Brent crude is being squeezed by the 20-day moving average on a weekly chart, looking like a sausage."
At 02:11, Bloomberg broke: The Russian Energy Ministry is "considering" an additional 500,000 barrel export cut in September. Brent crude surged to 68.90 in one minute. The old man's finger hovered over "buy," while behind him came the hissing sound of a pressure cooker in the kitchen—his wife was stewing pork hock.
“It’s fake,” the daughter sent two voice messages in quick succession. “Moscow just denied it, don’t be impulsive.”
The price plummeted back to its original level in an instant, like a bucket of cold water being poured into a hot oil pan. Old Zao wiped the sweat from his brow and gulped down half a vat of cooled Longjing tea.
“Then let’s keep enduring,” he said in the group chat. “Endure until Trump speaks up, endure until Houthis actually throw rockets onto ships, endure until the dollar breaks 97.”
INE opening countdown: 03:59:47.
Lao Zao quietly lowered the stop loss by two notches and casually changed the group name of "Du Family Oil Mill" to "No Turning Over Tonight".
My wife called from the kitchen, "The pork hock is ready! Do you want some chili?"
"Put in less," the old man replied to the door. "The oil is still in the pot, don't put it on the fire yet."