769.
The area prepared for the kurultai swallowed the largest courtyard inside the city of Beijing. The sky within the city walls was wide open, and beneath it, tents, pavilions, and temporary buildings stood in layers. It was more of an arrangement than an order. Each force had made space for themselves in their own way. In the center was the Great Khan's tent. It wasn't light enough to be called a palace, nor heavy enough to be called a tent. Golden silk draped down like pillars, and on top, patterns from the steppe and auspicious symbols from the central plains were embroidered together. It wasn't the shape of one empire, but rather the fragments of many empires joined together. Around it, the tents of the kings and nobles formed a circle. It was circular. While it seemed clear who was at the center and who was on the periphery, once inside, it was structured in such a way that anyone could claim the center.
This was the essence of the kurultai: there was a hierarchy, but no subordination; there was order, but no unity. The edges of the courtyard were occupied by military camps, relay stations, warehouses, and markets. The soldiers' armor gleamed in the sunlight, and merchants pulled carts carrying goods for the banquet. The smell of alcohol and roasted meat filled the air. The scent of the steppe mixed with the spices of the central plains. The Great Khan had bound all of this together into a banquet. Political discussions took place during the day, but winning hearts happened at night. As the sun set, fires were lit in the tents and throughout the courtyard. Torches and lanterns hung like stars, and the light gently spread through the silks of the tents. The banquet was extravagant. Whole animals were roasted, and platters of lamb, horse, deer, and camel meat were piled high. Alcohol flowed endlessly. Mongolian mare's milk, Central Plains wine, and strong liquors from the Western Regions were served together. Cups were refilled as soon as they were emptied. Musicians took their positions. The steppe string instruments played first, followed by the orchestral instruments of the central plains. It didn't matter if the rhythm didn't match. The kurultai was always like this: it didn't force mismatched things to sit together, but made people forget in the chaos.
The Great Khan frequently gave rewards. Silk, gold, silver dishes, horses, promises of land, and titles were all spread like wine. It wasn't so much a reward as a maintenance cost. It wasn't about buying loyalty but ensuring that people wouldn't turn their backs. Some of the kings laughed as they received their rewards, some bowed deeply, and others showed no emotion. But they all knew: after this banquet, each of them would return to their own lands, commanding their own armies and collecting their own taxes. The Great Khan's authority was only intact in this place. The moment he stepped outside the courtyard, he would become just another ruler among many. So, the Great Khan could not afford to stop the banquet. In a world where words couldn't govern and orders couldn't bind, wine, meat, music, and rewards were the most reliable means of control. As the night grew deeper, the laughter grew louder, and the vigilance loosened. Only in this looseness could this alliance be maintained. The kurultai was both a conference and a banquet. It was the place where the heart of the empire beat and also where that heart hid its weakening. And at the very center, the Great Khan raised his cup and laughed. If he didn't laugh, this place would fall apart.
That night's banquet was held to celebrate the arrival of the Daoist priests from Zhenjin. Park Seong-jin had not planned to attend. Since entering Beijing, he had avoided the crowds as much as possible, and the very mention of a banquet made him retreat. He needed tranquility. The wine, music, and numerous gazes were the very things he wanted to keep at a distance. But Zhang Zhiqian had asked. He requested his company. Park Seong-jin, sighing like a resignation, nodded and made his appearance at the banquet hall.
The banquet hall used both the largest halls and courtyards within Beijing. Between pillars draped in silk, torches lined the paths, and dancers gently warmed up to the long, low string instruments. The dancers' feet were light, and their hands were graceful. The rough rhythm of the steppe mixed with the refined movements of the central plains. The food came endlessly: whole roasted animals, fruits, cakes, spiced stews, and wines. Kings and nobles filled the seats, with their flags and retinues filling the space behind them. Laughter and conversation buzzed beneath the high ceilings of the hall.
In the middle of it all, Park Seong-jin remained conspicuously quiet. His attitude was at odds with the opulence around him, yet he didn't appear to be uneasy. He held his cup but didn't drink, and he didn't linger on the dancers. Just his presence subtly changed the air around him. The Great Khan raised his cup, and the hall naturally fell silent. He expressed gratitude to the Daoist priests who had traveled all this way, and praised their efforts to uphold the Dao and serve the people even in these troubled times. This wasn't just a courtesy. It was a reaffirmation of the tradition of calling the priests to the court.
Then Zhang Zhiqian stood up. After offering his respects to the Great Khan and those gathered, he took a moment to breathe and then spoke. He said that today was a day he would never forget, not as a Daoist priest but as a practitioner, and immediately explained why.
"I have met the strongest being on earth today."
The hall murmured. Zhang Zhiqian's gaze shifted toward Park Seong-jin. It was someone who had been consciously ignored until now. A strong person, but one who was hard to understand. A person who seemed capable of using violence at any moment, with an air that made people uncomfortable.
"This person is not a warrior of the Huajing; he has reached the next level, the Xianjing," Zhang Zhiqian continued.
The murmur grew louder among the nobles. Even those who weren't familiar with martial cultivation could feel the weight of his words. Zhang Zhiqian went on to explain that the cultivation of a Daoist and the realization of a warrior were not so different. One cultivated the mind, the other the body, but both reached the same final state. He acknowledged Park Seong-jin as his senior and stated that his own understanding of Zhenjin's teachings would solidify through his learning.
There was no exaggeration or flattery in his words, just conviction. He smoothly widened the topic and brought the conversation to the concept of peace. He reiterated that Park Seong-jin's vision of the Three Kingdoms' peace was the most realistic choice at this moment. Instead of further conquest, acknowledging boundaries and establishing order within those limits was the path that would preserve both the people and the empire.
To those who had lost land, he offered words of consolation. He didn't ask them to forget or forgive their grievances. He simply reminded them that this decision was to prevent further disaster, and it was for the greater good.
When the words "Zhenjin will choose peace" were spoken, the mood of the banquet changed once again. The air that had been buoyant with wine grew still, and thought replaced laughter.
Zhang Zhiqian then suggested that the banquet be paused. He proposed that they pray for the empire's fate, hoping that today's decision would lead to peace. It was both a ritual and a declaration.
Park Seong-jin quietly observed the entire process, without exerting force or displaying his power, instead shifting the mood with words, demeanor, and refined language. His persuasion moved the hearts of the crowd without disrespecting anyone, without turning anyone against him.
That night, he learned another lesson: meetings are not always held at the tip of a blade. The ability to read words, attitude, and flow can be just as powerful in shaping the world.
"I ask those gathered here," his voice was not loud, but it was clear. It spread evenly across the edges of the banquet hall.
"This is not a place to decide who is right or who bled more. We are not here to measure who won or lost." He paused, taking a breath.
"We have already lost too much. We've lost land, we've lost people, and most importantly, we've lost the belief that we can rise again."
A subtle stir went through the kings and lords. But Zhang Zhiqian did not avert his gaze.
"Fighting is easy to call for. Anger always provides a reason. But what remains after the fighting is only hatred, which breeds more war."
He stretched out his hand, pointing to the entire courtyard. "This empire is not one country. It is a union of many countries, many rulers, each holding on to their own desires. In this structure, the idea of forcefully uniting it again is not reality; it is a fantasy."
The murmurs quieted. He lowered his voice.
"But there is still a choice. To define boundaries that we do not cross and to establish an order that does not destroy us. The Three Kingdoms' peace is not a declaration of defeat. It is a decision to live for the next hundred years after acknowledging reality."
He raised his head and looked at the Great Khan.
"I believe the reason you have opened this gathering is not to declare victory, but to confirm whether the empire can still move through words."
He then looked at the others.
"Zhenjin does not raise its sword. But we support the choice that does not require one. Please choose peace today. I do not ask you to forget your anger or your grievances. But do not pass them down to the next generation."
A brief silence followed.
"This decision is not to save anyone. It is a decision to ensure that none of us fall apart."
Zhang Zhiqian bowed deeply for the final time.
"Zhenjin will add its strength to this path. So I ask you, please, choose peace, not because of this old Daoist's words, but because of your own fears and responsibilities."
When his words ended, the banquet hall was silent for a long time. In that silence, many realized for the first time that this was no longer a place for wine and meat, but a place where the empire was asking itself questions. And Park Seong-jin silently etched that realization deep within himself.