In Liu Shan’s final moments, cold rain battered the roof tiles in Luoyang. An old servant muttered, “That useless Adou is dead. Good riddance.”
When he opened his eyes again, it was the first year of Jianxing, and he was in the court at Chengdu. Zhuge Liang was choking up as he held the Memorial on the Northern Expedition. The assembled officials knelt across the hall, waiting for him to shed tears and say, “You’ve worked hard, Prime Minister.” Liu Shan stretched his limbs and tossed out a single line: “Court is dismissed. I’m hungry.”
In this life, he didn’t want to be a wise ruler. He only wanted to make money.
The Northern Expedition’s military expenses? He’d earn them.
Sima Yi’s poisoned-salt campaign? His own salt would be whiter, finer, and cheaper.
Jiang Wei asked whether they should launch the Northern Expedition. Liu Shan handed him an abacus: “Work out the accounts first. We’ll fight if we can afford it.”
Years later, beneath the walls of Luoyang, Sima Yi looked at the hibiscus embroidered on a bolt of Shu brocade and said to his son:
“Liu Shan isn’t doing business. He’s winning people’s hearts. He gives the people a fair share, and the people of Shu are willing to die for him. Wei gives them nothing, so its people see us as enemies.”
Meanwhile, Liu Shan sat atop the walls of Chengdu, where the lights of countless homes stretched to the horizon. Empress Jing’ai leaned against his shoulder.
There was salt in the kitchen, a wife by his side beneath the lamplight, and people beyond the window he wanted to protect.
He made money for no other reason. In this life, he would live for himself, and no one else.
