I, Am a Living Yama; Empress Advises Me to Stay Calm

Xu Jingzong stroked his beard, a look of confusion on his face.
“Prime Minister Yang, that sounds reasonable, but it’s easier said than done. The Turks are accustomed to their hairstyles. How would you make them change it willingly?”
The others nodded in agreement. Understanding the idea was one thing, but executing it was another.
Wu Zhao frowned, her sharp gaze locked onto Yang Yi.
Yang Yi smiled slightly. “Why should they listen to me?”
“We will issue a decree,” he continued. “The Turks shall no longer be allowed to keep the ‘Suo Tou’ hairstyle. Furthermore, they must abandon their traditional attire and adopt the dress code of our Great Zhou. Any who refuse—execute them.”
His voice was calm, as though he were merely discussing routine state affairs.
“Keep the braids, lose the head. Keep the head, lose the braids.”
A chilling silence filled the hall.
Everyone stared at Yang Yi in shock, their scalps tingling. This wasn’t just a policy; it was a bloodbath in the making. Even Wu Zhao widened her eyes in disbelief.
Xu Jingzong swallowed hard, his voice unsteady. “Prime Minister Yang, do you realize how many lives your ‘execute them all’ decree would take?”
Yang Yi smiled, his expression unwavering. “Whether it’s tens of thousands or hundreds of thousands.” He leaned back slightly. “If this decree is issued and there are those who disobey, even if it’s millions, they will be killed.”
The room collectively gasped. This man was a living King of Hell.
Killing over clothes and hairstyles? This wasn’t just governance; it was slaughter. Even Wu Zhao, usually composed, parted her lips in astonishment.
She had thought Yang Yi’s response earlier—when she warned against inhumane measures and he dismissed her concerns—was mere rhetoric. Now she understood. This plan wasn’t just ruthless; it was absolute.
The Turks had lived with their customs for generations. Changing them would be nearly impossible. Yet Yang Yi’s solution was simple: “Kill them all.”
Tens of thousands of lives, at the very least, would be lost.
Wu Zhao hesitated. “Yang Qing, won’t such actions invite heavy criticism? This is not the way of a great nation.”
The officials nodded, still shaken. This was beyond ruthless—it was monstrous.
Yang Yi remained composed. “Your Majesty, if we do not do this, the Great Zhou will gain only a temporary vassal state. It will take just a few generations for a new Turkic leader to rise, and they will once again become a threat to our empire.”
His tone grew sharper. “I do not seek temporary submission—I want the very concept of ‘Turk’ to vanish from history. Changing their clothing and hairstyles is only the first step. If we cannot even alter their outward appearance, how can we call them our people?”
His words sent a shiver through the room.
“If someone adopts the dress and customs of another land, if they make their women bind their hair and feet, then though they may reside within our empire, their hearts remain foreign,” Yang Yi continued. “The Turks, having become citizens of Great Zhou, must abandon everything from their past.
“The Turkic Khanate is nothing more than a collection of tribes united under one banner. Their loyalty to the Turkic royal court is weak. Whether they are ruled by Turkic nobles or Zhou officials matters little to them. Dynasties rise and fall, yet their cultural traditions remain untouched. That is what must be destroyed.”
He let those words settle before delivering his next statement with chilling clarity.
“But changing their hairstyles and clothing is different.”
His eyes gleamed with an unsettling certainty.
“Attire may seem superficial, but it is the symbol of a people’s identity. We can defeat them in battle, but as long as their customs survive, their spirit remains unbroken. By forcing them to change, we stamp them with the mark of conquest.
“This is the true act of subjugation. If they resist—kill them until there is no one left to resist.”
A cold dread seeped into the room.
Even seasoned ministers, men hardened by years of political maneuvering, felt their stomachs tighten. The brutality of Yang Yi’s plan was beyond comprehension.
Was this not genocide?
Wu Zhao took a deep breath, suppressing her shock. “And then?”
She had noticed that Yang Yi had yet to finish.
Yang Yi smiled faintly. “The rest is simple. Once they submit to ‘changing their hairstyles and clothing,’ we will immediately burn all Turkic texts and historical records. Every book related to Turkic culture will be reduced to ash. Their lineage, their ancestors, their past—erased.”
A heavy silence settled over the room.
“They will be required to learn our official language and adopt our customs,” he continued. “We will instill in them the ideology of the Great Zhou: absolute loyalty to the emperor and unwavering patriotism.
“And from the next generation—children under the age of five—every one of them will be taken and placed in our academies. They will be forbidden from learning the Turkic tongue. Anyone caught speaking it in public will be declared a traitor and executed.
“When they reach adulthood, they will be tested. If they cannot speak the language of Great Zhou fluently, they will be executed.”
His voice was calm, deliberate.
Death was not a threat; it was a certainty. The air in the hall grew thick with unspoken horror. This was not assimilation. This was annihilation.
Even the most cold-blooded officials hesitated, exchanging uneasy glances. This was beyond what any of them had imagined.
Wu Zhao exhaled slowly. “And what of those who submit?”
Yang Yi smiled again. “Sheer force alone is not enough. We must offer them incentives. The Turks will be allowed to participate in our imperial examinations.”
A faint flicker of hope appeared in the officials’ eyes, but it was quickly extinguished.
“We will establish role models among them,” he explained. “By distributing benefits strategically, we will divide them.
“Once some of them begin to enjoy the privileges of Zhou rule, others will resist less. And so, with one hand offering honey and the other wielding the rod, it will take only a few years before the word ‘Turk’ ceases to exist.”
The silence in the hall was suffocating.
This was not a balance of honey and the stick. It was all stick. The so-called “honey” was nothing but a thin layer masking the brutality of his method.
Prime Minister Yang’s plan, like all his strategies, left no room for mercy.