The Emperor Who Gave a Man a Mountain of Money—Then Took It All Away
The Emperor Who Gave a Man a Mountain of Money—Then Took It All Away
Imagine being allowed to print your own money! In ancient China, Emperor Wen of Han gave his favorite courtier, Deng Tong, the right to mint coins from a copper mountain. Deng Tong became one of the richest men alive. Yet a fortune-teller had warned he would die starving. Years later, a new emperor confiscated everything. Deng Tong truly ended with not one coin—proving that wealth built on someone's favor can vanish overnight.
On the towers of the Han palace, two dark banners fluttered in the wind, golden dragons coiling on them as if about to burst through the cloth. Young Deng Tong stood before the palace gate, looking up at the banners, nervous and excited. He wore a neat blue servant's robe with a plain sash at his waist, and in his hand he clutched a few copper coins—the ones his mother had pressed into his palm before he left. Round coins with square holes, their edges worn smooth.
"Deng Tong, hurry inside. Don't keep the emperor waiting," urged the eunuch leading the way.
Deng Tong hurried after him, passing through gate after gate, the blue stone slabs gleaming from the rain. On both sides, guards stood motionless with long spears, only their eyes following him. He didn't dare look around, but he couldn't help stealing glances at the magnificent palace: cloud patterns painted on the beams, brackets stacked layer upon layer, a faint scent of sandalwood in the air.
Inside the great hall, Emperor Wen sat on the dragon throne, his face gentle but his eyes appraising. Deng Tong knelt and bowed, his forehead touching the cold stone floor, his heart pounding like a drum.
"Raise your head," said the emperor. His voice was not loud, but it echoed clearly through the hall.
Deng Tong slowly looked up, revealing a handsome face. His eyes were bright, and a respectful smile played at the corners of his mouth. Emperor Wen glanced at him and nodded slightly: "A proper-looking boy. Stay and serve me."
Deng Tong bowed again, his voice trembling with excitement: "Your servant thanks Your Majesty for your great kindness."
At that moment, the coins in his hand seemed to grow warm. He did not know that these few small coins would, in the days to come, become a mountain of wealth—and also a boulder that would crush him.
As the days passed, Deng Tong found his footing in the palace. He spoke little, but always seemed to appear at the right moment with a cup of warm tea, or to lighten the emperor's fatigue with a few amusing country tales while he reviewed memorials. Emperor Wen grew fond of the young man, often keeping him close and even allowing him to move freely in the imperial study.
"Deng Tong, come look at this memorial. What does it say?" The emperor pushed a bamboo scroll toward him.
Deng Tong took it carefully, read it word by word, then answered respectfully: "Your Majesty, it is the governor of Shu Commandery requesting a tax reduction, saying the rains were too heavy this year and the harvest poor."
Emperor Wen sighed: "The common people have a hard life." He glanced at Deng Tong. "You read carefully—more diligently than those old ministers."
Deng Tong lowered his head and said nothing, but his lips curved upward. He knew the emperor's praise was more precious than any reward.
Yet not all eyes in the palace were friendly. Eunuchs whispered in the corridors, and several old ministers exchanged glances after court. Some said, "A boy of unknown origin—what right does he have to stay by the emperor's side day and night?" Others said, "The emperor favors him too much. Sooner or later there will be trouble."
When these words reached Deng Tong, he merely laughed them off. He told himself: as long as the emperor trusts me, what do others' idle talk matter?
One afternoon, Emperor Wen was strolling in the imperial garden, Deng Tong following behind. Peonies bloomed in profusion, butterflies danced. The emperor suddenly stopped and turned to Deng Tong: "Do you have any family?"
"Your Majesty, I have only my old mother, who makes a living by weaving."
Emperor Wen was silent for a moment, then patted his shoulder: "Serve well. I will not treat you poorly."
Deng Tong knelt to thank him, a warm feeling welling up inside. He felt he had finally found someone to rely on, not knowing that this favor was quietly pushing him toward the eye of the storm.
One day, an old man came to the palace. His hair and beard were white, he wore a gray cloth robe, and at his waist hung an ancient bronze mirror, its surface dim, its rim engraved with the eight trigrams. This man was skilled in physiognomy, known as a "face-reader," said to be able to predict a person's fortune from their features.
Emperor Wen had always been half-skeptical of such arts, but having nothing better to do, he summoned him to read the faces of his courtiers. Several attendants came forward in turn, and the face-reader examined each one, saying things like "boundless blessings" and "a smooth official career," which made everyone smile.
When it was Deng Tong's turn, the face-reader's smile suddenly froze. He leaned close to Deng Tong, his gaze sharp as a knife, studying him from forehead to chin, then circling to examine him from the side. The hall fell silent; even breathing could be heard.
"Well?" asked Emperor Wen.
The face-reader stepped back and cupped his hands: "Your Majesty, this man's face... this old man dare not speak rashly."
"Speak freely."
The face-reader took a deep breath and said slowly: "This man will one day starve to death."
At these words, the whole hall gasped. Someone couldn't help laughing: "Starve to death? He's by the emperor's side every day—how could he starve?" Emperor Wen laughed too and waved his hand: "Ridiculous. As long as I am here, he will not go hungry."
Deng Tong stood there, his face flushing red and pale by turns. He wanted to argue but could not find words. The face-reader said no more, put away his bronze mirror, bowed, and withdrew.
After the others dispersed, Deng Tong stood alone under the corridor, his palms cold with sweat. He told himself over and over: it's just the nonsense of a wandering fortune-teller, why take it seriously? But that sentence stuck in his heart like a fine needle, impossible to pull out.
Emperor Wen said he did not believe the face-reader's words, but he could not let them go. Watching Deng Tong's face grow thinner day by day, the more he thought, the more uneasy he felt: I am the Son of Heaven—can I not even protect the fate of one favored courtier?
A few days later, at court, Emperor Wen announced a decree before the assembled officials. The eunuch unrolled the bright yellow silk and read aloud: "Bestow upon Deng Tong a copper mountain in the Yan Road of Shu Commandery, permitting him to mint coins himself, to circulate throughout the realm."
The whole court stared in astonishment. Gifts of money or mansions were not unusual; but granting a copper mountain and allowing a private person to mint coins—that had never happened since the founding of the dynasty!
"Your Majesty, this must not be!" An old minister stepped forward to object. "The right to mint coins is the lifeblood of the state—how can it be lightly given to another?"
Emperor Wen said calmly: "My mind is made up."
Deng Tong knelt in the hall and received the heavy scroll with both hands, the jade seal clearly visible. He was so excited his voice shook: "Your servant vows to repay Your Majesty's heavenly grace with his life!"
After court, Deng Tong carried the decree back to his quarters and read it again and again. A copper mountain—inexhaustible copper ore! He immediately sent men to Shu Commandery to mine the copper, recruit craftsmen, and mint coins day and night.
The news spread, shaking the world. Some envied, some were jealous, and some secretly shook their heads. And Deng Tong, standing before the newly built mint, watching the furnace glow red and molten copper flow, had only one thought: what starvation? From now on, my money—Deng Tong's money—will be as much as I want!
He did not notice that in the distant sky, dark clouds were gathering.
Deng Tong's coins soon spread throughout the land. The copper he used was of excellent quality, and the craftsmen were highly skilled. Each coin was thick and well-made, with smooth, polished edges. People eagerly used them, calling them "Deng Tong coins," and some even said, "Deng Tong's coins are trusted by all under heaven."
Wealth poured in like a tide. Deng Tong built a lavish mansion in the capital city of Chang'an, with vast gardens, artificial hills, flowing streams, and servants in abundance. He wore silk robes, a jade belt around his waist, and when he went out, carriages and horses followed, with attendants shouting ahead and crowding behind.
"My lord, this month's accounts have been checked, and the storehouses are full again," the steward reported with a bow.
Deng Tong leaned on a soft couch and waved his hand carelessly: "I know. Leave it there."
He picked up his wine cup and gazed at the amber liquid. Suddenly he remembered the few copper coins his mother had slipped him years ago. Back then, a single coin had to be split in half to spend. Now, the coins in his storehouses piled up like mountains—too many to count.
"Attendants," he called, "bring me a box of the newly minted coins. I want to see them."
A servant carried in a wooden box and opened the lid. It was filled to the brim with brand-new copper coins, gleaming golden in the lamplight. Deng Tong reached in and grabbed a handful, letting the coins clink as they fell through his fingers. Hearing that crisp sound, he couldn't help but laugh out loud.
"What starvation?" he muttered to himself. "In my lifetime, I only fear I'll burst from overeating!"
Outside the mansion gate, a few poorly dressed commoners peeked in, only to be shouted away by the guards. Deng Tong glanced at them and paid no mind. He felt he was no longer like them.
As his wealth grew, Deng Tong's temper also changed. The once obedient and humble young man now spoke louder and louder, walked with his chin held high, and didn't even respect the high officials of the court.
One day, an old friend came to visit. The man was dressed simply, carrying a basket of dates from his own garden. He waited at the gate for a long time before the doorkeeper finally let him in.
"Brother Deng, it's been so long..." the old friend said with a nervous smile.
Deng Tong sat in the main hall without even rising, and said lightly, "Oh, it's you. Is there something you need?"
"Nothing much, just came to see you. I heard you've become very successful—I'm happy for you." The old friend placed the dates on the table. "These are from my own tree. Try them."
Deng Tong glanced at the basket of dates and frowned: "Leave them there. I have things to do, so I won't keep you."
The old friend's smile froze on his face, and he stammered a farewell. At the door, he looked back at the glittering mansion and sighed softly.
More and more similar incidents happened. When villagers came to ask for help, he claimed to be busy; when poor people begged outside his gate, he had the guards drive them away. The steward cautiously advised: "My lord, people outside are saying... that you've forgotten your roots."
Deng Tong was trying on a newly made silk robe, looking left and right in the bronze mirror. Without turning his head, he said, "I, Deng Tong, have what I have today because of the emperor's favor. What does that have to do with them? Besides, I have so much money I couldn't spend it in several lifetimes. Why should I care about idle gossip?"
He smiled at himself in the mirror, feeling that nothing in the world could shake his wealth and honor. Outside the window, the autumn wind swept through the courtyard, rustling the fallen leaves, but he paid no attention.
Time waits for no one. Emperor Wen's health declined day by day, and finally, on a cold winter night, he passed away in the Weiyang Palace.
The news spread, and the palace was filled with white mourning. White banners fluttered in the wind, officials changed into plain mourning clothes, and knelt outside the halls, weeping bitterly. Deng Tong knelt among the crowd, crying harder than anyone—not entirely from grief, but more from fear. He knew better than anyone that everything he had came from Emperor Wen.
Emperor Wen's funeral was grand and lengthy. Deng Tong attended as an old minister, watching the huge tomb slowly being sealed, feeling empty inside. He remembered how years ago, Emperor Wen had patted his shoulder and said, "I will not treat you unfairly." That voice seemed to still echo in his ears, but the one who spoke was gone.
The new emperor, Liu Qi, ascended the throne as Emperor Jing. Even when he was crown prince, Emperor Jing had disapproved of Deng Tong's favor. He remembered once, when Deng Tong met him in the palace, Deng Tong merely gave a perfunctory bow and hurried away without even looking him in the eye. At that time, he thought: A mere attendant, relying on the emperor's favor, dares to be so arrogant.
After the coronation, Emperor Jing sat on the dragon throne, looking down at the assembled ministers. His gaze swept over Deng Tong and paused for a moment, a faint cold smile at the corner of his mouth.
Deng Tong lowered his head, cold sweat breaking out on his back. He vaguely felt that the sky was about to change.
After the court dispersed, several ministers gathered and whispered: "With the new emperor on the throne, Deng Tong's good days are over." "He's been bullying people with his power for years; someone should deal with him." These words drifted to Deng Tong's ears, and he quickened his pace, almost fleeing back to his mansion.
Not long after Emperor Jing ascended the throne, someone at court submitted a memorial impeaching Deng Tong. The document stated clearly: Deng Tong, as a mere attendant, had received the former emperor's favor and been granted a copper mountain to mint coins privately—this was already beyond his station. Over the years, he had become arrogant and lawless, seizing land and houses, oppressing the common people, and was truly a scourge to the court.
Emperor Jing handed the memorial to the ministers for discussion. In the court, the ministers spoke one after another—some said Deng Tong's coin minting disrupted the currency system, others said he amassed wealth without limit and competed with the people for profit. Those colleagues who once fawned on him now spoke with righteous indignation, as if they had never had any dealings with Deng Tong.
"Your Majesty, the coins minted by Deng Tong are everywhere under heaven. The people know only of Deng Tong's coins, not the court's coins—this is a great danger!" an old minister declared with emotion.
Emperor Jing listened quietly and then slowly spoke: "Deng Tong received great favor from the former emperor but did not think to repay it. Instead, he became arrogant and overbearing. If I do not deal with him, how can I command the respect of the people?"
That afternoon, a troop of imperial guards surrounded Deng Tong's mansion. The leading official unrolled the imperial edict and read aloud: All of Deng Tong's titles are stripped, all his property is confiscated, the copper mountain is returned to the state, effective immediately.
Deng Tong knelt on the ground, trembling all over. He wanted to argue, to plead, but his throat felt blocked, and he couldn't utter a single word. The guards began carrying out the wealth from the storehouses—boxes of copper coins, bolts of silk—piling them on the street. More and more onlookers gathered; some clapped and cheered, others shook their heads and sighed.
Deng Tong watched his former possessions being carried away one by one, and suddenly remembered the fortune-teller's words: "This man will one day die of starvation." He shivered and sat down on the ground in despair.
The mansion was sealed with notices, and the servants scattered. When Deng Tong was driven out of his home, he had only an old robe on his back, and his pockets were empty—not a single coin left.
Before dawn, a troop of imperial guards had already surrounded Deng Tong's mansion. The leading official unrolled a bright yellow edict, his voice flat and cold, reading out the new emperor's will word by word: Deng Tong, arrogant and presumptuous, had overstepped his bounds; he was to be stripped of his title, his copper mountain confiscated, and his property seized.
Deng Tong knelt in the courtyard, his forehead pressed against the cold bluestone floor, trembling all over. He wanted to argue, to plead, but his throat felt blocked, and he could not utter a single word.
The guards began to haul away the treasures from the storehouse. Boxes of copper coins and bolts of silk were carried out the main gate and piled up in the street like small mountains. Those coins—he had supervised their minting himself, each one a testament to his pride. Now they clinked and clattered into the officials' carts, a crisp sound that struck his face like a series of slaps.
More and more commoners gathered to watch. Some clapped and cheered, whispering that the once-powerful favorite had finally fallen; others shook their heads and sighed, saying that wealth and honor are like floating clouds, scattering in the blink of an eye.
The mansion's main gate was sealed with two crossed strips of paper, the vermilion official seal glaring in the morning light. The servants scattered in all directions—some rolled up their sleeves and fled, others did not even dare to look back. Deng Tong watched as his belongings were carried away one by one, and suddenly remembered the fortune teller's words: "This man will one day die of starvation."
He shivered and sat down on the ground. That sentence pierced his heart like a cold needle, and he could not pull it out.
When Deng Tong was driven out of his home, he had only an old robe left. It was a coarse garment he had once disdained to wear, but now it was his only possession.
He wandered aimlessly through the streets of Chang'an. He had walked this street a thousand times, always with a grand entourage, carriages and horses following, and passersby bowing and stepping aside. But now, with his head down and shoulders hunched, he slipped through the bustling crowd, and no one recognized him.
The vendor's stall was steaming, the aroma of pancakes wafting into his nose. Several children ran past chasing a rolling coin, their laughter crisp. Deng Tong stood at the corner, watching all this, and suddenly felt utterly strange. In the past, he had sat in a high carriage, viewing the street through a curtain, thinking it was just scenery beneath his feet; now, standing among the people, he realized how big, how cold, how crowded this street really was.
He thought of his former glory, of the fawning smiles, of the mountains of treasure, and felt as if a piece of his heart had been hollowed out. He reached into his robe, hoping to find something, but his fingers only touched the frayed edge of the coarse fabric.
As the sky gradually darkened, the street lamps lit up one by one. Deng Tong leaned against a wall and sat down, feeling for the first time that in this vast city of Chang'an, there was no place for him to shelter.
The night wind blew, and Deng Tong shrank his neck. Suddenly remembering something, he reached into his pocket—the pocket of that old robe. He recalled that there might still be a few copper coins inside, casually stuffed there in days past.
He put his hand in and fumbled around. The pocket's fabric was thin and worn, his fingertips brushing over the rough seams. He felt the bottom, the corners, every inch of the stitching.
Empty.
Unwilling to give up, he turned the pocket inside out and shook it. The cloth flapped in the wind, but nothing fell out. He checked the other pocket—equally empty.
Not a single coin.
Deng Tong stared blankly at his empty pockets, then suddenly laughed—a dry, harsh laugh, uglier than crying. He remembered how he had once been rich enough to rival a kingdom, with copper ore piled high on his mountain, the coins he minted circulating throughout the land; now, having searched himself thoroughly, he could not find even one ordinary coin.
"Not a single coin..." he muttered, the words echoing in the empty street corner. They seemed to grow from his very bones, carrying a chill that pierced him. He had once possessed so much that he could not count it all; now he had nothing, not even a coin to call his own.
The wind rose again, rustling his thin robe.
The hunger began on the second day.
At first, it was just an empty, uncomfortable feeling in his belly, but later it turned into a sharp pain, cramping again and again as if a hand were twisting inside him. Deng Tong propped himself against the wall and stood up, his vision darkening, his legs weak. He had not eaten for two days.
He walked to a house and hesitated for a long time before raising his hand to knock. The door opened, and a woman peeked out. Seeing his ragged appearance, she frowned. Deng Tong opened his mouth, his voice hoarse and barely audible: "Please... give me something to eat."
The woman looked him over, and suddenly, as if recognizing something, her expression changed. She slammed the door shut. The bang made his ears ring.
Deng Tong stood frozen, then slowly lowered his head. He understood: many people in this city knew him, but who would still show kindness to a disgraced official whose family had been confiscated?
He begged from door to door along the street, but received mostly cold stares and drive-aways. One man even spat at him and cursed: "Isn't this Deng Tong? You've got what you deserved!"
Deng Tong staggered back and leaned against the wall, panting. He thought again of the fortune teller, of those sharp eyes, of the words "die of starvation." At the time, he had dismissed it as nonsense and had even laughed and rewarded the fortune teller with a few coins. Now, it seemed that the prophecy had come true word for word.
He closed his eyes bitterly. So wealth and glory ultimately amount to nothing; that sentence had written his ending from the very beginning.
Deng Tong stumbled out of the city gate and made his way to the fields outside. He was so exhausted that he couldn't walk any further. He sat down leaning against an old tree, his vision going black.
An old farmer was gathering his tools in the field. Seeing Deng Tong in such a state, he put down his hoe and walked over. The farmer's skin was tanned, his hands covered in thick calluses. He looked Deng Tong up and down for a moment, asked nothing, and simply turned back toward his house.
Before long, the farmer came out with a rough clay bowl filled to the brim with steaming millet rice. He held the bowl out to Deng Tong and said gently, "Here, eat. You look starving."
Deng Tong took the bowl with trembling hands. He looked down at the simple millet rice, and suddenly his nose stung and tears began to fall, drop by drop, into the bowl.
He had once eaten delicacies and used golden bowls and jade chopsticks, yet no meal had ever felt so fragrant, so precious. He held the rough clay bowl and ate slowly, bite by bite, as if trying to remember every single grain.
The old farmer squatted nearby, saying nothing, just watching quietly.
When Deng Tong finished, he returned the empty bowl and choked out a "thank you." Suddenly he understood: the most valuable thing in this world is not mountains of copper coins, but a pair of hands willing to offer a bowl of rice when someone has fallen on hard times. He had once possessed everything, yet he had never understood this truth.
Deng Tong stayed on in a small hut next to the old farmer's house. The farmer was kind-hearted and shared a little food with him each day. Though it was only plain tea and simple rice, it kept him barely alive.
But Deng Tong's health was failing day by day. He had been raised on fine silks and rich foods, with soft skin and tender flesh. How could he endure such hunger and cold? Within a few days, he had grown thin and gaunt, and even a short walk left him gasping for breath.
At night, he lay on the straw mat in the hut, staring at the starlight leaking through the roof, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. He thought about his life, and it felt like a long dream.
He remembered the first time Emperor Wen summoned him, the extraordinary favor, the glory. The emperor had granted him an entire copper mountain to mint coins as he pleased—what trust and affection that was! He recalled the pride he felt holding the first newly minted coin, as if all the wealth in the world was in his grasp.
But he also remembered his arrogance. In those years, relying on the emperor's favor, he had looked down on everyone, even the great ministers of the court. He had thought his wealth would last forever, that the copper mountain would always be his, forgetting that all of it could be taken away with a single word from someone else.
"So..." he murmured into the darkness, "this wealth was never mine."
He coughed a few times, a dull pain in his chest. Suddenly he wished he could see the fortune-teller again, to ask if this ending had been destined from the start. But he knew it made no difference now.
It was a chilly morning. The old farmer carried a bowl of hot porridge into the hut, but found Deng Tong lying quietly, eyes half-closed, a strange peace on his face.
He called out a few times, but there was no response. The farmer reached out to check his breathing, then let out a long sigh and gently set the bowl of porridge aside.
Deng Tong was dead. He died in a farmer's hut, with nothing to his name, unable even to afford a simple coffin. The old farmer wrapped him in an old mat, dug a hole by the field, and buried him hastily.
No one came to mourn, no one erected a monument. Deng Tong, who had once been rich beyond measure and powerful enough to influence the court, vanished from the world without a sound.
The fortune-teller's prophecy had come true exactly—he had indeed starved to death.
Later, when people spoke of Deng Tong, they always mentioned the scene of him turning out his pockets and not finding a single coin. Someone used the four words "not a single coin" to describe a person who is utterly destitute, without even a penny to their name. And so the phrase was passed down from generation to generation, becoming a well-known idiom.
And Deng Tong's name, along with those four words, remained in people's memory—not because of his wealth, but because of his downfall.
Many years passed. The streets of Chang'an changed with each new generation, and the mansion that had once been piled high with copper coins had long since changed owners. But the four words "not a single coin" were like a seed planted in the soil of time—they took root and sprouted.
Today, when people say those words, they mean poor, they mean having nothing at all. But if you think carefully, Deng Tong's story holds more than just poverty.
He had once owned a copper mountain, possessed countless riches, yet he had never truly owned himself. His wealth was given by others, his glory bestowed by others, so when that person took it all back, he was left with nothing. He turned out his pockets and couldn't find a single coin—not because he had never possessed anything, but because everything he possessed had never truly belonged to him.
What truly belongs to a person?
It is the pair of hands willing to offer a bowl of rice when someone is down on their luck, the old farmer's gentle "eat up," the heart that knows humility, knows to cherish, knows to earn a meal with one's own two hands. These things no one can take away, and no one can erase.
Deng Tong only understood this at the very end. But may those who read this story not have to wait until they have turned out empty pockets to understand what true wealth really is.
Wealth is like drifting clouds, scattering in the blink of an eye; only humility and self-reliance can accompany a person through an entire lifetime.
