Daming: Brother, there is no future for monks, let's rebel

"How to do it?"

"Take the 'seal' out of your hand and put it somewhere that no one can touch it."

"where?"

"In people's hearts." Zhu Han turned his head. "Me, you, and my imperial brother, if the same 'imprint' is placed in the hearts of the three of us at the same time, no one can move it."

"Can--"

"Don't rush," Zhu Han smiled. "Let's see the people we need to see first."

He had barely finished speaking when a small, thin figure suddenly darted out from the alleyway ahead, stumbling and falling to their horses, his muddy hands gripping the reins tightly: "Your Highness—help—"

Shen Lu grabbed the man and pinned him down with his hand: "Who?"

The man raised his face, his complexion sallow and thin, with dark circles under his eyes, and he was panting so hard he could barely speak: "I...I am Wu Zhen's tea servant."

The air seemed to flip over suddenly, like pages of a book being turned.

"Speak," Zhu Han said.

"Before Lord Wu died, he asked me to tell Your Highness, 'There is someone behind the lamp,' and told Your Highness..." He swallowed hard and raised his eyes with difficulty, "I can't remember those four words, I only remember these four: 'There is someone behind the lamp.'"

"When did this happen?" Shen Lu asked.

"The night he was taken to the Meridian Gate," the tea clerk stammered, "he slipped me a piece of cloth, but I didn't dare look at it and hid it in my clothes. But last night someone ransacked my house, so I ran—ran to find the Prince."

"Where's the cloth?" Zhu Han reached out his hand.

The tea server pulled out a small, greasy piece of cloth from his inner garment. Zhu Han unfolded it, and on the cloth was written a line of small characters in crooked strokes: "The person behind the lamp is neither in the palace nor in the army; he is in the market, in the shadows."

"In the city?" Zhu Biao asked in a low voice. "Who in the city can reach into the palace?"

"The man who sells shadow puppets." Zhu Han folded the cloth and handed it to Shen Lu. "Protect him, don't let him die."

"Yes."

The tea official felt as if he had been granted a pardon; his legs went weak, and he knelt down again.

“Get up,” Zhu Han said. “If you live, you will be the best offering to him.”

The tea server wiped away his tears, stood up, and nodded repeatedly.

As evening fell, the celestial phenomena over Chengtian City were washed by a layer of light ink, neither black nor white.

The first wisp of smoke rose from the liquor store on the street, carrying a smoky aroma.

Zhu Han stood at the corner of the city wall, watching the crowds disperse and gather. Vendors hawked their wares, children chased dogs, women hung clothes to dry—it was all so mundane that there was nothing more to say.

“In the city, in the shadows.” Zhu Biao read those words aloud. “The ‘shadows’ he’s talking about, isn’t that the Shadow Bureau?”

“Not entirely,” Zhu Han said. “A shadow can be a person, or it can be a ‘method’.”

"Method?"

"For example—methods to scare people, methods to blind people, methods to starve or trap people. Look over there."

He raised his hand and pointed, and there was a storyteller on the street corner, clapping his gavel and spitting everywhere.

The dozens of people surrounding him all stared wide-eyed, as if he were leading them by the nose.

"What is he saying?" Zhu Biao asked, tilting his head to listen.

“He told a fake imperial decree,” Zhu Han laughed. “He didn’t say ‘fake,’ he just said ‘divine might.’ By the end, the divine might seemed to be standing right above you. You see, he tapped the wooden board, and the people below took a breath.”

"This counts as a 'shadow'?"

“Yes.” Zhu Han pulled his cloak back. “If you collect the shadows of people’s hearts, you will be able to move a stone slowly.”

"Then what will we..." Zhu Biao lowered his voice, "to move it?"

"Take the gavel from his hand." Zhu Han took two steps. "Suppress 'Shadow's' voice."

How to press?

“Let the truth travel faster than a shadow.” Zhu Han turned to look at him. “Remember what the old seal engraver said—make the seal right.”

He had barely finished speaking when the sound of horses' hooves echoed in the distance.

Zhao Desheng, with a few riders, stopped them at a distance, waved to them, and said anxiously, "Your Highness! There's a message from the palace—His Majesty has arrived outside the city!"

Zhu Biao was taken aback: "Father?"

Zhao Desheng, panting, said, "We didn't make a fuss. We just brought a few dozen riders and are spending the night at an earthen hut in the northern suburbs."

"You've come at the perfect time." Zhu Han adjusted his cloak, his smile as sharp as a knife sheathing itself. "I'm going to show him the 'seal'."

"Uncle, you mustn't talk about the talks," Zhu Biao said in a low voice.

“I’m not going to meet him.” Zhu Han looked at him. “I’ll just go ‘for a quick look’.”

The earthen hermitage in the northern suburbs was quiet at night. The sound of the wind seeped in through the cracks in the wall, and the lamp, leaning against the wall, burned steadily; its wick was thin, but the light was bright. There was only one old locust tree in the courtyard, its branches like an umbrella in the night.

Zhu Yuanzhang sat inside, with only a cup of tea beside him. He heard footsteps outside, which stopped at the door without knocking. He grunted in acknowledgment, and the door was gently pushed open.

"Your Majesty." Zhu Han entered the room and stopped.

Zhu Yuanzhang looked up at him, as if he were looking at a stone, or perhaps a river. "What brings you here?"

"Just a glance."

"What are you looking at?"

"print."

Zhu Yuanzhang laughed, but the smile lingered for a long time before he asked, "What do you want to put before me?"

"Place the 'shadow' under the lamp." Zhu Han walked to the lamp and moved it an inch outwards. "Make the lampshade thinner."

How do we move it?

“I found the 'Shadow Division's' hideout. It was empty, but the wick was new. Someone wanted us to only see the emptiness, not the newness.”

Zhu Han paused for a moment, then said, "I saw the person who sells 'Returning Soul' again. He said that Wu Zhen had obtained the medicine when he was alive."

Zhu Yuanzhang tapped the teacup lightly with his fingertip without making a sound.

“I met another seal maker.”

Zhu Han placed his fingertips on the table, as if pressing an invisible map. "He taught me: when printing, you have to do it right."

"So?" Zhu Yuanzhang asked.

“So, Your Majesty,” Zhu Han raised his eyes, “'Shadow' grows from the human heart, not from the knife. If you want to destroy it, put away your knife and turn on the lamp. Let the Crown Prince stand under the lamp, and let me stand beside the lamp. The shadow will shrink.”

Zhu Yuanzhang remained silent for a long time. The wind stretched and shortened the lamp flame, making the whole room rise and fall with each breath.

“You put it clearly,” he finally said. “What if someone wanted you dead?”

"Then let me stand by the lamp first," Zhu Han said calmly. "It's better to die by the lamp than to die in the shadows."

Zhu Yuanzhang suddenly laughed, not loudly, but enough to push the air conditioning in the room a little more open: "Your mouth is still so stubborn. That's what I hate most about you."

He put down his tea and stared at Zhu Han: "Brother Han, let me ask you—if I place the 'seal' in the hearts of the three of you, will things never be chaotic again?"

"No," Zhu Han answered quickly. "It will be more stable, but it still depends on people's hearts. If people's hearts are turbulent, the seal will waver."

"Then what are you doing?"

"Press it down." Zhu Han stretched out his hand and placed his palm flat on the table. "Press it under the lamp."

Zhu Yuanzhang stared at his hand as if it were a stone: "How long can you hold it down?"

"It burned my hand when you pressed it."

Zhu Yuanzhang's smile vanished, and a hint of indescribable gloom suddenly appeared in his eyes: "Brother Han, are you not afraid of death?"

"I'm not afraid," Zhu Han said. "I'm afraid the lights will go out."

Outside, the wind rustled the old locust tree. Zhu Yuanzhang looked at him for a long time, then finally pushed the teacup towards him: "Drink."

Zhu Han picked it up, drank it all in one gulp, and put it down.

"I am leaving."

"Let's go." Zhu Yuanzhang raised his hand, as if waving something unseen, or pressing down something visible. "Take the 'Seal' back to Chengtian." Zhu Han responded and turned around. Reaching the door, he paused, then turned back: "Brother Emperor."

"Ok?"

“Someone will come to you and say, ‘I’m going to take it.’” Zhu Han smiled, a smile as sharp as the wind blowing across the back of a knife. “Just let him stand under the lamp for a while. If he can’t stand, ignore him; if he can stand, ignore him too.”

Zhu Yuanzhang looked at him and said, "Your words sound like you're talking to me, but also like you're talking to yourself."

"Yes, all of them." Zhu Han cupped his hands in greeting. "I'm leaving."

He went outside. The night was deep, and the wind was much calmer than before. The old locust tree's shadow shrank on the ground.

Zhu Biao waited for him outside the nunnery. Seeing him come out, he only asked one question: "Did he see it?"

“I saw it,” Zhu Han said. “That’s enough.”

On the way back to Chengtian, the sky gradually brightened. At the city gate, an old man leaned his broom against the wall, rubbing his back, and slowly walked into the street.

The child ran while hugging the bamboo horse, bumping headfirst into Zhu Biao's knee. Zhu Biao gently caught him, and the child laughed and ran off again.

“Uncle,” Zhu Biao suddenly said, “I understand ‘seal’.”

"Tell me."

“The seal is not placed on the table, but on the road. It is only when someone walks by that the seal is considered to be there.”

"Okay." Zhu Han nodded. "Go again."

"Where?"

"Go to the yamen and revise those few lines you wrote last night."

"Where should we change it?"

"Put me last."

"why?"

“That’s why the lights are on.” Zhu Han looked at the horizon. “You walk in front, and your shadow follows behind you. Don’t worry, I’m here by the light.”

Zhu Biao was silent for a moment, then reached out and grasped his arm tightly. "Uncle, I'm not afraid anymore."

"Mm." Zhu Han shook hands with him back. "I'm not afraid either."

One afternoon, a straw sandal seller came to the stone steps in front of the Chengtian Prefecture government office.

His straw sandals hung in a string, black in color, rough in appearance, and very cheap in price.

He sat in the sun for a long time, but no one bought anything. As the sun began to set, he slowly packed up his stall and walked towards the foot of the north mountain.

Someone was quietly following him. When he reached the abandoned well at the foot of the mountain, someone inside spoke first: "Want to sell something else?"

The straw sandal vendor put down his straw sandals, revealing two rows of teeth stained yellow by smoke: "I don't want to think about it anymore."

"Then sell this one." The person in the well tossed out a small wooden plaque with a single word engraved on it—"True".

The straw sandal vendor caught it, paused for a moment, and then suddenly laughed.

“Okay,” he said. “From now on, I will only sell ‘real’ products.”

A gust of wind blew, and the straw sandals clinked together twice, like two very soft clinking glasses.

When night fell again, the lamps at the city corner were a fraction brighter than the night before. Zhu Han stood with his hands behind his back on the city tower. In the distance, he heard dogs barking, people shouting, and the sound of a zither coming from across the alley—short, clear, like the sound of tapping on water.

"Your Highness," Shen Lu stepped forward, "someone in the North Quarter is asking about it again."

"Let him hit me," Zhu Han said. "I'm here."

"What about Shadow Division..."

"It's getting windy." Zhu Han turned around. "The shadows are dissipating quickly."

"Next step?"

"Press the seal." He looked into the distance. "Press it until the right person comes to receive you."

Who will pick me up?

"Him," Zhu Han said softly, "or you."

"Me?" Shen Lu was taken aback for a moment, then smiled, "Then I need to wash my hands."

"It's okay if you can't wash them clean," Zhu Han laughed. "With the light on, you can clearly see how much mud is on your hands. Once you can see it, they're clean."

Children were chasing each other and making a ruckus in the street below. Suddenly, a small figure ran up to the foot of the city wall, looked up, waved, and called out in a childish voice, "Your Highness!"

"Hmm?" Zhu Han looked down.

"Did you chase away all the bad guys?" the child asked, looking up at him.

"Not yet," Zhu Han replied, "but I'm in a hurry."

"Then we'll wait for you!" The child laughed and ran off, his laughter breaking into fragments and scattering across the street corner.

Zhu Han looked at his small figure from behind, a faint light in his eyes.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Back inside. Tomorrow morning, open the city gates wide. Let people in, let the wind in too.”

"Yes." Shen Lu accepted the order.

The city gates were wider than usual, the wooden gates were raised to their highest point, and the bolts were so shiny that half a face could be seen through them.

The guards had changed into new cloth strips for their sleeves; the color was inconspicuous, but the clothes were neat. They wiped the threshold again and again, and the morning dew swallowed half of their footprints as soon as they stepped on it.

"The prince said the entrance should be kept clean," the soldier said, leaning his broom against the wall and smiling at the old man carrying a load next to him. "A clean road means people won't trip over it."

The old man grinned and said, "That's a good point, just like what my wife would say."

The joke had barely left his lips when a string of copper bells jingled. It was a lightly covered cart, with a straw mat on top and several wooden pieces engraved with the character "真" (zhen, meaning true) pressed down beside it. The cart was pulled by a middle-aged man with broad shoulders and soft eyes.

He parked the car inside the gate, looked up at the tall lintel, and said softly, "I guess I've made it."

The gatekeeper asked, "What's in the car?"

"Straw sandals and wooden signs. We need to set up a stall."

"Where did the cards come from?"

"I carved it myself." The man smiled and pointed to it, "Look, this character '真' (zhen), the vertical stroke in the middle must be straight, not slanted. If it's slanted, it will be crooked and go straight into the heart."

The soldier grinned: "Your skills are pretty good."

“It was the prince who saved my life.” He lowered his voice, “and said he would only sell ‘real’ things from now on.”

The soldier was taken aback, but didn't ask any further questions. He gestured for them to pass, saying, "Go ahead and set it up. The city is going to be lively today."

The first wisp of steam rose from the steamed bun shop at the alley entrance. The shopkeeper, surnamed Gu, had arms like wooden pestles, and when he kneaded the dough, the dough made a "squeaking" sound.

A new paper sticker with the character "真" (zhen, meaning true/genuine) written on it was pasted on his door. It was crookedly written by his son. The boy held it up for his father to see after he finished writing, his eyes shining.

"Really?" the child asked.

"Really." Shopkeeper Gu laughed, picked him up, and tossed him in the air. "What a little wolf cub who can eat four steamed buns!"

"I can eat five!" The little boy laughed and kicked his legs on his shoulder.

Inside the shop, regular customers gradually sat down. At the innermost table, a storyteller named Weng always sat; he had a good voice and was exceptionally skilled at tapping wooden tablets. Today, he didn't bring his tablet; he sat upright with his sleeves tucked in, as if he were holding something back.

The shopkeeper brought over a bowl of hot soup: "Mr. Weng, would you like to rest your voice for a couple of days?"

Mr. Weng gave a soft "hmm," his voice lacking its usual sharp edge, simply saying, "Talking too much will only make your mouth muddy."

"Alright, have some soup." The shopkeeper pushed the soup over. "The prince said he's going to patrol the streets today, so if you see him, give him a shout."

Mr. Weng paused, looking up at the shopkeeper: "He's coming?"

"I heard that. The soldiers at the gate all said the wind is going to be strong today." The shopkeeper laughed, "A strong wind means a lively scene."

Mr. Weng picked up the soup bowl, took a sip, and said, "Lively...good."

As the sun rises above the rooftops, Chengtian Street comes alive. Vendors carrying tofu pudding on shoulder poles, banging gongs to sell candy, and carrying baskets to sell herbs—their cries weave through the alleyways like strings of thread. (End of Chapter)