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

Zhu Han wore a blue robe with a plain rope tied around his waist. He walked slowly, as if admiring a painting.

Zhu Biao and Shen Lu were on either side, while Zhao Desheng lagged halfway behind, his stubborn neck constantly trying to lean forward.

"You should hide for a bit," Zhu Han said casually without turning around.

Zhao Desheng shrank back and chuckled as he took half a step to the side: "Your Highness, this face of mine does look very familiar."

“Familiar faces are the easiest to scare people away.” Zhu Han glanced at the street. “Today we’re going to invite them out, not send them back.”

"Why bring them out?" Zhao Desheng muttered. "To perform opera?"

Before the words were even finished, opera singing began from the front. It was a small traveling opera troupe that had set up a simple stage, hung a few pieces of silk, and started singing as soon as the drum was struck.

The young man dressed in white robes and boots, the young woman twirling her flowing sleeves, and the children crowded together below the stage, laughing loudly.

When the opera sang about "viewing shadows under the lamp," the troupe leader suddenly paused the drumbeats, as if intentionally setting them off.

Zhu Han stopped and slightly raised his eyelids: "Did you hear that?"

Shen Lu nodded: "There was a hidden trick in the drum performance."

Zhu Biao listened intently: "It sounds like—it sounds like someone is talking."

"Someone gave me directions," Zhu Han said calmly. "To the east alley."

"Chase?" Zhao Desheng's hands were itching.

"Don't chase after them." Zhu Han watched the spectacle unfold. "Let him take them."

After the performance, the young actor snapped his folding fan shut, bowed to the crowd, and someone tossed a few copper coins onto the stage. A quick-handed boy at the very front caught them and stuffed them into his pocket.

As the crowd dispersed, the opera troupe packed up their curtains, carried their trunks, and turned into the alley to the east. Zhu Han, as if taking a stroll, followed the flow of people and turned in as well.

The alley was narrow, and the walls were cool. The opera troupe put down their trunks, and the lead actor loosened his belt, casually tying it. Just as he was about to look up, he suddenly felt darkness before his eyes—

A shadow was standing in front of him, backlit, so his face was not visible, only his eyebrows and eyes were sharp.

"You did a good job with the action scenes," Zhu Han said.

The lead actor's Adam's apple bobbed slightly: "You flatter me, sir."

"Who taught you to stuff those two things into the drum?"

The lead actor laughed: "I figured it out myself."

"Then stop thinking about it." Zhu Han shifted his gaze from him and looked behind him.

There was a thin man there, carrying an erhu, his forehead covered in large beads of sweat, but his eyes were cold. The way he looked at Zhu Han wasn't as if he were looking at a gentleman, but as if he were looking at a knife.

"You," Zhu Han pointed at him, "come here."

Without moving his erhu hand, a vein throbbed on the back of his hand, and with a gentle flick of the bow tip, the wisp of horsehair trembled in the air.

"Your Highness also enjoys opera?"

“I’m listening to the footsteps,” Zhu Han said. “The way you draw your bow sounds like you’re chasing someone away. Who are you chasing?”

The skinny man's lips twitched, but he remained silent. The lead actor suddenly laughed, bowing eagerly: "Sir, I'm just an actor, I don't understand these things. If anything is inappropriate, I'll change it, perhaps to 'Meeting Friends Under the Lamp'—"

"Don't 'meet' with us," Zhu Han interrupted, "and don't 'be friends' with us either."

The lead actor's expression flickered, then he smiled ingratiatingly: "How about we sing 'The Oil Vendor Wins Over the Courtesan'?"

"Sing 'Selling the Truth'." Zhu Han flicked his sleeve. "From today onwards, no more 'Shadows of Murder' are allowed in the play. Anyone who tries to sneak in a dirty trick will have their drumhead torn off."

The lead actor's face tightened for a moment, then straightened up again: "Sing...sing anything is fine."

"Just make the children laugh." Zhu Han reached into his sleeve, pulled out a piece of silver, and tossed it onto the box. "I'll buy half a day's worth of joy."

The skinny man suddenly looked up, his eyes rippling as if a small stone had been thrown in.

He opened his mouth but said nothing. Finally, he lowered his head, hugged his erhu tightly, and retreated backstage.

Zhu Han turned to leave, but the lead actor suddenly called out to him, "Master!"

"Ok?"

"You're asking us to sing 'Selling Reality'... will it really sell?"

"Sell it to yourself." Zhu Han turned around. "Buy back your voice first."

The lead actor was stunned for a while, then slowly smiled, the smile turning into something that sounded like crying: "Buy it back."

At one end of the alley, there was a lively scene; at the other, a noisy argument. A man selling tofu pudding, bare-armed, was arguing with a man selling sesame cakes: "If you move your stall one foot this way, I'll pay less for a bowl of tofu pudding!"

"It's less windy here, I'm against the wall." The woman at the pancake stall slammed her rolling pin down. "If you moved a foot, wouldn't the wind be less too?"

"I can't put this load against the wall, or I'll have to lower my shoulder!" Douhua Han's voice was rough, and it rose higher and higher as he spoke. "Why don't you move the stove a little further away!"

"What are you trying to lift? This furnace is made of iron!"

The two argued and drew closer, attracting a growing crowd. Zhu Biao stepped forward, a smile in his eyes: "Wait."

He lifted the tofu pudding stand and first told the tofu pudding vendor to untie the rope: "Your shoulder is chafed red, switch sides."

He then turned to his sister-in-law and said, “Your stove is against the wall, and the heat will burn the oil paper on the back. If a breeze blows, it could easily start a fire. Move it half a foot inward, a hand’s width away from the wall.”

The woman was taken aback: "My stove is so heavy, you think you can just move it like that?"

"I'll help you," Zhu Biao said, and actually reached for the edge of the stove. His sister-in-law jumped in surprise, "Hey, hey, hey—you're the young master, don't touch that!"

"I'm not the crown prince," Zhu Biao said with a smile. "I'm just the neighbor next door."

He didn't lift it forcefully; he just braced his toes against the stove leg, pressed down with his arm, and the stove slid half a foot across the ground with a creak.

The people gathered around burst into laughter. Douhua Han scratched his head, and his sister-in-law blushed as well: "Then...then I'll put them inside."

“Leave a hand’s width here for him to carry on his shoulders.” Zhu Biao stretched out his hand to measure. “Both sides are not against the wall, so the wind can pass through, the fire can burn smoothly, and the person’s energy can flow smoothly.”

Douhua Han scratched his head: "Then... I'll refrain from swearing?"

"You should scold him less, and he should talk back less." Zhu Biao carried the load back and patted him on the shoulder. "Add a spoonful of chili oil for me tomorrow."

"Alright!" Douhua Han grinned, and his sister-in-law laughed and scolded, "I'll make you crispy on both sides tomorrow!"

The crowd dispersed in a commotion. Zhao Desheng, watching from behind, hesitated for a long time before finally managing to utter, "Your Highness's move is more effective than my slamming of the table."

"So don't slam your fist on the table." Zhu Han shrugged. "Go and stop that accident where a carriage hit someone."

"Where?" Zhao Desheng was taken aback.

"It will be available in a little while."

"...Huh?" Before Zhao Desheng could react, there was a loud "crashing" sound from the alleyway ahead.

A donkey cart got stuck in a crack in the rocks, making a clattering sound and nearly knocking over an old woman selling flowers nearby.

The old woman loosened her grip, the flower basket tipped over, and the petals scattered with a whoosh, eliciting gasps from the crowd.

Zhao Desheng, like a leopard, took three steps in two, grabbed the back of the donkey cart, and shouted, "Lift—!"

The wheel reached the step, preventing the donkey from falling. The old woman rubbed her hands, groaning, "Ouch, ouch," and muttered, "That scared me to death, that scared me to death..."

"It's alright." Zhao Desheng scratched his head, straightened the flower basket, and picked out the few crushed flowers at the bottom. "I'll pay for these damaged flowers." The old woman looked up at him, her eyes moist. "No, no. I remember your face—you were the one who shouted 'The Prince has arrived' on the city wall."

Zhao Desheng chuckled and scratched the back of his head until it turned red: "Don't remember me, remember the prince."

The old woman nodded, then suddenly lowered her voice: "Is Your Highness coming to this street today?"

"I arrived a long time ago." Zhao Desheng pointed behind him. The old woman looked over and saw the figure in the green robe talking to someone, his finger lightly tapping the corners of the stall.

The old woman hugged the flower basket tightly and whispered, "That's good, the light is on now."

In the afternoon, a woman who had lost her son ran up to Zhu Biao and grabbed his sleeve, crying so hard she could barely speak: "My lord—no, master—no, I don't know what to call you… my son is missing!"

"Don't rush," Zhu Biao helped her to sit down at the stall. "How old are you?"

"Seven years old, wearing a blue cloth jacket with a small fish embroidered on the chest, which I embroidered myself—always shouting that I wanted to see a play and eat candy..."

"When did you disappear?"

"Just now! I turned around to look for change, and he disappeared!" The woman said, tears streaming down her face.
"I'm a widow, my only child... Please save me..."

“Split into three groups.” Zhu Han turned his head. “One group will go to the stage, one to the alley entrance, and one to guard the city gate. Look for those wearing blue jackets and embroidered fish-patterned hats. Children like excitement, so start by looking where the drums are loudest.”

"Yes, sir!" Zhao Desheng accepted the order, and with a shout, he sent out several nimble soldiers. Shen Lu went to higher ground, pulled over a hemp rope, had someone tie a string of small copper bells to it, and stretched it to the end of the alley, where a series of clear, cool bells rang out.

"Looking for someone—looking for Xiao Lang—a man in a blue jacket and a small fish—returning along the street—"

The bell rang rhythmically, like a summons to a spirit, like pulling the child back from the hustle and bustle layer by layer. The woman's shoulders trembled as she sobbed, and Zhu Biao handed her a bowl of warm water: "Don't be afraid."

Before long, a boy from a sugar figurine stall came running up from the alley entrance, shouting, "It's here! It's here!" He cried as soon as he heard the bell!

The woman leaped to her feet, scooped the child into her arms, her fingertips trembling: "My child—I'll never scold you again..."

The child burst into tears, his face covered in snot and tears, and struggled to pull a piece of sugar candy stick from his pocket: "Give it to Mom, fish..."

Half a fish tail was still stuck to the sugar figurine stick. The woman hugged it, laughing and crying as she kissed it, making "pui pui" sounds, and the onlookers laughed along.

The child suddenly reached out from his mother's arms and extended his hand towards Zhu Biao: "Brother."

Zhu Biao paused for a moment, then squatted down with a smile: "My surname isn't 'brother'."

The child blinked: "What's your last name?"

"Your surname is Zhu." Zhu Biao smoothed his hair. "From now on, you should run to places where you hear bells. Someone will bring you back from there."

"Yes!" The child nodded vigorously, nodding like a little chick.

The woman wiped away her tears and thanked Zhu Han repeatedly, speaking bluntly and bluntly: "If anyone ever says that the prince's eyebrows are fierce, I'll fight him!"

"Don't rush," Zhu Han smiled. "Just make sure the baby is fed."

As the sun began to set, the aroma of barbecue filled the streets. The firelight turned the faces of the people at the stalls red.

The straw sandal seller moved his stall a little further into the open space, strung the "genuine" signs together with thin hemp rope, and hung them on a bamboo pole.

A breeze blew by, and the signs tapped together softly, making a "ringing" sound.

A young student stopped, looked up at him, and said, "The strokes of this character '真' (zhen, meaning 'true') are a bit too loose."

The straw sandal seller wasn't in a hurry and said with a smile, "Write it down for me to see."

The student was taken aback, then couldn't help but squat down, take out a short pen from his pocket, dip it in water, and write on the wooden piece.

I felt a little embarrassed after writing it: "My hands were shaking."

"Yours is straighter than mine. Good." The straw sandal seller picked out this piece, tied it to the front, and said, "Here's a pair of straw sandals for you."

The student waved his hand hastily: "No, no, my family doesn't need another pair."

The straw sandal seller shoved the sandals into my hand, smiling warmly: "What you've written is from the pen in your heart. Take it."

The student blushed, took a couple of steps with the straw sandals in his arms, then turned back and said, "You really hung these up well. You can hear them when the wind blows."

"Let the wind speak," the straw sandal seller nodded.

As the lamps were lit, the area in front of the steamed bun shop was packed with people.

Mr. Weng didn't bring his wooden slips today; instead, he was holding an old pipa in his arms. The soundboard was torn and had been mended with hemp thread.

He stroked the strings, but instead of singing any earth-shattering tales, he simply said softly, "Today I won't tell stories about people. I'll tell a story about a door."

Someone laughed: "What's so interesting about a door?"

"Doors are for coming and going," Mr. Weng chuckled. "If the door is too narrow, everyone gets crowded in and out, hands will reach out, and people will get angry. If the door is widened, it won't be crowded—"

He glanced at the city gate outside, which was wider than in previous years. "The gate is wide, the lights are bright. Look, as the Prince walks through the streets today, hasn't he opened the gate an inch in your hearts as well?"

Someone in the crowd shouted, "It's open!"

"Open it up another inch." Mr. Weng plucked the strings of his pipa twice. "When you're holding a child, don't let go; when you're scolding someone, don't shut your mouth; when you're buying something, don't close your eyes."

He paused, then added, "And—those who sing opera, give your voices back to yourselves."

The troupe leader stood by the roadside, his eyes slightly moist, and smiled as he clasped his hands in a fist salute to him.

Mr. Weng hugged the pipa to his chest, tapped it twice lightly with his knuckles, and said in place of the wooden tablet, "That's all for today."

"Why are you closing up already?" the shopkeeper said with a laugh. "We haven't even had our soup or steamed buns yet."

"Closing the workday doesn't mean the end of the partnership." Mr. Weng took a sip of soup. "Closing the workday means shutting up. Once you shut up, you open your ears."

"You're blaming us for being noisy?" The shopkeeper laughed as if he were scolding. "Fine, I'll say less then."

"If you say less, I'll say more." An old woman held a bowl of tofu pudding and patted the rim of the bowl a few times. "Your Highness, Your Highness, please sit here and have a bite before you leave."

Zhu Biao picked up a steamed bun, the steam rising to his face, and laughed, "I ate four today, so I might as well have half of this one."

"Don't just eat half, eat two!" The shopkeeper snatched the bowl away and brought him another bowl, "and add a spoonful of chili."

"Okay." Zhu Biao really ate it. He ate slowly, taking half a bite of each food and then putting it back on the edge of the bowl, as if afraid of startling something.

Zhu Han simply held the bowl and drank the soup.

The soup simmered down his throat, a warm sensation rising from his chest. He put down the bowl and asked Manager Gu with a smile, "Did you put ginger in this soup?"

"It's on, and I even added pepper." Manager Gu scratched his head. "Your Highness, is it to your liking?"

"Yes." Zhu Han turned his head. "Who wrote the character '真' (zhen, meaning true/genuine) on your door?"

"My lad." Manager Gu pulled the boy out of the kitchen. The boy's hands were covered in dough, but as soon as he saw Zhu Han, his eyes crinkled into crescents with laughter. "Your Highness, I wrote it!"

Zhu Han nodded to him: "It's written crookedly."

The boy was stunned: "...Oh."

"That's just right." Zhu Han laughed. "The fact that it's crooked means you wrote it yourself."

The shopkeeper burst out laughing and slapped his son on the back of the head: "Did you hear that! The Prince praised you!"

The child covered his head and laughed, "I'll write an even crooked one tomorrow!"

"Don't make it too crooked." Zhu Han stood up. "Just a little crooked is fine; leave the rest to the wind." (End of Chapter)