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

Just as it was getting warmer here, a burst of cursing suddenly erupted from the other side of the street.

A tall, thin man overturned his stall and yelled, "I'm selling real knives and scissors, how can you call them 'fake goods'! Are you people from Chengtian bullying newcomers?!"

The stall owner was a blacksmith from out of town; he looked unfamiliar and spoke with a foreign accent.

A group of people gathered around, and someone suggested, "Go find the prince to settle the matter."

Upon hearing this, the blacksmith was initially intimidated. Just as he hesitated, Zhu Biao had already passed by.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

The blacksmith snorted: "Someone left a broken piece of copper on my stall with the character 'Shadow' engraved on it, implying that I sell unclean things. I've come all this way to earn a living, and you city folks can't do this to me."

"Who lost the copper piece?" Zhu Biao asked.

No one in the crowd spoke up. After a while, a middle-aged man wearing a straw hat lowered his head and said, "I saw someone in a blue robe, quick-handed, throw it."

Where did they go?

“The alleyway to the west.”

"Zhao Desheng." This time, Zhu Han didn't look at him, but only called out his name.

"exist!"

“Go to the rooftops of the alley and bring the person who lost the film to this stall.”

"Got it!"

Zhao Desheng moved like the wind, leaping from the eaves and grabbing a tile, quickly climbing onto the roof.

The crowd craned their necks, and saw him arch his back on the rooftop like a large cat, then suddenly pounce down—"Ouch—"

With a thud, dust rose from the ground, and a blue shadow was dragged out by the back of his collar.

"You threw this?" Zhao Desheng slammed the man to the ground.

The man's lips twitched; he neither admitted nor denied it. Zhu Han looked at him, neither asking nor drinking, but simply waved to the blacksmith: "Bring me your best scissors."

The blacksmith paused for a moment, then pulled out a pair of scissors from the bottom of his stall. The scissors had a thick back and a bright blade.

Zhu Han handed the scissors to the man in blue: "Cut a corner of my sleeve."

The crowd gasped. The man in blue also froze, not daring to reach out.

"Cut," Zhu Han repeated, his voice low. "If you cut it neatly, I'll reward you with a string of coins; if you cut it badly, I'll stuff the copper piece you threw away into your mouth."

The man in blue gritted his teeth and reached out his hand. The scissors slid open and close with a crisp sound, the blade touching the cloth—all four corners of the cloth fell down at once, the cut was clean, and the threads lay flat.

The crowd gasped and laughed. The blacksmith puffed out his chest, his small eyes shining: "My craftsmanship is no joke."

"You," Zhu Han said to the man in blue, "go to the blacksmith's stall and apologize three times."

The man in blue blushed deeply and stammered, "I...I was wrong."

"Just two more sentences."

"I will not litter anymore in the future."

"Just one more sentence."

"I—I'll buy a pair of scissors."

The crowd burst into laughter, clapping loudly. The blacksmith, who had been holding back for a while, suddenly chuckled and said, "Fine, I'll give you one for free."

The man in blue stood there stunned for a moment, then laughed, a rather silly laugh.

Zhu Han picked up the corner of the cloth from his sleeve, held it between his fingertips, and tossed it gently into the blacksmith's hand: "Keep it safe. What you're selling today is your spirit."

The blacksmith nodded vigorously, his eyes suddenly reddening: "Sir, tomorrow I'll forge two kitchen knives and deliver them to the Prince's mansion—"

"Don't send them away." Zhu Han waved his hand. "We'll sell them as usual tomorrow. They can be sold to anyone."

The crowd dispersed with a roar of laughter. This scene marked the end of the play. The troupe leader peeked out from the shadows, watching the blacksmith put away his scissors and the woman in blue put away hers, a slow, smirking smile playing on his lips.

He turned back and winked at the skinny man: "See? People watch when you're 'selling the real thing'."

The skinny man, holding his erhu, nodded and said softly, "We—will also straighten the bow."

Night deepened. One by one, the lights at the corner of the city began to illuminate the night.

"Your Highness." A hunchbacked old craftsman came over with a cane and bowed to him. "This old man has a few words to say."

"explain."

“You had the door wide open during the day, and then you made us hang the ‘real’ seal.” The old craftsman laughed. “I know what you’re trying to do. You’re handing the ‘seal’ over to us.”

"Will you accept it or not?" Zhu Han asked.

"I'll take it." The old craftsman nodded, his eyes shining. "My son can't write well, so I'll write for him. Even if it's crooked, I'll hang it up."

“It’s right even if it’s crooked,” Zhu Han said. “The wind will help you straighten it.”

The old craftsman smiled, his face crinkling with laughter: "Your Highness, I used to make rivets when I was young. Rivets have to be hammered one stroke at a time. If you hammer them in the right way, the board won't come loose. Your hammering today hit the spot right on the heart, it's solid."

"We'll smash it again tomorrow." Zhu Han looked at the light. "Smash it every day."

The old craftsman replied with a "good," turned around and took two steps, then turned back and called out, "Your Highness, I'll make you an even louder string of copper bells tomorrow!"

"Don't make it too loud," Zhu Han laughed. "Let the child sleep."

The old craftsman chuckled and left.

Light footsteps followed behind him. Zhu Biao came over and draped a thick cloak over Zhu Han's shoulders: "It's chilly at night."

"It's not cold tonight." Zhu Han pulled his cloak tighter. "Did you see? The shadows under the lamp are shorter."

“Hmm.” Zhu Biao looked at the street. “During the day, I got into an argument at a tofu stall, and I suddenly realized—it turns out the ‘seal’ wasn’t stamped by me on the table, it was stamped by them on the stall.”

“Yes.” Zhu Han turned his head. “Setting up the stall steadily is more important than filling the table with items.”

“There’s one more thing.” Zhu Biao paused. “I want to understand what ‘Shadow’ fears most.”

What are you most afraid of?

"I'm most afraid of laughter." Zhu Biao looked at the opera troupe. "Once laughter starts, there's no room for anything else to be heard in the drum."

"So we'll buy half a day's worth of joy," Zhu Han laughed. "And another half day tomorrow."

"Can you afford it?"

“I can afford it.” Zhu Han turned around. “You and I standing under the lamp, that’s money.”

Just then, a series of hoofbeats softly broke through the night in the distance. Not hurried, but measured.

Shen Lu whispered, "Your Highness, a message has come from the northern suburbs—the lights at that earthen hut have gone out."

"He's gone." Zhu Han nodded.

“Yes.” Shen Lu paused for a moment, then added, “He left a message for the old Taoist priest guarding the temple.”

"What?"

“'Go back and check the lights.'”

Zhu Han hummed in agreement, then remained silent.

"Your Highness." Zhao Desheng ran over carrying a bowl of scalding hot meat soup, the steam making his eyes red. "Take a sip, don't choke on the cold."

"You drink it." Zhu Han pushed the bowl towards him.

"I'll give you some after I finish mine." Zhao Desheng tilted his head back and gulped it down, almost burning his tongue. He shuddered and yelled, "It's so hot!"

"It should be hot, that's right." Zhu Han laughed.

Zhao Desheng held the bowl protectively to his chest, then suddenly became serious: "Your Highness, the city feels like it's on holiday today."

“Every day,” Zhu Han said, “until the lights never go out.”

When Zhu Han returned to his residence, the last shop's lights had just gone out, and the paper prints were still hanging on the door.

The wind was gentle, the sign barely audible, yet it shone softly in the moonlight. He walked past the sign, his steps light, as if afraid of crushing something.

Someone drew the character "真" (zhen, meaning real) on the forehead of the small stone lion at the entrance of the courtyard with chalk, making it look terribly crooked.

He paused for a moment, then smiled and gently brushed his thumb along the vertical stroke, not erasing it, but just blurring the pink—making it look more like it was written on than brushed on.

"Your Highness," Shen Lu whispered from behind, "there's been no movement from the Shadow Division for the time being."

“It will move.” Zhu Han didn’t turn around. “Once they figure it out, they’ll move it in more detail.”

"And us?" "We're even more robust." Zhu Han pushed open the door and entered. "So robust that they can't squeeze in. The door opens wide, the stalls are set up steadily, the plays are sung and laughed, the children can come home, there are things to do with our hands, and there's light in our hearts."

“Yes.” Shen Lu nodded. “These past few days I’ve arranged the stalls around the city gate so that storytellers, candy sellers, and straw sandal sellers are all next to the lamps.”

"Don't line them up like a battle array," Zhu Han laughed. "They should look like a street."

"clear."

Zhu Han, wearing a straw raincoat, strolled slowly along the street. Mud splashed onto his boots, but he didn't bother to wipe it off.

Today, the tofu stall at the intersection has switched to selling ginger soup. The owner's son is squatting in front of the stove, pouring ginger juice into bowls with an iron ladle, and the steam hits his face.

"Your Highness!" the child called out as soon as he looked up, his voice full of joy.

Zhu Han laughed, reached out and took the bowl, took a sip, and coughed from the spiciness: "You've added too much ginger."

"Mom said to add more warmth," the child said earnestly.

He casually patted the child's head and was about to leave when he suddenly heard crying coming from across the street.

It was an old woman, her umbrella overturned on the ground, holding a tattered basket in her arms. Inside the basket were several soaked pieces of cloth and a few bamboo skewers.

"Grandma, what's wrong?" Zhu Han asked.

The old woman trembled, tears mingling with the rain: "My son has been arrested... They say he stole government grain, but he's a woodcutter, where would he get the grain from..." Passersby stopped and whispered among themselves.

Zhu Han took the cloth from the old woman and glanced at it—it was linen used by dyers, with markings still visible on the edges. He frowned slightly.

Where was he caught?

“West Ferry,” the old woman cried, “He said he hid rice bags with a group of people—but those rice bags were the ones he carried home to use as stepping stones.”

Zhu Han looked up, his gaze darkening.

"Zhao Desheng".

"exist!"

"Go to the west ferry crossing and find out who's guarding the grain. Take Shen Lu with you."

Zhao Desheng cupped his hands in greeting and said, "Understood." He then turned and led his men away into the rain.

Zhu Biao closed his umbrella and stood to the side, his expression calm: "Uncle, doesn't this... seem like someone is taking advantage of the situation again?"

“It does seem so.” Zhu Han said in a low voice, “If the civil case is false, then it will truly harm people.”

He turned to the old woman and said gently, "Go home first. If your son is truly innocent, I will clear his name."

The old woman knelt down with a thud: "Thank you, Your Highness! Thank you, Your Highness—"

Zhao Desheng stepped forward: "Who gave you permission to detain people?"

The constable gave a cold laugh: "I'm following orders. Someone reported these men for stealing rice."

"Reported?" Shen Lu narrowed his eyes. "Who reported it?" The constable pulled out a notice from his pocket, stamped with an official seal.

"A seal?" Zhao Desheng reached out and tore the paper open, revealing ink marks—the lines of the seal were slightly thinner than the real seal, and the edges were blurred.

Shen Lu sneered, "A forged seal." The constable froze, about to argue, when Zhao Desheng reached out and grabbed his shoulder: "Where did this seal come from?"

"I...I was just following orders—"

"Whose order was this?"

The escort remained stubborn and silent. Shen Lu said coldly, "Take him to see the Prince."

As evening fell, the lights of the Chengtian Prefecture government office came on. Zhu Han stood in front of the hall, raindrops dripping from the eaves, each drop striking the bluestone with a distinct sound.

The constables who were brought in were soaking wet and their faces were ashen. Zhao Desheng kicked them off the platform.

"Speak," Zhu Han said calmly, "who gave you the seal?"

"It's...it's someone from the trading company," the man stammered.

Which company?

"Hengtai Cloth Shop".

Zhu Biao frowned: "Isn't that the company that weaves tribute cloth for the palace?"

"Yes." Zhu Han's eyes darkened. "It seems someone wants to use the people's crimes to test the 'true seal'."

He turned to Shen Lu and whispered, "Investigate Hengtai's accounts. Start with the amount of cloth in the warehouse."

Night rain pattered against the window, and the sound of hurried footsteps could be heard in the wind. Shen Lu reported: "Hengtai has paid tribute three times in the past month, and the accounts are all in order."

However, a batch of unfinished tribute cloth was found in the workshop, but the seals were stamped with "received."

"Another fake seal." Zhu Han sneered.

"Your Highness, should we arrest them immediately?" Zhao Desheng asked.

"No rush," Zhu Han said. "Let them think the government believes us first. Tomorrow, I will personally go and buy the cloth."

The next day the sky cleared, the streets dried quickly, and the sunlight shone on the stone slabs, reflecting a faint glow.

A golden signboard hangs at the entrance of Hengtai Cloth Shop, and the owner, beaming, asks, "Gentlemen, would you like fine cloth or thick silk?"

Zhu Han was dressed in plain clothes, his face was clean-shaven, and he looked like a stranger. Zhu Biao, using an alias, acted as his attendant, carrying a cloth bag.

"The cloth to be offered as tribute," Zhu Han said calmly.

Upon hearing "tribute," the shopkeeper immediately smiled even more obsequiously: "Sir, you have a good eye! This batch of tribute cloth has just come off the factory and all the stamps are complete."

He had his men bring out a roll of cloth, which, when unfolded, was as white as frost. A "tribute" stamp was affixed to the corner, its ink evenly applied.

Zhu Han reached out and touched it, his fingertips pausing—the ink was slightly rough, not palace ink.

"What kind of ink do you use for your seal?" he asked.

The shopkeeper paused for a moment, then smiled and replied, "Of course it's official ink."

"Official ink carries the fragrance of osmanthus, but your ink smells sour." Zhu Han raised his eyes, his smile tinged with coldness. "Tell me, who gave you the seal?"

The boss's expression changed drastically, and beads of sweat appeared on his forehead: "It's...it's the warehouse clerk, Duan Yuan."

"Duan Yuan?" Zhu Biao said in a deep voice, "It's Cang Si again."

Zhu Han flicked his finger, and the edge of the cloth roll cracked, revealing a second layer of paper—on that paper, the character "銀" (shadow) was engraved instead of "銀" (tribute).

The whole place was dead silent.

"Your Highness—" Shen Lu rushed in, "The warehouse manager, Duan Yuan, is missing! He fled the ferry last night!"

Zhu Han slowly stood up, his gaze sharp as a knife: "Where does he think he's going?"

"Northern suburbs."

"Then chase them."

The sky changed again. The northern suburbs were low-lying and shrouded in mist. Duan Yuan climbed over the embankment, slipped, and fell into the mud. Looking back, the firelight of the pursuers resembled a string of fiery snakes.

He gasped for breath, pulled out the bronze token from his waist, and threw it into the river. The token was immediately submerged. Just then, a shadow flashed out from behind a tree, slashing horizontally with a long sword.

He screamed and backed away, but Zhao Desheng kicked him to the ground.

“Run!” Zhao Desheng said, lifting him up. “He’s really fast.”

“I…I am under orders!” Duan Yuan gritted his teeth.

Zhu Han stepped forward, his expression cold and stern: "Whose life?"

"Kageji!"

A gust of wind whistled around them. Zhu Biao frowned: "Shadow Division? It's not over yet?"

Duan Yuan's voice trembled: "They said... they wanted to test the prince's authenticity and let the people create chaos on their own."

"Let the people be in chaos?" Zhu Han suddenly laughed, his laughter very soft. "They don't understand the will of the people."

He raised his hand: "Take him back to the city, and he'll be at the market tomorrow."

The following day, the entire city of Chengtian was in an uproar. People spontaneously gathered at the market entrance, as rumors spread that the prince would "publicly verify the seal." As dawn broke through the fog, Zhu Han stood on the platform, while Duan Yuan was escorted down.

The audience was packed; children climbed onto their fathers' shoulders, and old women leaned on their canes.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Zhu Han's voice was calm yet carried far, "someone has forged official seals to falsely accuse people of theft. If we do not distinguish the truth from the falsehood, everyone present today could be implicated tomorrow." (End of Chapter)