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

He took out two printing plates—one genuine and one fake—and placed them on the table. “The genuine plate was engraved from an iron mold in the palace, with subtle hooks along the edges; the fake plate was privately engraved by a craftsman, with flat lines and no hooks. It’s a pity the forger didn’t understand—”

Before he finished speaking, a copper piece flew out of his sleeve and landed on the ground. "—The True Seal Hook contains Osmanthus Fragrance Powder."

A gentle breeze carries a delicate fragrance.

"Can you smell it?" Zhu Han asked.

Someone in the crowd exclaimed, "I smelled this outside the palace gates!"

"This is the official seal!"

Zhu Han nodded: "Those who use forged seals to frame others shall be punished even more severely."

He waved his hand, and Zhao Desheng drew his sword and brandished it. "Duan Yuan forged the seal and implicated the people; he shall be given fifty strokes of the cane and exiled three thousand li."

The crowd fell silent. Zhu Han turned to the people and said, “Anyone who forges a seal, whether an official or a commoner, will be severely punished. But anyone who can distinguish the genuine seal and protect the people will be rewarded with ten taels of silver.”

The crowd fell silent for a moment, then erupted in cheers.

"Your Majesty is wise!"

"It's truly imprinted on my heart!"

The old woman pushed her way to the front, knelt down weeping, and cried, "Your Highness, my son is innocent!"

Zhu Han reached out and helped her up: "His innocence is as pure as the fragrance of osmanthus."

The old woman looked up, tears glistening in her wrinkles: "May Your Highness protect me!"

Zhu Han changed into casual clothes, with only a plain rope tied around his waist.

Zhu Biao stood by his side, holding a copper bell in his hand. He tossed it as he walked, and the bell's "clunk" seemed to gather people's hearts together.

At the alleyway bend, a funeral procession bumped into a wedding procession across the street—one group dressed in white, the other in red. The gong-beating stopped, the suona-playing stopped, and several faces immediately turned red.

"Make way!" The groom's uncle waved his hand, "It's our auspicious day!"

"Get out of the way!" The second nephew, his eyes red, shouted. "We'll walk in front!"

An anger surged from his chest, almost bursting forth. The onlookers gasped, sensing that a fight was about to break out.

"Wait," Zhu Biao said first, his voice low. "Don't move either end."

The people from the wedding party glanced at him, about to reprimand him, when Zhu Han stepped forward, took the suona from his hand, and said, "You're all out of breath, you can't make a sound. Give it to me."

When the suona was handed to him, he didn't play it. Instead, he held the mouthpiece upright with the ground facing him and nodded towards the direction of the funeral procession: "Take a step forward."

The funeral procession was stunned for a moment, but somehow they did as instructed. The coffin bearers shifted their shoulders, moving forward a foot.

Zhu Han turned the suona back into his palm and nodded to the wedding party: "Let's go."

The wedding party looked at him, and for some reason, their feet started to move.

The red umbrella tilted, the bridal sedan chair turned, and it moved a foot.

“You take one foot, they take one foot,” Zhu Han said calmly, “and the road will open.”

A burst of laughter erupted on the street. Someone exclaimed, "That's a great idea!"

An elderly man carrying the coffin looked at Zhu Han with red eyes: "Grandpa, the pole has hit the fire, what should we do?"

"Make way for the porters, and the stalls for the fire." Zhu Han turned to look at the baking oven next to him. "Move the oven in a hand's width, and the porters walk outside the bluestone line."

He then whispered towards the wedding procession, "Groom, lift the sedan curtain and let her see the world. If you're going to marry her, first let her see that your home isn't just a door for people to enter and never leave."

A soft "hmm" came from inside the sedan chair, and the curtain was gently lifted a crack. White and Red exchanged a glance through that crack, but neither of them shouted "Charge!"

The suona horns started playing again, first with a long "woo-woo" sound from the funeral procession, followed by the lively "didi lala" sounds from the wedding procession.

The two lines of people parted in the middle like combed hair and passed by smoothly.

"Remember this." Zhu Biao tucked the copper bell into his palm. "The first rule at the alley entrance: give way to porters and stall owners. Keep it in mind, and walk this way again tomorrow."

"I've got it!" The cook slammed the rolling pin on the counter. "From now on, if anyone dares to act arrogantly, I'll knock them down first!"

"Don't knock," Zhu Han laughed. "Laugh first."

In the afternoon, the river breeze carried moisture. The small stone bridge had a high arch and a narrow center, with people carrying loads, pushing carts, and carrying baskets coming and going on both sides.

There was an old man selling tea at the bridgehead. His stove was small, and the tea foam would fall off as soon as it started to boil.

Beside his tea stall stood a boy with a whetstone slung over his shoulder.

"Sharpening knives and scissors!"

He has a loud voice; you can hear him from both sides of the bridge.

As he was shouting, he suddenly cried out "Ouch!" and almost bumped into the carpenter pushing the coffin across the street. The carpenter, who had a short temper, raised his hand to shove him: "Where are your eyes!"

The boy shrank back, but retorted defiantly, "I'm just trying to earn my share of soup, why are you being so fierce!"

His temper flared up again in an instant.

"Heavy objects move slowly." Zhu Han had somehow appeared in the middle of the bridge, raising his hands to block both sides. "People speak softly."

The boy and the carpenter were both taken aback.

“Look at the center of this bridge.” Zhu Han pointed to the stone at his feet. “This stone has the densest texture, is hollow underneath, and has the worst load-bearing capacity. If the heavier person takes a step slower, or if people speak softly, the bridge won’t make a sound.”

He then pointed to the two polished cracks in the stone on either side of the bridge: "These are the most slippery places because people walk on them a lot. Whoever is the fastest will fall first."

The old man selling tea chuckled, took a sip of tea, and said, "Your Highness is right."

"Old man," Zhu Han said gently as he took the tea, "I'd like to trouble you to get up half an hour early tomorrow and hang up a sign at the bridgehead."

"Hang what?" the old man asked.

"Two words—'Slow down'. And four more words: 'Speak softly'."

The old man nodded with a smile: "Once this sign is up, the bridge will be quiet."

The carpenter slumped his shoulders back: "Your Highness, my load is heavy, I'll hold off for now."

The boy blushed and scratched his head: "My voice... I have a softer voice."

Zhu Biao hung the copper bell on the bridge railing. The bell lightly touched the wooden railing and rang out: "The second promise of the bridge: heavy objects should be handled slowly, and people should speak softly."

"I've got it!" the old tea seller chuckled. "I'll write it in the cup, and I'll tell everyone who comes to drink!"

"Don't take the money." Zhu Han returned the teacup. "These four words, what you've earned back is a bridge."

As evening fell, boats crisscrossed the ferry crossing. The events of the previous day at the West Ferry were still fresh in the minds of the people, and before boarding, everyone touched the money pouch at their waist and then the paper "true" in their heart.

There was a low table at the ferry dock, behind which sat an old man with an etched face, and beside him stood a little girl with a short hairband and bright eyes.

There are three wooden stamps on the table: one real and two fake.

“Look closely,” the old man said, putting the three seals together. “The vertical stroke of the character ‘真’ is deeply embedded in the wood, and there’s a fragrance of osmanthus on the side.”

He looked up and saw Zhu Han, then bowed slightly, "Your Highness."

The little girl's eyes lit up when she saw Zhu Biao: "Crown Prince Brother!"

"I don't have the surname 'Brother'," Zhu Biao laughed. "Are you the old man who engraves seals' apprentice?"

"My name is Panpan," the little girl said, puffing out her chest. "I can carve 'truth'!"

"Let me see it carved." Zhu Biao handed over a small piece of wood.

Panpan quickly rolled up her sleeves, picked up the carving knife, and with a few quick "swish, swish, swish" cuts, wood shavings landed on her shoes, covering the toes with a layer of snow.

She showed the carving to Zhu Biao after she finished: "It's a little crooked." "Good crookedness," Zhu Biao said, holding the piece of wood. "The wind will straighten it."

"I know!" Panpan smiled, revealing a set of white teeth. "The Prince said so!"

A man carrying a roll of cloth was about to cross the river when he saw the seal on the table. He glanced at it and was about to leave when the old man raised his hand: "Wait. Look at the seal."

The man was taken aback: "I'm driving the boat."

"First look at the seal, then look at the person." The old man handed him the real seal. "If the seal is correct, the boat won't run away."

The man glanced at it impatiently, but was stopped by the faint scent of osmanthus.

He brought it closer to his nose, took a careful sniff, and then nodded: "Yes, that's the smell."

“The third agreement at the ferry crossing,” Zhu Han continued softly. “First look at the seal, then look at the person.”

"Got it!" the man laughed, tossing the roll of cloth onto the boat. He turned back and gave the little girl behind the table a thumbs-up. "Little craftsman, you've got a good hand at carving!"

Panpan blushed with joy, wiping the wood shavings from her nose: "I'll carve ten every day!"

"Don't make too many." Zhu Han shook his head. "Seven out of ten should be matched. Leave the remaining three for Feng."

Panpan said "Oh" and nodded solemnly.

The night was not yet deep, but the entrance to the steamed bun shop was already full. Today, Mr. Weng was not holding a pipa, but a moon zither, with delicate strings and a clearer sound.

Before he could even flick the pin twice, he swayed backward and fell to the ground with a thud, his face as white as paper.

"Mr. Weng!" Manager Gu was the first to rush over. "Someone come here—water!"

The crowd erupted in chaos, with some shouting, "Quick, call a doctor!" while others were at a loss for what to do.

Zhu Biao grabbed Mr. Weng's wrist, checked his pulse with his fingertips, and frowned. "His pulse is like that of a sleeper, but it's unstable."

"Returning soul?" Shen Lu whispered.

“The smell is off.” Zhu Han turned to the side, squatted down, and sniffed closely with his nose to Mr. Weng’s mouth. “There’s a medicinal smell, but it’s not strong. It’s more like… being suffocated.”

He looked up and around, his gaze settling on an overturned wooden bowl.

There was a ring of white powder around the rim of the wooden bowl, and the powder stuck to the edge of the lip print, a thin layer.

Who held this bowl?

Shopkeeper Gu slapped his forehead: "I served the ginger soup! But these noodles aren't mine!"

"Where does the powder come from?" Zhu Han reached out and sipped a little from the rim of the bowl, rubbed it between his fingertips, brought it to his nose, and inhaled lightly. "It's not 'Returning Soul,' it's betel nut powder mixed with hemp leaves. It's suffocating, but it won't kill you."

"Who served it to him?" Zhu Biao asked.

The shopkeeper pointed outside the door: "There was a man wearing a straw hat, the same kind of guy who caused a ruckus at the blacksmith's stall during the day—he gave Mr. Weng two copper coins and kept asking for soup. I served it to him, and he sat down to the side. He took just one sip and collapsed."

"What does he want to do?" Zhao Desheng clenched his fist. "Make a scene?"

“It’s frightening.” Zhu Han lifted Mr. Weng’s eyelids, his pupils shrinking narrow. “When people are afraid, they shut their mouths. And when they shut their mouths, their shadows grow longer.”

He helped Mr. Weng sit up, had someone prepare warm salt water for him to drink, and then asked Manager Gu to bring a small pot of hot wine, mixed with a couple of sips of ginger soup to soothe him.

A short while later, Mr. Weng woke up with a cough, clutching his chest: "Who...who pushed me?"

“Nobody pushed you,” Zhu Han laughed. “You drank the kindness of a bad person.”

Mr. Weng was taken aback, then understood, and smiled wryly: "This was well-intentioned, but it was a close call."

“It’s dangerous, but the danger lies in the fact that he doesn’t dare to use ruthlessness.” Zhu Han stood up. “They’re afraid of showing their true colors, so they only dare to keep quiet.”

"Your Highness," Shopkeeper Gu asked anxiously, "is that person still here?"

"People have dispersed." Zhu Han looked towards the door. "They dispersed too quickly, like a hat that had been put on."

"Is there a solution?" Mr. Weng asked.

“Yes.” Zhu Han turned the wooden bowl upside down on the table. “From now on tonight, all tea and wine—let the shopkeeper take a sip first.”

"This..." Manager Gu was stunned. "Then I'll have to drink myself to death."

“If you take the first sip, everyone will dare to take a second.” Zhu Han placed his chopsticks horizontally on the rim of the bowl. “No need for big gulps, just a small sip is enough. Only when it touches the heart can it be truly appreciated.”

Mr. Weng smiled, his voice still weak, but he forced himself to tap the piano surface: "Tonight, I won't say anything else, I'll just sing 'Take a Sip'."

The wind blew in from outside the door, and the paper rustled softly.

Someone shouted from the doorway, "I'll take a sip first!"

"I'll have some too!"

In an instant, laughter from around the bowl rolled like beads, eventually forming a warm line.

As the night deepened, the alleyway became as dark as a curled-up cat. The straw sandal seller packed up and headed home, his bamboo pole slung over his shoulder, the strings of straw sandals jingling against his back.

As he reached the corner, a hand emerged from the shadows and rested on his shoulder, a low voice saying, "Excuse me."

"I can lend you two steps," the straw sandal vendor chuckled, his pace neither too fast nor too slow.

Another hand silently reached for his waist. A third hand reached for the bamboo pole from behind him.

“Three hands.” A voice faintly echoed from the darkness. “The Shadow Division’s old methods.”

The three hands froze simultaneously. The next instant, a sharp "crack" sounded in the darkness, like a thin twig being snapped.

Shen Lu pulled the third hand off the bamboo pole and twisted it against the wall. Zhao Desheng followed on the other side, stomping the second hand into the ground.

Just as the owner of the first hand was about to whistle, Zhu Han took a half step forward and lightly touched the instep of his foot with his toe: "Don't whistle. If you whistle, you'll lose three teeth today."

The person in the shadows gritted his teeth and finally swallowed the whistle back. The straw sandal vendor smiled and leaned his bamboo pole against the wall: "Your Highness, I knew someone in this alley was using 'stepping' techniques."

"I'll lend it, but don't lend me your waist." Zhu Han pulled him behind him. "Of the three of you, which hand is the most agile?"

"Me," came the muffled voice of the hand standing on the ground, "I'm the fastest at stealing."

"Okay." Zhu Han released his foot. "I'll give you a job."

The man was stunned: "Huh?"

“From now on, you’ll specialize in ‘stealing’ fakes in the market,” Zhu Han said calmly. “If anyone has fake seals, fake scales, or fake rulers on their stall—you steal them and hang them on my wall.”

"Hang it on the wall?" The man thought he had misheard.

“That’s right.” Zhao Desheng laughed, “If you hang up a ‘fake’ wall, everyone in the city will see it, and who would still have the face to put up a fake one?”

The three men looked at each other, bewildered. After a moment, the man whose hand had been stepped on chuckled, unable to suppress a laugh: "This job... does it pay well?"

"It won't bring in money," Zhu Han shook his head. "It'll bring in life."

The three were silent for a moment. The one in the dark, who was about to blow the whistle, spoke up: "I'll do it."

“Me too—” the third person immediately chimed in, “Anyway, you’ve already twisted my hand.”

“Then let’s do it.” Zhu Han took a step back. “Starting tomorrow night, you’ll be the first batch.”

The straw sandal vendor beside him smiled so hard his eyes narrowed: "Your Highness, I'll make sure the 'genuine' sign is hung up even louder tomorrow."

"Don't make it too loud." Zhu Han turned his head. "Let the child sleep."

As the night deepened, only a few lamps remained lit at the corner of the city.

The window of the steamed bun shop was half-closed, and Mr. Weng was humming softly, his voice slightly revived by the wine.

“Uncle,” Zhu Biao leaned against the doorframe, gazing at the street, “can these three ‘rules’ be put up today—give way to those carrying loads, give way to those with fires; carry heavy goods slowly, speak softly; check the seal first, then the person?” (End of Chapter)