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

Someone in the crowd clenched their fist and made a "hmm" sound.

The voice wasn't loud, but it was solid. The boy glanced sideways, a slight smile involuntarily playing on his lips—for the first time in days, he genuinely felt that this would work, not through shouting or intimidation, but through the rope, plate, knife, and pot in his hands, and through each person learning a little something each day.

"Finally," Zhu Han paused, his gaze sweeping over the crowd, "we've arrested quite a few people these past few days—some who gave money, some who took money, some who reached out, and some who did the dirty work. You're all angry, and you don't need to suppress that anger. But don't let it get the better of you. From today onward, anyone who dares to take advantage of the chaos to raise prices, hoard goods, or stuff drugs will have their name put on the 'fake' sign. Anyone who reliably delivers good medicine will have their name put on the 'genuine' sign. The signs will change every day until you all submit."

"I agree!" someone in the crowd responded, followed by a chorus of agreement.

Zhu Han placed the powder dish back on the table, turned, and stepped down from the stage. A young boy approached and whispered, "Your Highness, the people from the government office have been watching for a long time. I wonder what they're thinking."

"Let them think about it." Zhu Han smiled faintly. "Once they've figured it out, they can go move the printing press."

The wind swept across the flags, making a low whistling sound. The sunlight slanted across the four wooden plaques that read "Genuine," "Fake," "Suspicious," and "Wine," the ink on the characters fresh and powerful.

In a corner of the drill ground, the old woman carried the inspected pot away, while the boy ran over with a thin rope, holding up two blades of grass, one dark and one light, that had been dried in the sun: "Your Highness! I can see it—the colors are different after drying!"

"What's different?" Zhu Han asked.

“This patch is yellow, this patch is gray,” the boy gasped, his eyes shining like water, “the gray one is the Gelsemium elegans!”

“Go,” Zhu Han handed him the thin rope, “take your village head and teach this sentence to ten people. If you can teach nine of them, you win.”

The boy nodded emphatically and ran off.

The setting sun cast long shadows, and the heat of the drill ground did not dissipate, but rather lingered steadily.

Zhu Han stood with his back slightly straight, like a stake sunk into the ground.

He suddenly remembered the bowl of wontons outside the winery and said to the boy with a smile, "You can eat now."

The boy paused for a moment, then smiled: "You've finally decided to eat."

The clouds hung low in the evening, like a layer of lingering medicinal vapor.

Beside the shed in the drill ground, the fire in the pot was still bubbling, and the wooden signs "Genuine, Counterfeit, Suspicious, Wine" gleamed in the afterglow.

After finishing a bowl of wontons, Zhu Han put the cup back on the corner of the table, flicked the dough off his sleeve, and turned to the boy, saying, "Make three copies of the list of those changing hairpins. One copy will be filed in the county archives, one will be given to the printing office, and one will be posted on the city gate tomorrow."

"Yes, sir." The boy replied and picked up his brush to write.

At this moment, the village head rushed over and lowered his voice: "Your Highness, the owner of Fusheng Pharmacy at the end of West Alley requests an audience, saying he is willing to hand over the 'pollen' he received last night and also wants to know who delivered the pollen."

"bring."

Before long, a thin middle-aged man followed the constable in, his clothes still bearing the marks of old oil stains.

He bowed timidly: "My humble shop, Fusheng Pharmacy, had two packets of powder delivered to me last night, which they said could 'enhance fragrance.' I dared not use them and kept them. Today, seeing the medicine being tested in public at the drill ground, I felt uneasy and brought the powder with me."

"Can you identify the person who gave you the powder?" Zhu Han asked.

“I recognize him.” The shopkeeper nodded hurriedly. “He’s one of the remaining employees of Tongyuan Trading Company, named Awang. To be honest, he’s usually honest and doesn’t seem like the type to do this kind of thing.”

"Even honest people can be pushed around," Zhu Han said. "Where are they?"

"Wait in the shop. I was afraid he'd run away, so I had him guard the storeroom door. The key is with me." The shopkeeper trembled as he handed over the key.

Zhu Han pushed the keys back: "You lead the way."

The training ground was temporarily left to the children to watch over, while Zhu Han led two constables and followed the shopkeeper down a side alley.

The winter wind whipped up the dust in the alley, making it sting, and the moss at the base of the walls turned white.

Upon reaching the shop door, the shopkeeper carefully unlocked it. A faint medicinal smell wafted out first, but was then suppressed by an indescribable cool fragrance.

"Wait." Zhu Han stretched out his arm to stop the crowd, broke off a small pinch of powder from the threshold, rubbed it between his fingers and sniffed it, his gaze sharpening, "Someone is covering up the smell."

He glanced around, fixed his gaze on the empty board under the counter, flicked his finger, and the board made a deep "thump" sound.

The constable drew his sword and lifted the board, revealing a narrow slit underneath. Inside the slit were two flat paper pouches coated with wax.

The shopkeeper turned pale with fright and waved his hands repeatedly, saying, "This isn't mine—"

"I believe you." Zhu Han took out the paper packet. The wax layer was very thin, obviously made in a hurry.

He gently tugged, and the edge of the paper pouch came undone, releasing a wisp of almost invisible pink mist that carried an extremely light and fine coolness.

He raised his hand to signal the constables to step back two steps, then bent down and placed the paper packet into a white porcelain dish, adding two drops of vinegar.

The edges of the powder did not immediately turn black, but slowly condensed into dark clumps, like oil-soaked food meeting acid, not losing its flavor, but only settling in.

The shopkeeper swallowed hard: "What...is this?"

"It's not the poisonous plant that breaks hearts. It contains finely ground nux vomica, coated with tung oil and camphor. The tung oil seals it in, so it melts in your mouth when you put it in tea or wine."

Zhu Han put down the plate, his gaze turning colder. "Where is Awang?"

The shopkeeper's hands trembled even more violently: "It's—it's in the storeroom."

The moment the warehouse door was pushed open, Awang, like a startled hare, darted out through the window, pushed off the window frame, and leaped outside.

The constables took two steps in pursuit, but then they heard the sound of wheels rolling on the ground at the alley entrance. A handcart with iron clamps came rushing over and blocked their way.

The man pushing the cart was dressed in blue, with slanted eyes and a canvas wrapped around his wrist. He looked like a porter or a porter who was used to doing business.

"Don't chase." Zhu Han raised his hand, took a step forward, and went to meet the man.

The moment the two brushed past each other, the man suddenly raised his elbow and slammed it into his ribs with vicious force.

He leaned slightly to one side, and a bamboo skewer slipped from his fingertips from his sleeve, striking the man's wrist bone with a light tap. The man gasped in surprise.

The handcart slipped from his grasp, and the straw mat covering it fell off, revealing two empty straw bags and a small wooden sign underneath—"Yongtong".

"Take him down," Zhu Han said.

The man struggled twice but was forced to the ground, a bitter smile on his face: "Your Highness has some skill. But if one path is blocked, there are other paths."

"Who gave you the road?" Zhu Han asked.

The man didn't answer, but instead turned his head to look at a withered locust tree at the alley entrance, as if he was waiting for something.

A moment later, a "snap" was heard above the withered locust tree, a thin thread suddenly snapped, and a small clay pot fell from the branch.

It slammed onto the bluestone slab, hissing as it rose a wisp of pale white smoke. The smell was extremely faint, like a few drops of aged vinegar spilled into a cold pot, or like the slightly sour odor of a medicine stove that had been extinguished.

The constable took a step back, a lump forming in his throat.

Zhu Han took a half step back, pressed his cuff to his mouth and nose, stared at the wisp of white smoke, and said coldly, "Smell confusion—trying to confuse people's noses."

Seeing that his plan had failed, the man slumped his shoulders, cursed gruffly, and then gritted his teeth and shut up. "Take him back," Zhu Han said in a deep voice. "Shopkeeper, bring Awang here. Don't be afraid. If he has no intention of harming anyone, he can explain himself elsewhere."

The shopkeeper agreed immediately and turned to run away.

Zhu Han bent down, looked at the shattered fragments of the clay teapot, and wiped them with his fingertip, producing sticky threads.

He whispered, "Beeswax wrapped with mint, dried tangerine peel, and vinegar powder; it won't ignite when lit, and it scatters as soon as it hits the ground. The technique isn't crude."

The boy rushed over to help, and upon seeing the fragments, he clicked his tongue in amazement: "This is going to muddy the waters of our training ground's olfactory identification method."

“It won’t muddy the waters.” Zhu Han said calmly. “You can muddy the waters for a while, but you can’t muddy them ten times over. Go back and tell the people about this method, and tell them not to be afraid of strange smells, but to be afraid of ‘fake fragrances’.”

As they were talking, the shopkeeper returned with Awang. Awang, his face full of shame, knelt down with a thud:
"Your Highness! I deserve to die! Someone left that powder at my door last night, saying it was 'incense' ordered by the shopkeeper. I didn't dare use it, so I put it under the counter and didn't dare say anything."

This morning someone knocked on the door again, asking me to slip some powder into two secondhand medicine shops, saying it was "on the spur of the moment." I didn't dare do it, but I was panicking, so I gave the shopkeeper the key and hid in the storeroom.

"What did that person look like?" Zhu Han asked.

Awang hesitated, looked up at the shopkeeper, and swallowed: "Not tall, round face, speaks with a drawn-out tone, and has oily dirt on his fingers, like someone who often touches inkpads."

The boy's eyes flashed: "Like someone from the printing house?"

"Not necessarily." Zhu Han shook his head. "He could be a regular customer of stationery and seal shops. Draw him."

Awang stammered a few words, and soon the boy revealed a profile with a round face, short jaw, and calloused fingers.

Zhu Han put it away and instructed, "Return to the training ground."

When they returned to the drill ground, the printing room had already moved half a table to the shed. Several official seals lay quietly on the printing pads, and the inkpads were placed in two basins. The clerks took turns sitting there, and a "seal verification table" was set up next to them. The young clerk was looking down and comparing the stamped text, and fine sweat seeped from his forehead, but his hands did not tremble.

Upon seeing Zhu Han, he stood up and bowed, saying, "Your Highness."

"Sit down," Zhu Han said calmly. "How many dressing change slips did you write today?"

"One hundred and ninety-three sheets." The clerk's throat bobbed. "The characters are all written correctly."

Zhu Han nodded, his gaze sweeping over the edge of the shed.

Wenli sat in another corner, refilling her teacup after another. She no longer added any fragrance to the pot, just brewed tea with plain water. The tea was light in color and steamed nicely.

When she saw him looking over, she nodded slightly, then looked away, like a quiet lamp wick.

Just then, a commotion broke out at the other end of the drill ground, and someone shouted, "Fire! Fire! The fire in the stove in the back shed is raging!"

The boy took off with a "whoosh," but Zhu Han was even faster, leaping off the stage and rushing to the back stage in a few steps.

Flames shot straight up to the ceiling from the stove, and a few oiled strips of cloth had somehow gotten mixed in with the woodpile, growing wildly whenever the fire touched them.

Several villagers panicked and ran around in circles, not knowing where to water the plants.

"Don't splash it!" Zhu Han shouted. "Clear the space, push the area around the stove a foot away—"

He kicked over a sand bucket, and the sand splashed onto it, smothering the fire by half. He then had someone grab a few door panels to cover the fire, sealing it under the panels so that there was no ventilation and soon only acrid smoke remained.

The smoke carried a pungent aroma, much like the pungent smell of Buddleja pollen after it was heated and the steam had altered its scent.

The boy covered his nose and mouth: "Someone wants to turn our stove into an 'incense stove' too."

Zhu Han picked up a piece of blackened cloth, crushed it in his palm, and sniffed it: "Tung oil, perfume powder, and a small amount of turpentine."

He turned his head, his gaze sweeping over the crowd of onlookers, inch by inch, like a blade cutting across skin.

He suddenly raised his hand and pointed to a thin man wearing a straw hat at the edge: "You, come here."

The thin man shuddered, his legs trembling.

Two constables dragged him closer. His straw hat stumbled, revealing half his face—the kind of attire one would wear while pushing a cart at the entrance of Fusheng Pharmacy, but his eyes held a mixture of panic and hardness.

He was thrown to the ground, his eyes quickly scanning the direction of the printing room, then the "suspicious" wooden sign. His Adam's apple bobbed, and finally he lowered his head and remained silent.

"You try to light the fire; it doesn't matter if you can't."

Zhu Han said calmly, "What you've pointed out is the people's fault. If you're willing to speak, I'll let you tell everyone the names of the cloth strips in public—tung oil, turpentine, and perfume. If you don't speak, you'll still have to speak tomorrow at the execution ground."

The skinny man clenched his teeth so hard they clicked, but he couldn't hold on any longer. His voice sounded like sandpaper had been rubbed into his throat: "The stuff is in the hidden cabinet at the East Gate Wine Shop. We just replenished a batch this morning. We're sending it in three groups: one to Fusheng, one to 'Puning Hall' in the South Alley, and one to catch the night boat, which will go to Xiling Post Station—it departs at the beginning of the evening tonight."

"Another night boat," the boy sneered. "Do you really think the river is something you can just borrow to travel on?"

"Take the man away," Zhu Han ordered. "Village head, collect the strips of cloth from the fire scene. Tomorrow, display them at the drill ground so everyone can see what 'fake incense' really looks like."

"Yes!" the village chiefs replied in unison.

Zhu Han returned to his desk, placed the piece of black cloth next to the white porcelain plate, and then laid out the paper bag he had taken from Fusheng Pharmacy and the clay pot fragments he had picked up at the alley entrance.

Many people gathered around, watching intently.

Someone asked in a low voice, "Your Highness, how come we can understand it?"

"Because you have smelled, seen, and done,"

Zhu Han replied, "Now that you have ropes, plates, and knives in your hands, colors in your eyes, and smells in your noses, if anyone dares to play tricks on you in the future, just laugh at them first and make them feel guilty."

The crowd fell silent for a moment, then burst into laughter that drowned out the wind.

At this moment, a constable ran over from the direction of the government office, clasped his hands and said loudly, "Your Highness! The rosters of the government office's seal-bearers, clerks and gatekeepers have been submitted to the 'Seal Verification Table' and will be rotating in the drill ground within three days. Also—the manager of the 'Fengheng' money shop in the prefectural city requests an audience, saying that Gu Lu'an's accounts are mostly handled through his shop."

"Please come in."

A plump shopkeeper in a blue cotton robe was brought over, bowing respectfully: "Your Highness, my humble abode 'Fengheng' only operates a business for profit, and I would never accept bribes. The banknotes issued by Master Gu are official banknotes issued through our business, and they are guaranteed by the grain bank outside. How could I possibly know of any shady dealings?"

"Where are the silver notes?" Zhu Han asked.

"Yes." The shopkeeper held up a stack of receipts in both hands, wiping his sweat, and said, "I went through the accounts all night and picked out a suspicious pile here."

Zhu Han casually picked out two bills, raising an eyebrow slightly: "The bills balance out, and the last digit always ends in 'seven'. Does your village have such a rule?"

The shopkeeper paused for a moment, then quickly shook his head: "No. It's just... someone likes it."

“I like to use ‘seven’ as a code.” Zhu Han slapped the receipt back. “List all those ending in ‘seven’ separately, draw lines according to the date, connect them to the ‘Yongtong’ ledger, and put the ‘connection’ between the two places on the paper. Send it to the drill ground before 11 PM today.”

The fat shopkeeper trembled as he agreed, his feet feeling like they were walking on cotton, and he was half-supported and half-dragged back.

The boy lowered his voice: "Your Highness, are you going to draw lines again?"

"When the lines are drawn clearly, talented people have nowhere to hide." (End of Chapter)