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

Zhu Han looked at the scattered fragments, powder packets, and strips of cloth on the table, his expression as calm and steady as a stone on the river. "Before 11 PM, the money exchange will send a message; before 7 PM, the boats at Xiling Post Station will be sealed off. Once the two places are matched, it'll be time to close the deal."

"Then—" the boy thought for a moment, "are we going to the post station again tonight?"

“Go,” Zhu Han said. “But this time we don’t need many torches. Prepare enough of the ‘short lanterns’ we used last night, replace the rope nets with finer mesh nets, and replace the iron claws with wooden hooks. Be careful not to damage the boat planks. Choose boats that can dive well for the ones going into the water.”

"As ordered."

Half past noon, the receipts from "Fengheng" were delivered to the drill ground. Several village leaders gathered in a circle, spread out the receipts according to the date, and strung them together with a rope, like stringing together sausages that had lost their grease.

Zhu Han glanced at them, his finger landing on three red dots: "Here, here, here. The last one is 'Yongtong,' the last one is 'Juyi Warehouse,' and in between are accounts from 'Dongmen Winery,' with the bills showing a 70% mark on one side and a 70% mark off the other. Call the people from these three places here and question them in public."

A stir ran through the crowd. Owner Xu of the Dongmen Wine Shop stepped forward tremblingly: "I'm just a wine seller; I only learned a few days ago that someone had used my road. I'm willing to compensate and admit fault. But my men..."

He gritted his teeth. "It's my fault for not being strict enough."

"You kept the fire in the stove."

Zhu Han said, "This will be put on your tab. You will be exempt from paying for the hot water you use to brew medicine for the people for three days."

After he finished speaking, he looked away and said, “The people from ‘Yongtong’ were brought here this morning, and ‘Juyi Granary’ has also been sealed off. Those of you who are to be identified, spit out what you should spit out. If you spit it out cleanly, your path will remain open; if you don’t spit it out cleanly, your path ends here.”

As soon as he finished speaking, the wind seemed to stop abruptly. Many eyes turned to the front of the stage at the same time.

Some people swallowed, some clenched their fists, and some put their hands behind their backs and straightened their shoulders.

As the hour of Xu approached, the banks of the Xiling Post Station were quiet and cold.

The bridge's reflection resembled a dark line across the water, its blackness gleaming with a hint of cold light.

This time, the torches were all wrapped in cloth, and the wicks were cut extremely short, the bright spots resembling a few grains of rice scattered on the river surface. Wooden hooks, fine nets, and short bamboo skewers were all in their positions.

“Come here.” Sun Yantong lowered his voice and pointed to a shadow in the distance that was darker than the night. “That’s the first ship.”

Three narrow boats glided in, almost skimming the surface of the water.

The lead boatman had changed, and his straw hat was pulled down even lower. As they approached the shadow of the bridge, the first boat's light suddenly went out, and the second boat's light came on as if it had caught its breath.

At the same time, very faint whistles came from both sides under the bridge. The fine net suddenly rose up, like two invisible curtains, wrapping around the waist of the boat; the wooden hooks fell into the water with a splash, hooking onto the side of the boat with a soft "squeak". The wooden hooks ate the wood without damaging the planks.

The boatman was startled and drew his knife, but the bamboo skewer had already struck the back of the blade before he could, and with a "ding," the knife deflected by half an inch.

"Don't move." Zhu Han stood on the bridge, his voice not loud, but enough to drown out the sound of the water. "Yesterday's journey ends here today."

The people on the small boat exchanged glances and finally let go.

The floating platform was pried up, and the powder packets in the dark compartment were moved out, wrapped in oil paper that reflected some light.

Zhu Han cut off a corner, sniffed it, and handed it to Sun Yantong. Sun raised an eyebrow: "This time, we added musk to mask the medicinal smell."

“It can’t be contained.” Zhu Han closed the bag and handed it to the bailiff behind him. “Seal it. The boatman shall take it away, and the boat shall be pulled ashore as usual. It shall be displayed together when the powder is inspected at the drill ground tomorrow.”

The reeds on the bank rustled in the wind, as if someone was sighing in the dark.

Zhu Han glanced back at the dark river surface, his gaze softening as if he were gently closing a door.

When we returned to the city, it was already late at night, but the drill ground was still lit up, like a lamp shed standing against the wind.

Wen Li was boiling water on the corner of the table. The water was bubbling and boiling. She held the spout of the kettle towards the fire, and her eyes softened a little from the steam.

The boy came forward and reported, "The shifts in the printing room have been arranged, and the change of shifts will take place at noon tomorrow. The accounts at the money exchange have been checked, and there are two branch lines leading to a cloth shop and a paper shop. The village head has already gone to fetch people."

"Okay." Zhu Han picked up his cup, tilted his head back to drink the water, and his lips were steaming.

He placed the cup back on the table, looked up at the quiet darkness outside the shed, and said, “Tomorrow afternoon, lay out all the evidence along the ‘road’: the mountain garden, the herb garden, the stationery, the seal shop, the granary, Yongtong, the bank, the post station, the winery, the shop, and the seal shop. Whoever comes, see it. Whoever asks, answer them. Let this road be walked through under the daylight.”

The boy nodded and turned to draw a long "road map".

He spread out a long sheet of paper, dipped it in ink, and began to write with the speed of a knife. The first stroke landed on "mountain garden," then moved along "herbalist" to "gathering of righteousness," then turned to "Yongtong," and finally reached "drill ground."

In every place, he left a blank space—that was for the footprints of the people.

The wind grew colder in the middle of the night, but the lights under the awning burned even more steadily.

Zhu Han sat back down at his desk, took out a sheet of white paper, and wrote a few lines of notice:

"All medicines sold in the market must be inspected before being allowed to enter. All medicines entering the city must be questioned before being allowed to enter. Those who sell medicines will be honored to have their names listed on the 'Genuine' plaque; those who conceal drugs will be shamed by having their names displayed on the 'Fake' plaque. From now on, inspection booths will be set up regularly, open to all from all directions, day and night."

He finished writing, put down his pen, and rubbed his temples. A boy brought over a small wooden box: "Your Highness, please accept this." Inside the box were freshly sharpened bamboo skewers, spare string, and two small porcelain dishes—everything was there.

"Okay." Zhu Han closed the box and put it in his sleeve. "I'll need it tomorrow."

"Your Highness, you—" The boy was about to advise him to rest when the sound of rapid hoofbeats suddenly came from afar.

The constable dismounted, still catching his breath, and clasped his hands in a fist and said, "Your Highness! Tonight, someone sprinkled fine powder on the 'New Bridge' in the southeast of the prefectural city. When the wind blew, it drifted into the water under the bridge. The river patrol said the smell was off, and they're probably 'borrowing' the river again!"

"Go now." Zhu Han stood up, picked up the wooden box, turned around and mounted his horse.

The boy followed behind, reins in hand, and Wenli put the lid on the pot and nodded to him.

Zhu Han nodded slightly to her, flicked his robes, and rode his horse into the night.

The night wind, carrying the scent of the river, blew straight at my face, and the lamplight was reduced to a thin line by the wind.

The bridge surface was white under the moonlight, and there were indeed traces of powder that had been sprinkled on it, which looked like a string of fading lace along the bridge railing.

A thin fragrance, invisible to the eye but detectable by the nose, floats on the river, like a lingering shadow.

"Surround both ends," Zhu Han reined in his horse, "and sweep the bridge clean first."

The constables dragged the wet cloth across the bridge, pressed the powder into the cloth, and then stuffed the cloth into a bucket and sealed it.

Zhu Han walked slowly along the bridge, his gaze falling on the dark shadows between the stones on the side of the bridge.

A small ceramic plate, about the size of a cup's rim, was stuck in a crevice in the stone. The bottom of the plate was coated with wax, and there was still some powder left inside.

He flicked his finger, and the small plate fell into his palm. The powder clung to his fingertip, carrying a familiar coolness.

The bottom of the plate is engraved with a very fine character: "Seven".

“Seven.” The boy frowned. “It’s the last digit again.”

"Seal the plate." Zhu Han placed the small plate into the box, glancing up at the river. "Tomorrow, single out 'Seven' and have the bank manager explain it to everyone." He turned his horse around, looking back towards the drill ground. In the distance, a single lamp stood steadily in the darkness, like a flame that refused to go out.

He lowered his voice and said, "Young man, after we finish setting up the altar, let's go to the mountain garden again."

"Still going?"

“Go.” Zhu Han took a deep breath of the damp night air carrying the scent of the river, his voice low and calm. “The road begins there, and it must be taught to be most firmly established there. If the roots are straightened, the branches will not easily grow crooked.”

He spurred his horse, and the sound of its hooves quickened, like a dense drumbeat striking the night along the riverbank.

The wind whistled behind me, and the lights ahead drew closer little by little.

The wind at Xinqiao Bridge blew all night, and the river surface looked as if it had been sliced ​​by the back of a knife, with a thin layer of coldness.

Just before dawn, the lights in the drill ground were still on; the fire in the cooking pots had been partially extinguished, and the wooden plaque leaned against the pillar, its ink still wet.

Zhu Han sealed the small plate with the number "seven" into a wooden box, turned around and said only one sentence: "Go back and fix the thread." Then he spurred his horse and returned.

In the morning mist, the boy, braving the chill, jogged to catch up: "Your Highness, the 'Fengheng' accounts are still being supplemented. The manager said he can match every 'seven' to one person."

"Tell him to put the heads aside for now and finish drawing the road first."

Zhu Han said calmly, "The road is clear before people land."

Back at the drill ground, the village heads were adding shop names to the "road map" cell by cell, as instructed the night before.

On the other side of the wooden table, several stone seals were laid out, and the engravers gathered around to look at them. Some of them bit their lips, trying to identify whose hand it was from the cut.

Wen Li carried the first pot of water up, the spout hissing as it breathed out over the fire: "It's just the right temperature. Saying it aloud, combined with the heat in your hands, will help you remember it better."

"Alright." Zhu Han handed the cup to a village headman next to him, "Drink this and go teach."

Before he could finish speaking, someone shoved him in from the east gate; it was the manager of Fusheng Pharmacy from last night.

He was covered in cold sweat, clutching a small roll of oil paper to his chest: "Your Highness! Awang recognized the person who delivered the powder. He said that person was called Qi Er, and he often loitered outside the printing room, helping to run errands to get ink pads, and also delivering seals to Tongyuan Trading Company."

Last night, Awang tried to hide, but Qi Er came knocking on the door before dawn, demanding that he slip some powder into the medicines of both families. Awang didn't dare answer, so he tried to pry open the cabinet—but I, the shopkeeper, blocked him. The thief threw down the roll of stuff and ran away.

"Give it to me." Zhu Han took the oil paper and slowly peeled it off.

Inside was a stack of thin sealing paper, each edge of which was engraved with a dark pattern. The pattern connected to form a very shallow curve, the end of which could just fit the horizontal stroke of the two characters "Yongtong". From a distance, it looked no different, but up close it smelled of tung oil.

He looked up at the boy and said, "Draw a picture of Qi Er and paste it next to the 'suspicious' sign. Whoever has seen it can identify him."

"I'll remember that." The boy quickly traced the edges and corners, then smiled at the shopkeeper, "Shopkeeper, Awang did the right thing. You'll have to guard the shop."

The shopkeeper nodded repeatedly, his eyes reddening, and bowed as he withdrew.

“Your Highness,” a seal engraver looked up from the pile of stone seals, his voice rough and hard, “I made these two small stamps, but I don’t know what he’s going to do with them. The man said he wanted to stamp an account book, and I saw that the payment was in full and the stone was easy to carve, so I did it. If you want to acknowledge it, I’ll acknowledge the engraving.”

“The engraver recognizes the engraving, the seal engraver recognizes the seal, and the scribe recognizes the characters; each recognizes one part.”

Zhu Han did not rebuke him, but said, "Demonstrate your knife skills to everyone and teach them how to recognize the marks you have made. In the future, if someone holds a knife that looks like yours but was not made by you, you will be the first to recognize it."

The seal engraver agreed in a simple voice, picked up his carving knife, and casually made three cuts on a piece of waste stone. The depth of the cuts and the beginning and end of the strokes made it easy for onlookers to see the difference.

The boy slapped the piece of waste stone onto the table and wrote two characters: "Distinguish Seals".

A village headman came over, added "New Bridge" to the blank space on the "Road Map", and wrote a small "seven" next to it.

Zhu Han nodded, took out the small plate from last night, placed it in the "New Bridge" compartment, and said casually, "The water under the bridge still retains its flavor. This afternoon, have the sailors and bridge workers come and smell it, and remember this 'aged vinegar fragrance.' From now on, whoever sprinkles powder at night will be the first to know."

"Yes," the village head replied, walking away with his hands behind his back, muttering to himself, "The aroma of aged vinegar, the aroma of aged vinegar..."

"Your Highness," the boy suddenly lowered his voice, "the people from Shanpu have arrived."

At the entrance to the drill ground, a group of farmers carrying medicinal herbs on their shoulders and backs entered, their clothes still covered in mud from the hillside.

The elderly herbalist who was leading the group had consulted him yesterday. Now, he held a small bamboo tray high, inside which were two bundles of herbs. One bundle contained the Bupleurum he had picked that morning, and the other was tied with a red rope and had a willow branch stuck in it.
“This is how we picked out these plants one by one, by tying them with rope, smelling them, and looking at the silk, just as you taught us. This bundle of red rope was given to us by someone last night, who said they wanted us to ‘pool our money’ for our wages. I didn’t agree, but tied it up and brought it with me.”

Zhu Han took it, twisted the red rope around, and felt the fine threads under his fingertips. He looked up and asked, "Has anyone ever seen someone stuff something into their clothes?"

The herb farmers looked at each other for a while, and then a silent middle-aged man raised his hand: "I've seen him digging for old pots by the ravine. He wore a straw hat, his hands were very white, and there was ink on his knuckles. He didn't smell of herbs on him; instead, he smelled a bit like a scholar."

"The writing implements." The boy clicked his tongue. "We've come full circle again."

"Hmm." Zhu Han rolled up his sleeves. "Ten of you stay behind and teach with the boy in the training ground; the rest of you come back to the mountain with me. Today, we won't draw the diagrams on paper, we'll draw them on the ground."

"Leave now?" The old herbalist was taken aback.

“Now,” Zhu Han replied, his tone like a nail driven into a mountain. Turning to the boy, he said, “You keep watch over the training ground, the printing house shifts, and the money exchange, making sure they are on time. If anyone with a ‘sweet tongue’ tries to strike up a conversation, let him stand in front of the ‘real deal’ for a quarter of an hour before you speak.”

Tong Zi laughed: "Everyone has to stand in front of the 'real card' for fifteen minutes. This is a good rule."

The road to the mountain was still wet; the dampness from last night hadn't receded.

The wind was even colder on the mountainside, and the straw ropes under the drying shed rustled loudly in the wind.

Upon reaching the ravine, the old herbalist pointed to a patch of freshly turned soil next to the pit dug the day before: "The wind was strong last night, and someone has disturbed this place again."

"Don't step on it." Zhu Han raised his hand, and the crowd formed a semi-circle around the pit.

He bent down and gently poked at the soil with the tip of his short knife. After a short while, he scraped out a thin, soft end of hemp rope, with a small wad of oiled paper attached to the end.

He didn't pull it immediately, but instead scraped it open along the direction of the rope, revealing a flat clay pot.

The clay pot was coated with wax, with a few stone chips embedded in the wax, which served to keep out rodents and moisture, indicating that it was made by an experienced craftsman.

He peeled off the wax seal little by little, twisted open the jar, and a cool, damp breeze hit him.

The jar didn't contain powder, but several whole Gelsemium elegans plants, with mud still clinging to their roots, distinct stem nodes, and a thin layer of oil on their leaves.

An old herbalist was furious at first glance: "This is designed to make it impossible for us to see clearly! It's been coated with oil, making the leaves shiny, like Bupleurum chinense."

"The oil is mixed with Buddleja pollen." Zhu Han took a little, rubbed it together, and let several herb farmers smell it, "to mask the bitterness."

"You can cover one nose, but you can't cover ten."

The old herbalist snorted and slammed the plaque on the ground. "Your Highness, we'll demonstrate the method once by the ravine. Whoever tries to stuff their herb into the shed will have it torn right here. Let's see if they dare throw it near the shed again." (End of Chapter)