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

Lu Ting's face remained unchanged, but the redness in his eyes deepened.

He finished reading the last part, leaving only two words at the end: "Please." He then fell silent, bowed, and withdrew.

“The document can be copied and archived,” Zhu Han said. “Make a copy at the Meridian Gate and read it by the fire.”

"Your Highness wants to put my calligraphy to dry by the fire?" Lu Ting smiled, but the smile was thin. "Alright."

"Let's expose the characters to the air to see if the ink is good or not." Zhu Han didn't respond with a smile. "Zhongshu, just copy it."

"As ordered."

Lu Ting retreated to the shadows of the corridor, his fingers clenching slowly inside his sleeve before finally releasing them.

At the end of Shen (3-5 PM), at the Meridian Gate.

The official, holding the copied "letter of honor," stood by the fire. The fire-maker tilted his head: "Do you really want to show it to the fire?"

"Fire can read too," Chen Shu laughed. "It can remember things after reading them."

"To burn or not to burn?"

"Don't burn it." Chen Shu took half a step back. "Let it air out."

How long should you sunbathe?

"Three days."

The fire shone on the paper, causing it to bend slightly before straightening again.

Chen Shu squinted, as if looking at something he had written himself.

Hao Duiying came from the side door: "Your Highness, the old mud mixed with lead in the Armory has been completely replaced, leaving only half a strand."

“Let’s see who recognizes that half strand,” Zhu Han said. “If he comes to claim it, we’ll accept him.”

"Who will be the person coming to claim it?"

“The Ink Warehouse,” Zhu Han said. “Or—the Internal Affairs Department.”

"Will it be Lu Ting again?" Hao asked in a low voice.

“He doesn’t need to get involved,” Zhu Han said, looking at the fire. “He just needs to sleep.”

At the beginning of the day (5-7 PM), the small storehouse of the Imperial Household Department.

Two minor officials brought over a wooden box containing the old seal face that had been removed. One of them gently rubbed his fingertips across the clay patterns, his fingertips feeling a little cold.

"Half a strand," the man whispered.

"Should we take it?" his companion asked.

"Take it, and the Meridian Gate will know." The man lowered his voice. "Tonight, I'll only touch it, not take it."

"What's the point of touching it?"

"Once you've touched it enough, you'll know which half of it isn't in your hand."

He smiled, a smile as thin as a sheet of paper, "If it's not in our hands, it's in theirs."

The two closed the box, put it back in its place, and retreated very quietly.

In the corner, the fireman stood with his hands behind his back for a long time before leaning against the wall like an old tree stump.

After a long while, he walked out, muttering, "No matter how carefully you touch it, it will be exposed when heated by fire."

At the hour of Xu (7-9 PM), in a side courtyard of Ciyun Temple.

The abbot lit a small lamp, its light dim. Someone knocked softly twice on the door, a smile playing on their lips: "Abbot, if you won't accept guests from the main hall, surely you can accept them from the side courtyard?"

"We won't accept any today," the abbot said with a smile. "Amitabha."

What about tomorrow?

"We'll see how the wind blows tomorrow." The host tightened the bolt. "If the wind is favorable, we'll open it; if it's unfavorable, we'll close it."

A moment of silence fell outside the door, then the footsteps faded. The host leaned against the door, twirling the paper crane in his sleeve, his fingertips growing warmer with each turn.

He suddenly stuffed the paper crane into the lamplight; the paper rolled up and turned into a black wisp. The abbot stared at it for a long time, then extinguished the lamp and whispered in the darkness, "Amitabha."

At the beginning of Hai, next to Fengtian Hall.

Zhu Biao was copying a short "Postscript to the Ceremony," a few words and short sentences. Zhu Han entered and tossed down a small booklet: "'Fire Rules'."

"I want to see?" Zhu Biao opened the paper; it contained only a dozen or so short sentences:

Strangers are not allowed to stand near the fire.

—When there is a lot of paper before the fire, it is advisable to start with thinner paper and then thicker paper.

—The fire needs no oil added, nor any ash reduced.

—The name with the fire radical, keep one and remove three.

—The fire at the Meridian Gate is half-filled, and remains unchanged for three months.

"Just read it, that's enough. You don't need to memorize it." Zhu Han said.

“I’ve memorized it.” Zhu Biao lowered his eyes. “The last one: do not change it within three months.”

"Ah."

"Where would you step back?" Zhu Biao asked.

"Go behind the door," Zhu Han said. "If there's wind, I'll block it; if there's no wind, you can leave."

"it is good."

The two remained silent. The stars had not yet risen outside the window, and the tension in the air seemed to deepen the night.

Zichu, the library of the Marquis of Nan'an's residence.

Li Gong entered from the shadows, cupping his hands in greeting: "The North Gate is silent tonight."

"Good that there was no response." Zhu Han handed him a new letter. "Tomorrow morning, go to the rear warehouse of the Ordnance Bureau and see who is touching the mud. Don't stop them, and remember their fingers."

"Remember by the fingers?" Li Gong raised an eyebrow.

“Someone pointed to the coldness on their fingertips,” Zhu Han smiled. “He didn’t feel cold, so we’ll keep track of it for him.”

"Understood." Li Gong accepted the letter.

“Also, the empty box under the bridge, move it,” Zhu Han said. “Move it to the seventh one on the west side of the third row.”

"It's still the same one."

“It’s that one.” Zhu Han blew out the lamp. “We must guard the empty space until someone feels there is something in it.”

"I will guard it," Li Gong replied, turning and disappearing into the night.

As usual, the official stood closer. The fireman placed his fork on the rim of the basin and sighed, "These past few days I've been dreaming about fire too."

“Me too,” Chen Shu laughed, “but the fire in my dream wasn’t hot.”

“That’s the fire in the writer’s dream.” The firesmith grinned. “In the craftsman’s dream, the fire is always hot.”

The two exchanged a glance and fell silent at the same time.

The bells and drums of Fengtian Hall sounded, the ceremony proceeding as it had been yesterday. When the grand ceremony reached the "sealing the gates" section, the gatekeeper announced the sealing, ensuring peace and stability.

When the class ended, the Censorate handed over a note: "Including three copies of the document, all of which were burned by fire."

"Self-immolation?" Hao raised an eyebrow at Ying.

“The people who throw the paper have learned their lesson,” Zhu Han said. “The paper softens as soon as their hands get close to the fire. — Once it softens, they realize that fire doesn’t owe anyone a favor.”

As he was speaking, hurried footsteps sounded from the west corridor, and a junior official from the Central Secretariat held up a letter and wrote: "Your Highness—a messenger from the Northern Garrison reports: a shipment of military equipment has been intercepted outside the pass, and the sample matches the old one from the capital."

Zhu Han took it, his eyebrows twitching slightly: "Which stack?"

"The third pile of old mud from the Ordnance Bureau once contained a strand of lead."

"What about people?"

"Not obtained; the head belongs to the 'White Three' faction."

"He just left the north gate," Hao said to Ying.

“He didn’t take away words, he took away examples.” Zhu Han folded the bamboo slip and stuffed it into his sleeve. “Starting tomorrow, the old mud seals of the Military Equipment Bureau will be placed in the Meridian Gate to dry for three days.”

"Let's dry the mud too?"

"Show it off." Zhu Han turned around. "Show it off to the whole city—how fake it looks."

"Then... Lu Ting's 'gift card' will also be displayed?" Hao smiled at Ying.

"Let it dry in the sun," Zhu Han laughed. "Let it dry next to the mud."

"Can he handle it?"

“He wants the ‘words’, not the ‘sample’,” Zhu Han said. “He wants him to know that the ‘sample’ is not in his hands.”

He stood behind the door, his gaze passing through the palace steps, and saw a dark golden slit appear in the morning mist from the half-burnt torch at the Meridian Gate.

The seam was extremely fine, yet it stretched from the heart of the city all the way to the fireside, onto the paper, and down to every fingertip.

At dawn, the sky was as dark as a layer of wet paper.

In front of the Meridian Gate, a half-burnt brazier was lit, and the Ordnance Bureau carried out three long tables: on the left table were three stacks of old mud from the Ordnance Bureau, and wooden slips were inserted into each side of the table, with "A, B, C" written on them.
On the central table are two newly made clay boxes, their seals a bright red. On the right table is an ebony box, its lid half-open, revealing three old surfaces marked with lead, their luster dull yet cold.

The official, Chen Shu, stood by the fire, with the "letter of etiquette" he had copied the day before tucked into his sleeve.

The smith from the ordnance bureau, holding a fork and gathering ash, looked up at the sky and said, "It's cloudy, but that's fine. We need wind to dry the mud, not sunlight."

“Record it,” Chen Shu whispered, “'The wind can be used as a test; much light is unnecessary.'”

"Your mouth is like mud; it leaves a mark wherever you press it," the fire-maker grinned.

"The seal must be clear." Chen Shu smiled, his eyes never leaving the desk.

Zhu Han entered from the west wing, dressed in black robes and a plain belt, his steps unhurried.

Hao Duiying, standing beside him, lowered his voice and said, "Those two clerks from the Internal Affairs Department were muddy last night, and when they came in this morning, the backs of their hands were white from washing." "White to the point of being bluish," Zhu Han said. "They used ash to wipe them. — The more ash you use to wipe, the shinier you become, and the shinier you become, the more frightening you are."

The gatekeeper shouted: "Sun-dry the mud!"

The Vice Minister of the Arsenal responded and ordered the seals to be opened, the items to be separated, and the items to be aired out.

Each piece of clay was gently placed on a fine wire mesh, with a hollow space underneath to allow the wind to pass through without leaving marks.

Two warehouse officials, wielding brushes as thin as silkworm wings, gently brushed across each patch of mud, collecting the brushed-off dust into a fine porcelain bowl.

“The left stack, A,” the Vice Minister announced, “has been mixed with a half-strand of lead; the second stack has an old, messy pattern; the third stack has a new, unused pattern. — Please examine them at the Meridian Gate.”

The official stepped forward and called out names in order: one person each from the Censorate, the Ministry of Rites, the Secretariat, the Imperial Clan Court, and the Ministry of Justice stood beside the table. Their hands were not allowed to touch the mud; they were only permitted to look.

The smith from the armory took out a small packet of fine powder from his sleeve and handed it to Chen Shu: "Put it in your palm, don't spill it."

"What is this?" Chen Shu asked in a low voice.

“Gold-burning dust.” The firesmith winked. “He doesn’t write articles, he just looks at his fingers.”

Chen Shu knew exactly what was going on. He hid the small bag, turned around, and said seriously, "The public verification begins."

In the crowd, two minor officials from the Ministry of Internal Affairs pretended to be bewildered, their eyes darting across stack A and back to stack C.

Hao walked with his hands behind his back, seemingly strolling casually, yet every step he took landed on their shadows.

A quarter of an hour later, a bright line of sunlight pierced through the gap in the clouds, slanting between the stack of armor and the central table.

"Please open the box, Mr. Zhong," Zhu Han said.

Upon opening the box, the clay was as smooth as jade, with fine texture.

Zhu Han casually picked up a piece of paper, gently twirled it halfway in the wind, and then put it back: "Remember this."

“Record—” Chen Shu wrote with a rustling sound.

"Please turn the stack around," Zhu Han said again.

The warehouse clerks each pinched a corner, turned it over to reveal the bottom, and a sliver of light shone through the ash.

The light didn't flicker; it hid in the crevices, as if concealing its breath.

Chen Shu's gaze sharpened, and he pressed his fingertip against the small bag hidden in his sleeve.

"Who touched this stack last night?" Zhu Han asked.

The minor official from the Ministry of Internal Affairs standing next to the pile of armored trucks clicked his tongue and spoke first: "Your Highness, the treasury was sealed last night, and no one dared to touch it."

"Then why did you answer so quickly?" Hao asked calmly.

The clerk's face paled even more, but he remained defiant: "I was on duty, and I speak only from what I saw."

“Just look at it.” Zhu Han turned to Chen Shu, “Jin Lai.”

Chen Shuhui understood, unfolded the small packet in his palm, dipped his fingertip in a grain of rice, and flicked it onto the back of the clerk's hand without even shaking it.

As soon as the fine powder fell, extremely fine dark marks immediately appeared between his fingers, like ink blots or dark blue, spreading outwards in lines under the sunlight.

All was quiet. The smith grinned from behind: "Gold is afraid of lead; it will change when touched."

The minor official's face darkened, and he was about to retreat abruptly.

Hao Duiying reached out with her right hand, grabbed him by the back of his neck like a chick, and pressed him against the table: "How many times did you touch me last night?"

“…once,” the clerk whispered.

Which spot should I touch?

"The first side of the stack on top has been flipped over once."

"Who is it for?"

“…Gou…” He subconsciously wanted to utter “Gou San”, but he stumbled at the last second and his voice suddenly stopped.

"Is it Gou San?" Zhu Han looked at him. "He has already knelt by the fire."

The minor official choked, sweat beading on his forehead.

Another minor official from the Ministry of Internal Affairs moved half a step to the side, his toes trembling.

Chen Shu flicked his hand again, and a faint line of gold dust appeared on the back of his hand, lighter than his companion's, but still impossible to hide.

"You touched the second pile."

The firesmith's laughter was not loud. "You dare to touch the random patterns? Aren't you afraid of getting burned?"

Both men were subdued. The gatekeeper ordered them to be taken to the Ministry of Justice, and the crowd immediately receded an inch, as if burned by those two "golden-marked hands."

"Keep drying the mud." Zhu Han raised his hand. "Let the wind blow through it one more time."

After a short while, the gleaming marks on the armor gradually faded.

The Junior Minister of the Ordnance Bureau glanced down and reported: "The seventh and tenth pieces of armor have heavy lead marks, the rest have light ones."

"Where did the seventh piece come from?" Zhu Han asked.

“The inkstone will be ready,” Shaoqing replied.

"Summon the ink treasury to send someone." Zhu Han turned his head. "The Censorate records: 'Two officials from the Imperial Household Department have been tested.' Escort them to the Ministry of Justice."

The statement concludes with a decisive stroke.

He tucked the small bag back into his sleeve, his heart still beating steadily.

After 9:00 AM, the side corridor of Fengtian Hall.

The Minister of Rites presented a small scroll of bamboo slips: "Your Highness, all three petitions from the outer prefectures have been burned, but the phrase 'open the palace and change the route' is written with practiced ease. I suspect it was written by a former official of the inner court."

“There are too many old hands,” Zhu Han interrupted. “Let’s not pursue them for now. Half-opening the Imperial Ancestral Temple is enough; don’t touch the Divine Treasury.”

"I will obey." The Minister bowed and withdrew.

Zhu Biao emerged from inside, changed into casual clothes, and his gaze lingered briefly on the Meridian Gate: "Was sun-drying effective?"

“It works,” Zhu Han replied. “Sun-dry it again tomorrow morning, and put the sample and the words together.”

"Put them together?" Zhu Biao raised an eyebrow.

"Let people know that your word is by the fire, and your likeness is by the fire."

Zhu Han said in a low voice, "Fire isn't meant to scare people, it's meant to prevent people from reaching into the wrong places."

"If you stretch it out incorrectly, where will you get burned?" Zhu Biao asked.

"It burned my fingertip," Zhu Han said. "I only remembered it when it hurt."

"I've seen it for myself." Zhu Biao smiled faintly, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I'm going to the Imperial Ancestral Temple this afternoon to pay my respects; you don't need to come with me."

"I'm not going," Zhu Han nodded. "You go through the middle gate."

"Sealed."

"Let's go through the side gate," Zhu Han said, then continued, "and we'll go through the main gate tomorrow."

At the beginning of the year, he was imprisoned in the Ministry of Justice.

Two minor officials from the Ministry of Internal Affairs were brought in. The chief clerk slammed his hand on the table: "Why are you touching the mud?"

The first man was sweating profusely: "...I've received the instructions."

"Whose?"

"Gou San".

"Gou San knelt by the fire just yesterday."

"He let us touch them to see which stack would sell well."

The person in charge sneered: "Sell to whom?"

The man choked and turned to look at his companion.

His companion was terrified by the "golden marks" by the fire, and with his eyes closed, he said, "Sell the people of Beizhen."

The person in charge turned his head slightly and looked at Zhu Han. Zhu Han said calmly, "We've already intercepted one ticket in Beizhen. Don't worry."

"Gou San, take charge of the court," the presiding officer said. "Open another room and place these two opposite each other so they can look at each other."

"What are you looking at?" Both of them trembled at the same time.

"Watch your hands," the manager laughed. "Let's see who fades the gold marks the slowest."

After he finished speaking, he winked at Hao Duiying.

Hao understood: "Keep their hands closed, don't wash them, don't wipe them."

The door closed, and inside, only two hard, sore Adam's apples bobbed up and down.

The gold dust wasn't very noticeable under the skin, but it looked like needles were stuck into the flesh.

At the beginning of the Shen hour, outside the Imperial Ancestral Temple, in the Divine Storehouse.

The door was tightly sealed, and the seal was new. The head of the Imperial Clan Court was standing with a sore back, but he endured it.

A thin monk walked into the alley, holding a wooden fish and chanting scriptures softly. The gatekeeper reached out to stop him: "You are not allowed to come over today."

"This humble monk will not enter, but will ask one question," the monk smiled. "Is that benefactor from yesterday still inside, watching the box?"

"Who?"

The monk smiled and covered it up: "I am an unknown person, I dare not ask."

The gatekeeper wanted to send him away.

The monk suddenly pulled a small packet from his sleeve and handed it over: "This is for you gatekeepers. Dissolve it in water when you're thirsty to soothe your throats."

The gatekeeper hesitated, unsure whether to accept the offer.

Zhu Han appeared from the side corridor, taking two steps away, and said, "Give it to me." (End of this chapter)