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

"And what about us?" the man asked again, his eyes full of concern.

Zhu Han finished the last bite of the sesame seed cake, clapped his hands, and said, "As long as there's rice in the pot, we can still get by."

The man paused for a moment, then smiled, a smile full of hope for life: "That's true."

The daytime heat in Nanshi gradually dissipated, and the streets quieted down again.

The wooden vegetable stands were taken down, and the porters carrying their loads walked out of the city in twos and threes. Only a few wine shops still had their lights on, their dim yellow lights flickering in the night, as if telling the stories of the city.

Zhu Han did not return to his residence. Instead, he changed into an ordinary blue robe, draped a cloak over it, and walked north along the South Market.

The patrol clapper at the street corner had just been struck once, its crisp sound echoing in the quiet night.

Zhu Han stopped in front of a teahouse. The teahouse was small, with only two wooden tables, an old copper kettle, and a bamboo roof that swayed slightly in the night breeze.

The person in charge of the stove was a thin old man who was putting the remaining charcoal into the stove, his focused expression as if he were handling a precious treasure.

"Is there any more tea?" Zhu Han asked, his voice particularly clear in the quiet night.

The old man looked up, saw the guest, and hurriedly replied, "Yes, yes." He put the kettle back on the fire, added a pinch of tea leaves, and his movements were practiced and natural.

The night breeze carried the aroma of tea, filling the air and bringing a sense of comfort. Zhu Han sat down, not urging him, but simply waiting quietly.

The sound of horses' hooves came from a distant street corner, growing clearer and clearer as it approached.

Three fast horses swept past the alley entrance, draped in night cloaks, heading towards the Ministry of War.

Their figures flashed through the night, leaving only the sound of horses' hooves echoing in the air.

The old man at the tea stall muttered to himself, "There have been many horses at night these past two days."

Zhu Han picked up his teacup, blew on it gently, and asked, "Do you see this often?"

"This street is a shortcut to the Ministry of War," the old man said. "You can't see it during the day, but there are many more at night."

Zhu Han nodded, his gaze fixed on the distance, as if deep in thought.

The sound of horses' hooves faded into the night. He finished his bowl of tea, put down the copper coins, and got up to leave.

Further ahead lies the north of the city.

The grain shipment from the daytime had already been transported away from the old granary north of the city, but the granary doors were still open.

The guards at the gate had changed, and lanterns hung under the eaves, their flames burning steadily and standing out prominently in the darkness.

Zhu Han walked to the door. The guards saw him and were about to question him, but after seeing the man's face, they immediately stood up straight and said respectfully, "Your Highness."

Zhu Han raised his hand to signal for quiet and asked softly, "Who's inside?"

“The Embroidered Uniform Guard,” the guard replied, his voice low and serious.

Zhu Han did not stop and walked straight into the warehouse.

There were a few more lights in the warehouse than yesterday, illuminating every corner.

Wooden planks were laid out on the ground, and several Imperial Guards were spreading out the grain registers and counting the sacks one by one. Their expressions were focused and serious.

The leader was a middle-aged man. When he looked up and saw Zhu Han, he immediately closed the account book, stood up, and said respectfully, "Your Highness, Prince Han."

"How's the investigation going?" Zhu Han asked, his gaze sweeping over the grain registers and grain bags.

“The numbers match,” the man said, “but the register is two pages short.”

Zhu Han walked to the grain sacks, kicked one of them, and the sound of the rice hitting the sack was dull but powerful.

"When did it go missing?" he asked, his brow furrowing slightly.

“Yesterday,” the man replied, “someone checked the accounts.”

Zhu Han stared at the booklet on the ground, lost in thought. After a while, he asked, "Who's in charge of the warehouse?"

"A former official of the Ministry of War," the Embroidered Uniform Guard replied.

"Where is he?" Zhu Han continued to ask.

"They've already been taken away," the Imperial Guard replied.

Zhu Han nodded and did not ask any further questions.

He turned and left. Outside the warehouse door, the night wind was even colder, blowing against his face and making him feel a chill.

The attendant whispered, "Your Highness, the Embroidered Uniform Guard has already searched three warehouses."

“I know,” Zhu Han said, his voice calm and firm.

The two continued walking. The streets in the north of the city were very straight, and it seemed to have no end in sight.

At the end of the river, there is a small bridge. The river under the bridge is not deep, but the current is very rapid. The sound of the rushing water is particularly clear in the quiet night.

Zhu Han stood on the bridge and quietly watched the water for a while. The flowing water seemed to carry an invisible force, making him fall into deep thought.

Suddenly, a shout came from afar: "Make way—!"

A caravan of carriages came from the south, pulled by military horses, their powerful strides producing a rhythmic clatter of hooves.

The vehicle was covered with an oilcloth, which made it look mysterious and solemn in the night.

The convoy stopped briefly at the bridgehead. The leading officer, upon seeing Zhu Han, immediately dismounted, knelt on one knee, and respectfully said, "Your Highness."

Zhu Han looked at the car and asked, "What are you giving as a gift?"

"Military rations," the officer replied, his voice loud and clear.

Zhu Han reached out and lifted a corner of the oilcloth, revealing sacks of grain underneath, completely full. "Where to?" he asked.

"Northern Camp," the officer replied.

Zhu Han nodded and said, "Let's go."

The convoy started moving again, the wheels rolling over the bridge deck with a heavy thud, as if telling the story of the importance and weight of the military rations.

After the convoy had gone some distance, the attendant said, "The Northern Camp has collected a lot of grain these past few days."

"Even with the Ministry of War closed, someone still has to feed the soldiers," Zhu Han said, his gaze still fixed on the direction the convoy had gone.

He came down from the bridge, and the two walked into another street.

A lantern hangs at the street corner, with two words written on it: "Inn".

Zhu Han pushed open the door and went in. There weren't many people in the shop. Several tables of customers were gathered around wine jugs, speaking in hushed tones, as if they were discussing some secret.

The shopkeeper was using an abacus, and the "clattering" sound was particularly clear in the quiet shop.

Seeing someone come in, he looked up and asked, "Looking for a room?"

"I don't need it," Zhu Han said. "I'll just ask for a seat."

The shopkeeper nodded, and Zhu Han sat by the window, facing the street corner.

He ordered a pot of wine, but didn't drink it right away. He just sat there quietly, as if waiting for something.

After a while, the door opened again, and two men in plain clothes came in.

Their clothes were old, but their boots were new, and those brand-new boots looked particularly dazzling in the dim light.

Zhu Han glanced at them, but said nothing, simply observing them quietly.

The two found a corner to sit down, and one of them whispered, "The North Warehouse is sealed off."

The other frowned, a hint of surprise on his face: "So fast?"

“The Embroidered Uniform Guards are guarding it,” the man who spoke earlier said in a low, mysterious voice.

"What about the grain?" another man asked, his eyes full of concern.

"Half of them have been moved," the man from before replied.

The two spoke very softly, so that no one else in the tavern could hear them, but Zhu Han heard them clearly.

He slowly took a sip of the wine, the spiciness spreading in his mouth, making him even more sober.

The two exchanged a few more words, quickly paid their bill, and left. Zhu Han didn't follow; he remained seated, seemingly pondering the connection between the two.

Another cup of tea's time passed, and the door was pushed open again. This time, a servant boy entered.

He glanced around, walked straight to Zhu Han's table, and said softly, "Young Master."

Zhu Han raised his eyes, his gaze calm and profound.

The servant placed a piece of paper on the table and said, "Just delivered." Then he left, as if afraid of being discovered.

Zhu Han unfolded the paper, which contained only one sentence: "The old warehouse of the Ministry of War, there is still one more warehouse."

He folded the paper and put it in his pocket, as if guarding an important secret.

He finished his drink, got up, and left.

Night had fallen, and the streetlights were going out one by one, leaving only the dim moonlight shining on the ground, adding a touch of mystery to the quiet night.

Zhu Han didn't go over there; instead, he bypassed the street corner and headed towards the imperial city.

The palace gates were heavily guarded, with rows of braziers burning brightly, their flames illuminating the entire gate as if protecting the peace of the city.

As Zhu Han approached, the guard immediately saluted and respectfully said, "Your Highness."

"Is Your Majesty resting?" Zhu Han asked, his gaze fixed on the palace gates.

"They're still in the Wuying Hall," the garrison commander replied.

Inside the Wuying Hall, the lights were so bright it was like daytime.

Zhu Yuanzhang sat upright at the desk, his posture exuding an innate majesty.

The mountain of memorials piled on his desk seemed to weigh heavily on his responsibility of governing the country.

In the vast hall, only two people were together. Crown Prince Zhu Biao stood quietly to one side, his posture upright and his face calm. He was intently flipping through a military register, his fingers lightly tracing the pages, his eyes revealing his contemplation.

At this moment, Zhu Han walked steadily into the hall, his footsteps echoing in the quiet hall.

He bowed slightly and called out softly, "Royal Brother."

Zhu Yuanzhang slowly raised his head, his gaze sharp, and looked at Zhu Han, asking, "You're back?"

"I just got back from the city," Zhu Han replied respectfully.

Zhu Yuanzhang gently put down his pen, the pen striking the inkstone with a crisp sound. He then asked, "How is the South Market?"

"There's rice in the pot," Zhu Han replied succinctly. Upon hearing this, Zhu Yuanzhang couldn't help but snort coldly, his voice filled with disdain and anger. "Those people have quite the nerve."

Zhu Biao gently closed the booklet in his hand, his movements elegant and composed, and said, "The Northern Camp has collected four hundred shi of grain today."

Zhu Han turned his head slightly to look at Zhu Biao, his eyes questioning, "Is that enough?" "Enough for three days."

Zhu Biao answered quickly. Zhu Yuanzhang's lips curled up slightly, revealing a cold smile that concealed endless calculation and determination. "Three days is enough."

The hall fell silent instantly, as if time itself had frozen. Only the sound of the wind whistling through the eaves could be heard, as if telling untold stories.

Zhu Han stepped forward and gently placed a piece of paper on the table.

Zhu Yuanzhang glanced at it casually, then his gaze sharpened. "Old granary?" "It's not in the Ministry of War's accounts."

Zhu Han said calmly.

Zhu Biao frowned slightly, forming a "川" shape, and asked in confusion, "Whose is that?"

Zhu Han did not answer immediately, but walked to the wall where a huge map was laid out, clearly marking the locations of several warehouses in the city.

He stood quietly in front of the map, his gaze slowly scanning it, as if searching for some crucial clue.

After a while, he slowly stretched out his hand and firmly pointed to a place—the south of the city.

Zhu Yuanzhang narrowed his eyes slightly upon seeing this location, a sharp glint flashing in them, and said in a deep voice, "The former salt transport office warehouse."

Zhu Biao was stunned for a moment, his face full of surprise. "Wasn't that place sealed off a long time ago?"

Zhu Han's lips curled up slightly, revealing a meaningful smile. "The door may be sealed, but the warehouse may not be empty."

Zhu Yuanzhang suddenly stood up, tall and upright. He strode to the map, staring intently at the location, his gaze seemingly trying to penetrate the map and see the truth within.

After a long silence, he slowly asked, "Whose people?"

Zhu Han's gaze was firm as he said, "I'll go see it tomorrow morning."

Zhu Yuanzhang did not object, nodded slightly, then turned back to the table and said to Zhu Biao, "Biao'er."

"Your subject is here," Zhu Biao replied hastily.

"The northern camp will collect grain as usual tomorrow."

"Yes." Zhu Biao respectfully accepted the order.

Zhu Yuanzhang then looked at Zhu Han, his eyes filled with trust and expectation, and said, "Take your men and go."

Zhu Han nodded slightly, his eyes revealing determination and courage.

The night deepened, as if a huge black curtain had enveloped the entire world.

The next day, just as the sun began to shine on the land south of the city, the old warehouse of the Salt Transport Office welcomed an uninvited guest.

Zhu Han rode a tall, magnificent horse and arrived at the gate with great pomp and circumstance.

He was followed by only a dozen or so attendants, each with agile figures and sharp eyes.

Further away, several Imperial Guards stood quietly at the alley entrance, their figures appearing particularly cold and austere in the sunlight.

After dismounting, Zhu Han looked up at the seal on the door, a hint of mockery flashing in his eyes.

Without hesitation, he reached out and tore off the seal. The seal felt light and flimsy in his hand, as if it were easily broken.

With a ripping sound, the seal was torn off, and the door was slowly pushed open.

The courtyard was eerily quiet.

A dog suddenly darted out from the corner and barked twice at them, the sound particularly jarring in the quiet courtyard.

Then the dog quickly ran away and disappeared into the corner.

The warehouse door was half-open, as if waiting for their arrival.

Zhu Han walked over with steady steps and kicked open the warehouse door with a forceful kick.

With a loud bang, the warehouse door was kicked open, raising a cloud of dust.

The room was filled with grain sacks, neatly arranged, as if to show them off.

The air was filled with the rich aroma of rice, a scent that felt familiar and comforting.

The attendant whispered, "Quite a few."

Zhu Han walked in, bent down and grabbed a handful of rice. The grains were plump and glistening, shimmering in the sunlight.

He sniffed it gently; it smelled of new rice. "New rice," he murmured to himself.

Suddenly, a series of hurried footsteps came from outside the door, and someone rushed into the yard.

He was a young clerk, dressed in simple official robes, his steps hurried. The moment he saw Zhu Han, his face turned deathly pale, as if he had seen something terrifying.

"Your...Your Highness," he stammered.

Zhu Han stared at him coldly, his gaze icy, and asked, "Whose warehouse is this?"

The clerk's lips moved, and he said in a trembling voice, "Ministry of War... old accounts."

Zhu Han put the rice back into the bag, his tone questioning, "Isn't the Ministry of War's grain going into the granary?" The clerk dared not speak, his head bowed, his body trembling slightly.

Zhu Han turned to his attendant and said, "Count them."

The attendants immediately sprang into action, beginning to count the grain sacks. (End of Chapter)