Transmigrated into a minor official in a county government, with children at home waiting for rice t

As Zhang Sanlang left the wine shop, the cool autumn night breeze blew into the alleyway, and the alcohol's effects surged up a bit more from the wind.

I drank several bowls of Autumn Dew White wine at the banquet just now. At first, I didn't feel anything, but now, walking on the road, my steps are a little unsteady.

He stood against the street wall for a moment, waiting for the dizziness to subside, before continuing his walk towards Kujing Lane.

The moon was high in the sky, and the alley was quiet, with only the occasional bark of a dog coming from afar.

As he reached the corner of the alley, he suddenly heard footsteps behind him. They were not the footsteps of ordinary pedestrians, but rather deliberate, light, yet unstoppable, shuffling steps that made a soft, grinding sound as they stepped on the gravel.

Just as he was about to turn around, a dark figure pounced on him.

"Stop!" A loud shout rang out from the alley entrance, followed by a flurry of footsteps and the clanging of clashing sword sheaths.

Several archers rushed over, led by a short man who grabbed the man by the back of his collar and yanked him back, twisting his arm behind his back.

Zhang Sanlang used the moonlight to see the face clearly.

It was Feng the Scarface, a thug who often followed Qian Laohei around the docks, with an old scar diagonally across his left cheek that was unforgettable.

Feng Bazi's face was twisted out of shape, and he was still cursing. He was holding a short stick in his hand, with a few strands of hair still stuck to the end of the stick.

Another lantern lit up at the alley entrance, and the man holding it strode closer, nodded to him, and said, "Zhang Si, are you alright?"

Zhang Sanlang stared intently.

The man was about twenty-six or twenty-seven years old. He was dressed in a worn-out blue cloth outfit with a short, cropped brown shirt and a wide leather belt around his waist. He was tall and strong, with broad shoulders and thick arms. He had thick eyebrows, deep-set eyes, and a square face with distinct angles.

He recognized the face; it was the second son of Old Man Wu, whose given name was Yan. A few years ago, he had enlisted as an archer and was now serving under County Commandant Xu. He had risen to the rank of head constable, in charge of dozens of archers and responsible for maintaining order in the county town's streets and alleys.

The two had known each other since childhood, having grown up in the Kujing Alley in the north of the city. However, their paths diverged, one focused on literature and the other on martial arts, so they didn't interact much.

Later, Zhang Sanlang was recruited into the county government as a clerk, and Wu Erlang was also recruited into the archers' barracks. The Zhang family moved away from Kujing Lane, and the chances of them meeting became even fewer.

"So it's Brother Wu. Thank you for your help earlier. If you hadn't been on patrol, I would have been beaten again tonight." Zhang Sanlang straightened his disheveled clothes.

Wu Yan handed the lantern to the archer behind him, glanced at the short stick on the ground, and said, "Feng Scarface, you were the one who knocked down the poster last time, weren't you? We caught you red-handed this time. Take him away and bring him back to the archers' barracks."

"Tomorrow, please have County Magistrate Xu personally preside over the trials and close all three cases at once: the case of framing Zhang Bo with smuggled salt, and the two attempts to attack the post office. All of these must be thoroughly investigated."

Zhang Sanlang bowed to Wu Yan and thanked him, then added that he had to go to the yamen early the next morning and would go when County Magistrate Xu summoned him.

Wu Yan waved his hand and watched Zhang Sanlang walk towards Kujing Lane. The lane fell silent again, with only the sound of the archer's footsteps fading into the distance.

When Zhang Sanlang pushed open the courtyard gate, the oil lamp in the east wing was still lit.

happy Mei sat at the low table, with a sewing basket spread out in front of her and a half-finished shoe sole in her hand.

Qingge'er fell asleep on the table, his cheek pressed against the tracing paper, the vermilion ink mark of the three characters "Shang Daren" on the paper was slightly damp with saliva.

Hearing the door open, Xi Mei looked up, her needlework stopping. "Father, why are you so late today?"

She put down her shoes, stood up, and walked to Zhang Sanlang. Suddenly, she noticed the wall dust on his clothes and the crooked creases on the back of his collar, and her expression changed.

She didn't ask any questions, but simply reached out to pat his clothes dry, her fingers trembling slightly as she tugged at the hem.

Zhang Sanlang gently pushed her hand away. "It's nothing. I just tripped and fell in the alley and got a little dusty."

happy Mei glanced back at the oil lamp on the table; the wick was almost burned out, and the flame flickered.

She turned and walked toward the stove, muttering, "There's some millet porridge warming on the stove. I'll go get Dad a bowl."

As she walked to the stove and picked up the bowl, her hands were still trembling, and the lid of the iron pot made a slight cracking sound as it hit the edge of the stove.

Qingge'er was startled awake by the noise. He groggily raised his head and said, "Dad, where have you been? My sister has been waiting for you all night and has reheated the porridge twice."

He rubbed his eyes and slid off the bench, walked up to Zhang Sanlang, looked up at the dust stains on his father's clothes, his mouth twitched, but he held back, just tugging at his clothes without saying a word.

Zhang Sanlang squatted down and used his sleeve to wipe away the cinnabar mark from the corner of his mouth.

Qingge'er suddenly spoke up: "Dad, is someone bullying you again?"

"No. Dad just tripped and fell." Zhang Sanlang pulled him into his arms and patted his back.

Qingge'er nestled in his arms without speaking, his little hands tightly gripping the hem of his clothes. In the dim light, his face was obscured, but one could feel his shoulders trembling slightly.

happy Mei stood by the stove with the porridge in her hand. She didn't come over, but simply placed the bowl on the low table and turned her back to adjust the lamp wick.

The wick popped, brightening the light slightly, and her face was half-lit and half-shadowed.

Zhang Sanlang stood up, walked to the table, sat down, picked up the bowl of porridge, and took a sip.

The porridge was warm, with the millet settling at the bottom of the bowl, and it was just the right consistency.

"Qing-ge'er, your father has been promoted. He's now temporarily serving as a clerk, and his monthly stipend has increased by five hundred coins. Your tuition for your first lessons is now secured. Next spring, your father will take you to visit your teacher."

He picked Qingge'er up and sat him on the edge of the bed, then looked back at Ximei'er. "Ximei'er, you'll be ten next year, you'll be all grown up. Let's save up for two months, get a new bed, and some furniture, so you can live in the inner room of the east wing by yourself."

happy Meier gave a soft "hmm," hung the fire poker back on the wooden nail beside the stove, went to the bedside to take off Qing Ge'er's shoes, tucked the quilt in, and then returned to the low table to put away the sewing basket and blow out the lamp.

The next day, when Zhang Sanlang's transfer document was delivered to the clerk's office, Feng Jian was sitting behind his desk checking the attendance book for the month.

Fang Zhong'an handed over the document, glanced at it, put down his pen, and a familiar smile appeared on his face. "Zhang Shouli is temporarily transferred to the Household Registration Office. Clerk Tao is quick on his feet; he's already in a hurry to get people right after the autumn taxes were settled."

He picked up the document and read it from beginning to end, then placed it on the corner of the desk. "Zhong'an, go to the storeroom and get two reams of paper made from mulberry bark and a block of pine soot ink. Also, take that unopened jar of Baihuachun from my cabinet."

"Tell Zhang Sanlang to take these few reams of paper to the Revenue Department. Wine is an old rule of the Revenue Department; no one leaves here empty-handed."

Fang Zhong'an responded, but didn't move his feet.

He glanced at the document on the corner of the desk, his lips twitched, but he ultimately said nothing and turned to go to the storeroom.

Feng Jian picked up his pen again and wrote a small note after Zhang Sanlang's name in the attendance book: September 29th, transferred from the Household Registration Office. The handwriting was neat and clean, just like usual.