Chapter Six: Beyond Expectations

The young man did not turn around; simply hearing his name called was enough for him to guess who it was. Ordinary people would never address him as “Ming,” only the riffraff who hung around with Liang Yu would call him that. Anyone acquainted with Zhong Ming would show him due respect, addressing him as “Mr. Zhong.” If not for those street toughs wanting to flaunt their closeness, who would dare call him “brother” so offhandedly?

As expected, the caller was indeed one of Liang Yu’s unsavory friends, just as the young man had surmised. This breathless, overweight youth was named Fei Dacheng, though everyone liked to call him Fei the Dunce. The nickname stuck because he’d suffered a strange illness as a child, leaving him so plump that even in years of famine he seemed to inflate, radiating a kind of jolly prosperity. The villagers all said Dacheng had the features of a wealthy man, destined for a good life. Whether that was true or not, he was certainly lazy—fond of food, averse to work, and never one for hard labor.

Laziness aside, he was useless in a fight, and could only tag along after Liang Yu and his lot, carrying things and running errands, boasting that he too was one of the local bullies of Mud Village. Seeing that it was Fei the Dunce, the youth in hemp robes remained unruffled and asked, “Dunce, what’s happened to make you so flustered?”

Fei could only gasp for breath, raising his hand several times to speak, but each attempt was smothered by his wheezing. For someone as heavy as Fei, running all the way to Zhong Ming could only be done in one go; now, entirely out of breath, he would need some time to recover. The young man patted Fei’s shoulder reassuringly, “Don’t rush. Catch your breath, speak slowly.”

After some time, the trembling of Fei’s fat cheeks subsided. He blurted out anxiously, “Ming, it’s bad! Blackie’s been caught by Zhang the Leper’s gang. They say if he won’t hand over the protection money for Mud Village, they’ll beat him to death!”

Hearing this, the youth realized it was just as he’d suspected, though he was curious how Liang Yu could’ve been caught by Zhang the Leper’s crew—it was hard to imagine. Liang Yu was notorious for his ruthlessness, not the petty type, but honed through life among corpses. With a short dagger always at hand, he fought fiercely—four or five street thugs wouldn’t dare get close, and Zhang the Leper’s seven or eight cowardly men could hardly be a match.

So, the young man frowned slightly and asked, “How did Liang Yu get caught? What went wrong?” As Fei explained, the youth’s composure faded, his sense of certainty dissolving.

There was an unspoken rule among the local toughs: no matter the brawls, they rarely resulted in death. Even if Blackie was caught, his life shouldn’t be in danger. Bullies who preyed on commoners were kept in line by the constables; a few injuries in a street fight didn’t warrant their attention, but a fatality would bring the law down hard.

Today, however, something was different. Zhang the Leper’s gang had somehow enlisted Constable Wu from the county office, which is why Liang Yu fell into their hands. Anyone who could serve as a constable was skilled in martial arts, equipped with government-issued sabers—Liang Yu didn’t stand a chance. If Constable Wu intervened, this was no longer a street brawl but an official crackdown, and Liang Yu’s life was truly at risk.

Zhang the Leper was a known rogue, always lurking about town, with shady dealings with the constables—a common enough collusion between law and outlaw. In the past, Mud Village hadn’t been worth the trouble, but now, with land redistribution looming and future grain taxes up for grabs, even the constables’ eyes were turning greedy. For money, they wouldn’t hesitate to kill a few ruffians; after all, no one would object to constables cleaning up the streets.

Liang Yu was an obstinate man, and it was that very stubbornness that had allowed him to gain a foothold for Mud Village. Today, it might cost him his life. The young man’s heart grew anxious. Ah, what brings glory also brings ruin!

At this thought, the youth could no longer contain himself, impatience flickering in his eyes. But years of experience allowed Zhong Ming to grit his teeth and keep calm. He knew, more than ever, that panic led to disaster—one mistake, and Blackie’s life could truly be forfeit.

His mind raced through several plans. He pushed the lotus-leaf bundle and the registry into Fei’s arms, asking, “Where are they?”

“West of town, in the ruined temple,” Fei replied hastily.

The youth nodded, tightened his robe at the waist, and instructed, “Go to my house at once. Look under my bed for a small rosewood box, and bring it to the temple as soon as you find it.”

With his years of experience, the young man already had a plan. If Zhang the Leper and his crew wanted only the protection money, he’d persuade Liang Yu to pay it—that would be the best outcome. If not, he’d offer ten taels of gold to buy Blackie’s life from Constable Wu. If even that failed...

He drew a rosewood folding knife from his breast, thinking that in the worst case, he’d have to fight for his life. In an era where people preyed on each other, reason was meaningless—survival alone made one right, even if one claimed pigs could fly. History is written by the victors; the dead have no voice.

Gripping the knife tightly, the youth in hemp robes set out at a run toward the ruined temple in the west of town.

...

Outside the Fragrant Pavilion, Fei the Dunce stared blankly after Zhong Ming as he vanished around a street corner. Suddenly understanding, he spun around and hurried toward Mud Village. “Rosewood box, rosewood box—Ming must be planning to ransom Blackie with a treasure!”

Muttering to himself, he’d nearly guessed the boy’s intentions. Fei was lazy, but not as stupid as he looked. Though he often played the fool, his mind was sharp. Everyone in Mud Village knew, though none spoke of it, that Ming’s family owned a treasure.

After the recent war, though the New Tang had established itself, local governance was still weak, and famine relief had yet to arrive. This border town was desolate, and rice was as precious as desert rain. With no relief grain, the refugees starved, worse off than during the war itself.

Back then, at least the desperate had the dead to feed on, digging up corpses from the earth. But after the founding of the country, such chaos was forbidden; cannibalism was now a capital crime, with the emperor issuing an edict, decreeing all such offenders beheaded as a warning to all. The county magistrate, eager to comply, executed ten “cannibal refugees,” hanging their heads at the east gate for over ten days to terrify the borderland cannibals. Those who’d survived by eating flesh now had to dig for roots and chew on bark, stripping the southern hills bare of any greenery, while food only grew scarcer.

Mud Village had no farmland and suffered even more. When the snows fell and the villagers could no longer dig for food, people began dying of hunger. The snow fell for seven days, and the number of fresh graves grew with each passing day. As all hope seemed lost, faces that had smiled bitterly one day were lifeless the next. Zhong Ming could bear it no longer.

On the seventh night, he and Blackie slipped over the ruined wall into town to seek food. By the third watch, he walked openly out the city gate, the night guards allowing him through. When he returned, it was not just Blackie by his side, but three carts piled high with rice bran.

Those three carts saved Mud Village. At first, no one knew what had happened that night—until Blackie, bragging, let slip the truth. He told everyone how Ming, daring and clever, had traded his family’s hidden treasure to the Tian family, the wealthiest clan in town, for the rice that saved them all.

The Tian family, it was said, had relatives in government—officials of high rank—so in this famine, they still had surplus grain. Their power was such that even the county magistrate had to show respect; in this backwater town, they were a force of nature.

That Zhong Ming could trade with such people and win back food for the village earned him everyone’s awe. After the grain was distributed, the two hundred villagers knelt outside his yard, knocking their heads three times in thanks, and he couldn’t stop them.

Yet only Zhong Ming himself knew the truth—he hadn’t paid a great price, only taken a risk. A handful of jewels and a strange, silent jade flute had been traded for over two hundred lives. It was a bargain by any measure.

More than that, the youth had earned not just lives, but the villagers’ loyalty. As Fei the Dunce, now red-faced and panting from his dash back to the village, clutching that memory in his heart, would never forget: the treasure that bought the rice, the debt of life.

Fei ran with all his strength, and though he was heavy, he was no slower than most. Reaching the edge of the village and seeing the headman’s hut, he was spent, clutching his side and gasping for breath.

But Mud Village was different today. Out of nowhere, there were now many tall horses and armored soldiers, swords at their sides, surrounding the headman’s hut. Fei stared in confusion, puzzled, but then remembered Ming’s instructions and stifled his curiosity, hurrying toward Zhong Ming’s yard.

Inside, it took little effort to find the rosewood box. In a place as poor as Mud Village, no one bothered with locks—the gate was held shut by a tree branch. Cradling the box, Fei hesitated; the lotus bundle and registry were in the way, but Ming hadn’t said what to do with them, so he carried everything out, albeit slowly.

As he passed the headman’s house again, the headman’s granddaughter, Sun Luolian, spotted him and called out, “Grandpa, look, it’s the Dunce! I just saw him come back from outside—maybe he saw Brother Zhong on the way.”

The old headman, troubled, brightened at the sight of Fei and shouted, “Dunce, come here! Uncle Sun has something to ask you!”

But Fei, anxious to deliver the treasure, pretended not to hear, mustered his strength, and broke into a run. Ming was waiting to save a life; he couldn’t afford any delays.

“That boy, what’s gotten into him today? Can’t he hear me?” The old man, annoyed, looked for a stick to chase after the wayward youth. But seeing the noble guest in his house, he reconsidered, only to have Sun Luolian offer, “Grandpa, let me go after him.”

“No need, I’ll get him myself,” said a new voice.

Before Sun Luolian could move, an armored soldier vaulted over the fence in a flash, landing in front of Fei and blocking his path. Fei blinked, startled by the sudden appearance of this tall figure, whose scaled armor gleamed in the morning sun. Instinctively, Fei hugged the rosewood box to his chest, fearing the soldier was after the treasure, only to hear the man say with a laugh, “Dunce, look at me—don’t you recognize me?”

Fei stared in confusion until the newcomer removed his helmet, revealing a rugged face. Fei cried out, “Sun Longhu? It’s you, Brother Longhu!”

...

Fei’s reunion at the village edge cost precious time, but he did not know that by now, the youth in hemp robes had already reached the ruined temple in the west of town, about to face his ordeal.