Setting A Web (3)

Boom——

Boom——

Boom——

The drums of injustice resounded through the long street.

Aunt Su, wearing a coarse linen dress, clenched the drumstick with an expressionless face and beat the cowhide drum head hard.

She had been working year-round and had built up considerable strength in her hands. The sound of the drums carried throughout half the town, heavy with a deadly hatred and rage.

It was getting late, and a crowd was gathering quickly.

She had knocked only seven or eight times when a night guard from the squad room rushed over with a water-and-fire stick in hand.

Seeing the large crowd outside the yamen, he was annoyed at being called out in the middle of the night, and as soon as he opened his mouth he shouted angrily: "Shrew, what are you making such a fuss about?"

Before Aunt Su could speak, some idle onlookers called out on her behalf: "She's filing a complaint, of course. She has a grievance!"

The yamen servant spread his hands toward Aunt Su: "If it's a complaint, where is your prosecutor? Where is your lawyer?"

When Aunt Su heard that her son's body had been dug up indiscriminately by a group of government officials, she had nearly fainted.

When she rushed over to see for herself, all that was left was an empty tomb.

She was holding herself together through sheer anger — otherwise she might have collapsed entirely. How could she have had the presence of mind to go through the proper steps of hiring a lawyer?

Seeing that Aunt Su was alone, empty-handed, and silent, the yamen servant realized she had made no preparations, and, growing bolder, began to push her: "Women are not allowed in the hall — don't you know the rules? If you want to file a complaint, go find a lawyer first, and stop blocking the door here!"

After being shoved twice, Aunt Su's eyes turned red. Without hesitation, she raised the drumstick and swung it at the yamen servant's face.

Sensing the blow coming, the servant stepped back and narrowly dodged it, though the near miss almost sent him tumbling down the long steps.

Scattered snickers rose from the watching crowd.

Humiliated, the yamen servant flew into a rage, snatched up his water-and-fire stick, and swung it at Aunt Su.

If the blow landed squarely, Aunt Su would have suffered broken bones at the very least.

But just as he swung the stick, a foot suddenly kicked the yamen servant hard on the backside from behind.

Caught off guard, with his stance still unsteady, he lurched forward and fell face-first into the mud.

A burst of laughter erupted from the crowd below.

Humiliated once again, the yamen servant scrambled to his feet in a fury, cursing: "Who did that?! Are you tired of living——"

He swallowed the rest of the sentence and choked until his face turned red: "Your Honor..."

Le Wuya, dressed in plain clothes, stood with his hands clasped behind his back, an amused expression on his face: "So this is how government officials normally treat the people. Ugly faces, impossible to approach — no wonder things are so difficult. Thank you for making such a fine spectacle in my name."

The yamen servant dropped to his knees in terror: "This unruly woman wants to file an appeal but has no lawyer. She insisted on barging in, not only stirring up a crowd but also striking people. I was only acting out of anger..."

Le Wuya had no patience for his stream of excuses — there was no point in arguing with him.

He beckoned to the two other yamen servants who had been hovering nearby but hadn't dared to step forward. Pointing at Aunt Su, he ordered, "Bring her inside properly, find her a room, see that she's looked after, and keep the noise down."

He glanced back at the kneeling servant: "Didn't you say there were no lawyers?"

"I'll give you half an hour. Go and fetch the best lawyer in Nanting right now to draft and file the complaint. If you take longer than half an hour, I'll dock every last penny of the cost from your monthly wages."

The mention of his wages made every excuse the yamen servant had been building up evaporate instantly. He scrambled to his feet and rushed out.

Le Wuya turned his head, glanced at Aunt Su, and said: "Ms. Su, if Scholar Ming hasn't been thrown in prison, you could ask him to come — it would make things much easier."

At the mention of "Scholar Ming," Aunt Su's eyes grew faintly red. She lowered her head, whether in shame or to avoid his gaze.

She didn't know a single written character, but she was no fool.

Scholar Ming had gotten into trouble because of her son's case.

She knew it, but she was powerless.

Le Wuya withdrew his gaze, crossed the threshold of the main entrance, and gave a short, firm command: "In half an hour, the documents will be ready, and court will be opened."

After returning to his quarters, Le Wuya tied up his hair and dressed in front of the mirror.

The robes of a seventh-rank official were far plainer than those of a first-rank official.

Within moments, he was ready.

The figure reflected in the bronze mirror was in proper official dress, everything in order — much the same as the day before.

Le Wuya had barely rested since arriving. Only now did he have a quiet moment to take a closer look at Wenren Yue's face.

Yesterday, this body had still been hanging from a beam.

If he hadn't heard someone crying out to die for the first time, and if he hadn't been sharp enough in the moment, he might well be queuing up to drink Meng Po's soup right now.

Wenren Yue was handsome and refined. His appearance bore little resemblance to Le Wuya's previous one — his Han lineage had a stronger hold on his features. Only on close inspection did his pupils, slightly cat-like and a touch different in color, hint at the allure of Jing tribesman blood.

Le Wuya let his thoughts wander.

Why would I be born into his body?

They say that when a soul leaves the body, it risks dissipating after just the time it takes to drink a cup of tea. My soul had been wandering for four years. How was it still so intact, so full of life the moment it arrived — making trouble everywhere like some kind of demon?

As he stared, Le Wuya suddenly frowned. He leaned closer to the mirror and lightly pressed the corner of his lips with a fingertip.

Only then did he notice a small brown mole at the edge of Wenren Yue's lower lip — faint and indistinct, the kind that was nearly impossible to spot without looking closely in candlelight.

Le Wuya wondered: Was this mole always there, on Wenren Yue?

In his previous life, more than one person had said that this mole was ill-placed — a sign of bad luck.

It was certainly unlucky enough to have drawn him in by fate, but the location of the mole being the same as well — that was too much of a coincidence...

Still, he only turned the thought over for a moment before letting it go.

Once he finished hearing the case, he would be gone. The rest was Wenren Yue's problem.

Half an hour later, the yamen was ablaze with lamplight, and the news that the county magistrate was going to hear a case had already spread across the small town of Nanting.

The townspeople had nothing to do, and curfew was still some time away, so they came streaming in one after another to watch.

The county magistrate, chief registrar, and yamen servants were all in their places, but Shang Juncai, the coroner, was nowhere to be found. People were sent to look for him at home, but he was not there.

Magistrate Sun knew where he was.

After sending Chang Xiaohu's body to Yizhuang, Magistrate Sun still couldn't hold himself back and had quietly played a small trick. Rather than leaving anyone to guard the ice room, he turned around and went straight to Shang Juncai's door to inform him that the master had ordered Chang Xiaohu's body exhumed, and that he should be ready to be called in at any moment.

From the very beginning, others may not have known the truth behind Chang Xiaohu's "accidental death" — but how could Shang Zuo not know?

He knew exactly what to do without being told twice.

Though Magistrate Sun had been reprimanded repeatedly by Le Wuya and his position was under threat, he had been on good terms with Chen Yuanwai for so long that he couldn't simply do nothing.

At the very least, he had to blunt the edge of this master who was so adept at uncovering things, didn't he?

But so much time had passed — why hadn't Shang Wuzuo returned yet?

While Magistrate Sun was arranging another search, something unexpected happened.

Two men who looked like crippled beggars arrived at the yamen, carrying an unconscious man on their backs. They looked shaken and kept saying they wished to surrender.

The place was in full bustle, and Magistrate Sun moved to send them away — but when he held up the lantern and got a proper look, his face went blank.

The unconscious man, his face covered in blood, was unmistakably Shang Zuo.

In full view of the public, it was too late to spirit the man away, and Magistrate Sun had no choice but to hold his nose and take in this case as well.

The commotion grew louder, and the crowd thickened.

Surrounded by the eager, pressing crowd, Le Wuya stepped into the courtroom.

He was never shy, loved excitement above all else, and had always enjoyed watching people argue while munching on melon seeds.

If he hadn't been so unlucky in his previous life — forced to reign in his temperament and keep up a dignified front at all times — he wouldn't have died so young.

Le Wuya had sometimes suspected that in his past life, he must have been so starved of excitement that he'd been suffocated by his own restraint.

Taking his seat high on the bench, Le Wuya sat up straight and picked up the gavel, turning it in his palm.

The lacquer was chipped in places, but it sat solid and heavy in his hand — because it carried the weight of thousands of people's livelihoods and grievances.

Le Wuya felt something stir in his chest. He was still quietly reflecting on this when, from the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a familiar figure.

Thinking he had seen wrong, he directed his attention toward a man dressed as a traveling merchant, standing at the front of the crowd with his arms folded.

...him?

Why is he here?

...

Xiang Zhijie and Xiang Zhi were two princes serving as imperial envoys, touring the land and observing the conditions of the people. Their status was anything but ordinary. Moreover, even dressed as commoners, their near-identical faces were far too conspicuous.

After some discussion, the two of them agreed that their accompanying guard Jiang He should pose as a merchant and listen to the trial from the front, to first get a read on the county magistrate's true character.

Before the trial had even begun, Jiang He had already struck up conversation with the locals around him under his merchant disguise.

According to the townspeople, Mr. Wenren was a good man — but only that: a good man, soft-natured and lacking in backbone.

Not everyone agreed with this, though.

One man said that just that afternoon, his master had shot a robber in the street with an arrow — a robber who had been stealing from someone in broad daylight. That had been a decisive, swift act.

The two men took opposing sides and began arguing right beside Jiang He.

Jiang He sighed quietly, took a small step to the side — and suddenly felt a sharp gaze land on him.

He had come up through the military and had a keen sense for being watched. He immediately turned toward the source of that gaze, but saw only the slightly averted profile of Master Wenren up in the yamen.

The yamen guards stood in two rows on either side, holding their red-and-black water-and-fire sticks, their bearing imposing.

Guards in small towns had little regard for appearance — what mattered was being fierce enough to keep control of the room.

Against this group of hard-looking men, Wenren Yue, a slight and scholarly figure, looked frail at first glance.

While gathering information, Jiang He had learned that the well-known county magistrate had foreign ancestry.

So it came as a surprise when, glancing around the room, he unexpectedly glimpsed the shadow of an old friend: solitary smoke over a cast desert, white bones amid yellow dust.

The man was galloping diagonally ahead of him, both hands completely off the reins, the bowstring drawn taut, aiming at a falcon at the edge of the sky.

The bow bent full as a moon; the arrow flew like a shooting star. At the sound of the string, the falcon's wing snapped — and it dropped straight down.

The man didn't ease off. Arrows flew in rapid succession. The falcon, already tumbling through the air, jerked and twisted — struck by a second arrow!

Someone cried out in disbelief: "Did he hit it? Did he actually hit it?"

The man's brow was cool as starlight: "Jiang Jiugao, go fetch it for me! If there aren't two arrows in it, I'll buy drinks for the entire Tianlang Camp for seven days!"

Someone else shouted: "Jiugao, if you pull out those arrows and come back, you'll be the savior of this whole camp!"

"Go on — that's exactly why I didn't ask you!" The man turned half his face and grinned. "Our Jiugao is the most trustworthy of all, isn't he?"

He had been seventeen or eighteen then — the most headstrong and high-spirited age — and Jiang He still remembered the full force of his admiration and longing for that person.

Time passes. Things change. The years roll on.

Amid the noise around him, he murmured almost soundlessly: "...Little General?"

The familiarity was there for just a heartbeat.

The figure in the government seat turned his head quickly.

Jiang He stared at the county magistrate — looked and looked again — but could no longer find any trace of the old friend whose face had just made his heart lurch.

The features, the expression — all of it was utterly unfamiliar to Jiang He.

In the courtroom, Le Wuya's expression had not visibly shifted, yet his heart was already in turmoil.

Since he had left the military, the Tianlang Camp had been disbanded. Jiang He, recognized for his exceptional skill, had been reassigned to the capital and folded into the Jinwu Guard.

Jiang He would never appear in a place like this without reason. There had to be someone of consequence visiting this small county town.

...Perhaps someone he knew.

The thought made Le Wuya feel a sudden, unexpected flicker of irritation.

Was he fated to keep running into these people, or what?

When he died, there hadn't been a soul to see him off.

And now, the moment he opened his eyes, his old friends were lining up to visit his grave one by one?

He hadn't received so much as a single sheet of paper money all these years!

If they couldn't burn paper money, they could at least have burned a paper money tree. He could have shaken it himself when he had nothing better to do!

Still, Le Wuya quickly reined in his feelings.

He was already here — what was the use in dwelling on it?