Chapter 343

Thank heaven and earth, Wang Qiren had no visible birthmark.

The corpse Xiao Jin provided was also ordinary, with no noticeable birthmark.

The elderly eunuch tasked with identifying the corpse, perhaps due to the passage of too much time, or perhaps because his memory had faded, simply said: "Similar!"

Chen Guanlou, with sharp ears and keen eyes, heard it from far away.

He quietly exhaled a breath of relief.

The middle-aged eunuch in charge whispered to the elder, "Are you certain? This cannot be mistaken. Otherwise, we can't answer for it."

The elder eunuch nodded. "Report it." This confirmed the corpse was Wang Qiren.

The middle-aged eunuch immediately relaxed. "Good."

Chen Guanlou, hearing this, thought the matter was over.

He never expected the real horror was yet to come.

Whipping the corpse—he had only read about it in history books.

He never imagined he would witness it with his own eyes today.

How much hatred did the old emperor harbor for Wang Qiren? Even dead, he had the corpse whipped!

Damn it, the scene… a corpse already decaying, in the height of summer, whipped in the courtyard—just imagining it, Chen Guanlou fled at once, repulsed and disgusted by the filth.

Fortunately, the palace didn't force the jailers to carry out the whipping.

That whip, that force—one strike would make a living man scream, let alone a decaying corpse. Flesh shattered, corpse oil… he couldn't bear to think further, it was too revolting.

The old emperor wasn't just aged and foolish—he was outright deranged.

It was utterly disgusting!

Yet those eunuchs endured it, their faces unchanged, calm and composed as they watched the entire whipping. The courtyard where the corpse lay was left foul and filthy, unbearable to step into.

The laborers turned pale.

This was too much—why not take it outside? They could've dragged the corpse out to the wilds instead of whipping it in the courtyard.

Chen Guanlou decided: for at least a year, he would never set foot in this place again.

Xiao Jin, though a seasoned veteran, proved even less able to bear it—he vomited the moment he stepped outside. His already dark face had turned visibly pale; one could imagine how much he suffered.

"What crime did that prisoner commit, that even in death they weren't satisfied and had to whip the corpse?" Xiao Jin had served in the Tianlao for years and had never seen such a thing—he was physically ill, utterly drained and nauseated.

Chen Guanlou wasn't much better; his face was ashen, making him look even more like a pale-faced dandy. After this was over, he would definitely rest for several days to recover his tormented body and mind.

When the whipping ended, the palace staff left, abandoning a filthy mess.

Chen Guanlou waved his hand and gave the laborers a bonus, ordering them to clean up quickly, gather the scattered body parts, and haul them away for burial.

The laborers had been full of resentment, faces long and sour—low status didn't mean they had no feelings. They dared not curse aloud, but behind their backs they'd complained endlessly. Yet Chen the jailer generously gave them a reward. With money, everything was easier—their resentment vanished, their energy surged; what they'd planned to take three days to finish, they completed that same day.

After cleaning came disinfection, then incense—finally, the stench was suppressed.

Chen Guanlou felt awful overall, listless, unable to eat—he simply had no appetite.

Lu Datou, slacking off, had gone to the office to drink tea. Rarely so thoughtful, he brought a basket of fruit.

"I heard you didn't eat. Want some fruit? Sent by the prisoner's family—fresh as can be."

Lu Datou picked up a pear, bit into it—juicy, full of moisture.

Chen Guanlou ate one too. It wasn't as sweet as modern cultivated varieties, and the sourness was strong, but the moisture was real.

"Who was that prisoner, anyway? Why whip the corpse? I was shocked when I heard." Lu Datou was intensely curious.

Chen Guanlou, fighting nausea, said, "God knows. I combed through the archives—no record of the prisoner. He'd been imprisoned for decades; the jailers have changed dozens of times. No one remembers."

Lu Datou clicked his tongue. "Tianlao isn't the neighboring Zhao Yu—why whip the corpse here? If this prisoner was truly so important, why wasn't he locked up in Zhao Yu?"

"How would I know? This year's been cursed. Ever since I became jailer, nothing's been peaceful. One disaster after another."

Chen Guanlou even began to wonder if he'd offended the Year God—whether he should visit a fortune-teller.

Lu Datou eagerly offered advice: "Why not go burn incense at a temple? I feel your luck's been bad since the new year—but every time, you've pulled through."

Chen Guanlou wanted to pray for last-minute luck, but it felt unreliable.

Every time he pulled through proved he had some fortune. What if he prayed to the wrong Buddha or deity, and disrupted his own luck? That would only make things worse.

Better to do nothing.

Lu Datou was listing which temples and Daoist shrines were powerful, which monks and Daoists gave accurate readings, which divination lots worked best. He even told him about the old slob under the southern city bridge—his fortune-telling was uncannily accurate, though he charged dearly.

"How about tomorrow I go with you to Nancheng, find the old slob and get your fortune read?"

"No! I trust myself!"

Chen Guanlou trusted his instincts more.

The second time he met Wang Qiren, he saw right through the man's lies—painting himself as an innocent victim, blaming everyone else. He didn't believe him, and ever since, he refused to visit the deepest part of Tianlao to see him, thus avoiding sinking into the man's web.

If he hadn't extricated himself in time, when Zhang Daohe came to break him out, he'd have been dragged into endless trouble—likely sinking deeper still.

Originally, on the first and fifteenth of every month, Jail Warden Lei insisted on holding a meeting, asserting his presence and reminding everyone to pay their dues. But because of the whipping, he found Tianlao repulsive, filthy, reeking of stench, and believed its feng shui was ruined—he feared it would damage his own fortune, so he canceled the fifteenth meeting this month. Instead, his private secretary handled negotiations with the jailers to set the monthly contributions.

Warden Lei's greed was universally acknowledged.

The most concerned with appearances, court etiquette, and decorum were the literate, degree-holding Jail Warden Fan, followed by the former Jail Warden Niu.

Warden Lei came from the lowest ranks, clawed his way up, had the worst table manners, and was the greediest. Upon arrival, he raised the contribution by ten percent—and that ten percent became permanent, due every month.

The jailers and jail guards all cursed him inwardly: thief! Greedy thief!

"Watch out—you'll choke on it!"

To Warden Lei's secretary, Fu, they all smiled politely to his face—but turned away and rolled their eyes, utterly disgusted. More revolting than the whipping from two days prior.

Secretary Fu wielded his minor authority like a royal decree, treating the jailers with indifference, even coldness, displaying the arrogance of a scholar to perfection. Only if you paid enough, and treated him well, would he deign to offer a smile.

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