Chapter 78: The Tianlao Will Soon Be Packed to Capacity

For dinner, Chen Guanlou ate with Lu Datou.

They picked a random street stall and ordered a few snacks.

Lu Datou wanted to drink, but he stopped him: “We’re going to the yamen soon. No drinking on duty—you forgot?”

“It’s only you who sticks to those stupid rules,” Lu Datou muttered a couple times but didn’t press it.

He looked utterly worn out, eyes bloodshot—classic signs of sleep deprivation and overindulgence.

Chen Guanlou warned him: “Take it easy, or one day you’ll drop dead.”

“Spit, spit, don’t curse me!”

They were so close they spoke without restraint.

Chen Guanlou asked him: “Lost it all again? How much this time?”

Lu Datou rubbed his head, looking miserable: “Don’t mention it. I think someone’s cheating at the gambling den.”

“You’re just realizing this?” Chen Guanlou sneered, clicking his tongue. “Even non-gamblers know gambling dens need cheaters to run them—first to catch others cheating, second to guarantee the house always wins. Guys like you—steady income, addicted to gambling—are their favorite customers. You’re a steady stream of gold they can squeeze for thirty or fifty years. To them, you’re a walking gold ingot, adorable and helpless.”

“Is it really that bad? ‘Adorable and helpless’? Don’t make me sick.”

Lu Datou felt bitter but helpless, convinced his luck had turned bad this year—he hadn’t won a single time. Everywhere he went, he lost. It infuriated him.

“Exactly how much did you lose?”

Lu Datou held up three fingers.

Chen Guanlou raised an eyebrow: “Thirty taels?”

Seeing the man shake his head, he frowned and whispered: “Three hundred taels? Damn it, how’d you lose that much? Where did you even get that kind of money?”

Chen Guanlou knew Lu Datou’s income—barely twenty to thirty taels a month. Three hundred taels was nearly a year’s pay. Lu Datou spent money as fast as he got it—he never saved. Where did he get three hundred taels? Something was fishy.

Lu Datou glanced around, then leaned forward, whispering close to Chen Guanlou: “Last time, I skimmed some silver. Xu Fugui turned a blind eye, then gave me another fifty taels afterward.”

Chen Guanlou grunted: “Only fifty taels? Xu Fugui’s getting greedy.”

Though the Bing-class cells constantly extracted money from prisoners, most of it went upstairs. The jailers kept little. The Bing-class cells had no profit-sharing system like the Jia-class cells—everything depended on the officials’ conscience. If they gave twenty taels out of a hundred to the jailers, they were considered generous.

Lu Datou sighed: “You’re lucky—you got transferred to the Jia-class cells. Your income at least doubled.”

More than doubled—it was several times higher.

Chen Guanlou would never reveal his own income.

Everyone in the Jia-class cells kept quiet about earnings. Everyone understood: it’s not scarcity they fear, but inequality. If the Yi- and Bing-class jailers found out the real pay gap, they’d revolt.

The officials above had repeatedly ordered: the Jia-class cells’ top rule is to keep your mouth shut. Nothing about the Tianlao must be spoken outside—not a single pen, not a sheet of paper, not a single cash coin. Anyone who talks gets thrown out.

“How many days do you plan to rest?”

With all his money gone, he’d have to take time off—officially called “cultivating health and spirit.”

Lu Datou shook his head: “I’ll rest until next month’s pay.”

Chen Guanlou scoffed: “No wonder you’ll never get rich.”

“Enough to eat is fine.”

“What’ll you eat when you’re old?”

“When I’m old, my son will take my place as a jailer. I’ll never go hungry my whole life.”

Lu Datou spoke proudly, showing off his son.

Chen Guanlou clicked his tongue: “If you really care, spend some silver to send your son to school for two years. Then I’ll find a way to get him assigned to the Jia-class cells.”

“Really?”

“If you send your son to school, I stand by this promise.”

“It’s a deal.”

“Cut back on gambling next month—save money for your son’s schooling. If you don’t send him within three months, this promise is void.”

“I’ll send him, I’ll send him—I’ll find a place tonight. I heard the Hou Fu runs a clan school. Do they accept students outside the Chen family?”

“Forget it. Even if the Chen clan school took outsiders, they’d only take children of connections. I don’t have the clout to push anyone in. Go to Master Su—my brother-in-law’s relative runs a private school. I studied there myself—strict teacher, good instruction. Costs about ten taels a year. If your son’s gifted, add two more taels for ink, paper, and brushes. With your income, that’s nothing.”

“Ten or more taels a year just for a kid’s schooling? Too expensive!” Lu Datou complained bitterly, as if they were cutting out his flesh.

Chen Guanlou looked down on him: “You just lost three hundred taels—you could’ve sent your son to school for twenty years. You didn’t care then. Now you whine about a few taels for his future? You’re a terrible father—if your son hasn’t rebelled yet, he’s a saint.”

“If my son dares rebel, I’ll break his legs right now,” Lu Datou growled, flexing paternal authority.

The shopkeeper, overhearing the word “rebellion,” rushed over: “Gentlemen, gentlemen—don’t say ‘rebellion’ anymore. I heard from traveling merchants that in Jinzhou, drought has driven people to revolt—they’ve killed officials, taken several cities. The leader even declared himself the Great Ming King. Lately, the Military Patrol has become far more brutal. If they hear you say ‘rebellion,’ you’ll invite trouble.”

“I heard rumors about Jinzhou flaring up early this year, and officials said it’d be crushed in days. But you’re implying it’s getting worse?” Chen Guanlou asked curiously.

The shopkeeper looked around. Only one table of customers remained; passersby had all gone home to eat. He whispered: “Officially, they paint everything rosy—the Son of Heaven loves good news, and we all know that. But from the merchants, I heard Jinzhou is already ruined. The more they crush the rebels, the more they multiply. Their territory grows. Poor folk who can’t afford food are fleeing toward Jinzhou to join the Great Ming King.”

Hearing this, Chen Guanlou fell into a daze.

He lived in Jingcheng—he felt nothing. He assumed the court was still in a golden age. Even with constant infighting, wasn’t that true of every dynasty? The old emperor might be growing foolish and greedy, but the court remained stable. Surely the people still had enough to eat.

Yet the rebellion in Jinzhou had already set half the sky ablaze—while Jingcheng still danced and sang, the court still praised its glory, declaring the crisis would vanish in days.

He shook his head, as if already seeing the Tianlao overflowing with prisoners.