Chapter 358: All Beings Fear the Fruit, Bodhisattvas Fear the Cause

The Si River encircles the city, flowing ceaselessly day and night.

Feng and Pei still endure; the Han affairs are a thousand springs past.

October 9th, morning, Pei County, Xuzhou Prefecture.

As the birthplace of Emperor Gaozu of Han, Pei County has long been famed as “the land where dragons soared through the ages, the hometown of emperors,” and with its strategic location along the Grand Canal, beside Weishan Lake, and at the border of two provinces, it is unquestionably the key gateway county of Southern Zhili.

The county wall is five li in circumference, two zhang high, one zhang eight chi wide, with a moat two zhang deep and three zhang wide.

The Si River flows gently, encircling the North and East Gates; it passes before the South Gate and joins another river southeast of the city, where each of the three gates has a water and land wharf, and the Feiyun Bridge spans the confluence, bustling with boats and carts, merchants gathering in great numbers, extremely prosperous.

Today’s weather is not good—the wind is chilly, mingled with raindrops that dampen travelers’ clothes and hats.

Yet even so, the outer city is crowded with peasants from nearby villages come to market, flowing in and out, packed to capacity.

“Hot, fresh, chewy flour cakes—no tricks, no lies!”

“Tatars, I want to eat, I want to eat!”

“County Notice! His Majesty is touring south through Xuzhou; all soldiers, civilians, and marketgoers must behave peacefully and cause no trouble!”

“Hot, crispy fried monkey! Golden, golden monkey!”

Zhu Yijun, letting the fine rain fall upon him, stood quietly atop the city wall, gazing far off at the bustling market, his heart filled with deep reflection.

He had not seen such a scene in many years.

In his memory, the gathering of villagers from surrounding areas followed a customary rhythm—certain villages met on the 1st, 4th, and 7th days of each ten-day period, certain townships on the 3rd, 6th, and 9th, or converged at the county fair on the 5th—apparently this custom had already existed during the Ming dynasty.

On such days, the crowds were always mountainous, the drums and gongs deafening.

This clamor today must be precisely when Pei County holds its grand market.

As Zhu Yijun was absorbed in watching, a voice behind him broke his thoughts.

“Master Jinlun, Commander Luo has already deployed the defenses of Pei County; please enter the city, Master.”

Zhu Yijun turned at the sound and saw Sun Jigao, a compiler of the Hanlin Academy, standing behind him, looking distinctly uneasy.

He naturally knew why Sun Zhuangyuan looked that way, but pretended not to notice.

The Emperor waved toward Jiang Keqian, Li Rusong, and others nearby, then led the way down the wall.

Sun Jigao hurried past the Eastern Depot and Embroidered Uniform Guard officers and followed close behind the Emperor.

After only a few steps, Sun Jigao could no longer hold back; he drew near the Emperor and pleaded plaintively: “Master Jinlun, truly cannot you adopt another title?”

“Zhu Young Master, Zhu Young Lord—wouldn’t that be better? Why change it?”

Even “Junior General” or “Young Marquis” would do!

Zhu Yijun leaned on the wall’s edge, descending the steps, and without turning back, gave a silent, mocking laugh toward Sun Jigao.

Today he wore a monk’s robe, silk boots, a jade belt, and a rain hat—altogether a bizarre, unclassifiable appearance.

Yet precisely in this attire did Zhu Yijun finally understand the joy of Emperor Wuzong.

He firmly rejected Sun Jigao’s advice, speaking with the air of an ancient sage: “I do this to honor my ancestors.”

“In the past, Emperor Wuzong called himself Grand Protector of the State, Abbot of the Secret Teaching of Bao’an Temple, Master of the Western Altar’s Great Celebration, and Leader of Zhanbandan.”

“Thus, tradition is preserved—what is wrong with me calling myself Master Jinlun?”

Strictly speaking, Zhu Yijun himself embodies the highest transmissions of Buddhism, Confucianism, and Daoism—the living sage of this age.

Sun Jigao, a true Zhuangyuan, faced with the Emperor’s words, could only stammer helplessly, unable to speak.

Zhu Yijun gave Sun Jigao no chance to press further and immediately turned to the matter at hand: “How are the tax quotas and actual collections in the counties of Xuzhou?”

After appearing briefly at the imperial lodging, the Emperor had specifically brought along Sun Jigao, his advance officer, clearly for a purpose.

At the mention of official business, Sun Jigao forgot his concerns over the Emperor’s title.

He quickly assumed his role: “Your Holiness, the tax quotas for each county of Xuzhou, whether in quantity or category, are relatively fixed.”

“From the Hongwu Emperor to the Xiaozong Emperor, the annual tax rice collected was 26,177 shi, 4 dou, 6 sheng, 3 he, and 2 shao; of this, 5,571 qing, 73 mu were fallow land, and 31,944 qing, 94 mu were cultivated land, yielding a converted silver tax of 40,631 liang, 6 qian, 4 fen.”

“By the second year of Jingtai, land assessments were raised and exemptions granted, with further adjustments; the actual cultivated land now totals 30,498 qing, 30 mu, 9 fen, with a total silver tax of 39,406 liang, 1 fen, 6 li.”

The reduction in Xuzhou’s land tax was not largely due to corruption, but merely one effect of Yellow River flooding.

In short, the land tax of Xuzhou Prefecture has long hovered around 40,000 liang—a modest sum.

“In the early Hongzhi reign, an additional 151 liang, 6 qian, 9 fen was levied to make up for part of the shortfall.”

“During the Jiajing reign, as the population of Xuzhou grew unevenly year by year, the Ministry of Revenue once imposed additional levies, but within two years, Xuzhou suffered a great Yellow River flood, and the extra levies were abolished by the Shizong Emperor.”

Hearing that the Shizong Emperor had voluntarily exempted taxes, Zhu Yijun glanced at Sun Jigao in surprise.

He clasped his hands and murmured: “Amitabha. When the mind arises, dharmas arise; when the mind ceases, dharmas cease.”

Sun Jigao’s face darkened.

The Emperor pretending to be a monk was one thing—but now he was actually reciting Buddhist verses to mock his ancestors—who could fail to hear the Emperor implying that the Shizong Emperor’s tax exemption was “mind arising,” and his later greed for wealth was “mind ceasing”?

Zhu Yijun’s hands were empty; he silently resolved to buy a string of prayer beads later, yet maintained the serene demeanor of a high monk as he asked: “What of the grain transport tax?”

The several prefectures along the Grand Canal were required to pay grain transport taxes.

Moreover, the grain transport tax also bore the burden of fire loss surcharges.

For instance, the three provinces of Zhejiang, Huguang, and Jiangxi, as well as the prefectures of Suzhou, Songjiang, Changzhou, and Zhenjiang in Zhili, together delivered 2.5 million shi of grain to Beijing annually; along the route, at least 20–30% was lost, and this shortfall was distributed among the “grain households” along the canal—adding vessel loss rice, levied upon grain exchange.

These taxes were also major sources of revenue.

As the advance officer, Sun Jigao had reviewed local gazetteers and investigated local conditions—his duty, and he had prepared thoroughly before the Emperor’s secret tour.

Now he nearly blurted out: “Your Majesty—Master—since Yongle’s sixth year, the court issued an imperial edict fixing the annual grain transport tax at 12,337 liang, 1 qian, 3 fen, promising ‘never to increase the tax.’”

Hearing this, Zhu Yijun interrupted: “‘Never increase the tax’? Monks do not lie.”

Sun Jigao grimaced—he was no monk.

Yet the court had indeed lived up to the Emperor’s distrust.

He paused, then explained: “Officially, no additional grain transport tax has been levied, but local administrations often spend without restraint, inventing countless other levies.”

“Since the Xiaozong Emperor, river management, sluices, and riverbanks have all imposed unauthorized taxes, exploiting the people; despite repeated imperial edicts ordering their abolition, they persist.”

Local finances had many sources.

Originally, summer tax, autumn grain, corvée labor, and grain transport taxes should have covered Xuzhou’s expenditures.

But local yamens always liked to collect taxes decades into the future.

Even to the point where the central government issued repeated edicts to abolish them—and still could not.

Zhu Yijun sighed: “Sin, sin. Xuzhou is a land of outstanding people and fertile soil—surely it has great aptitude for inventing new tax names.”

Sun Jigao nodded vigorously: “The names are indeed novel.”

“For example, when private land or property transactions occur, the yamen provides contract paper and writing fees, levying about thirty-five liang in commercial tax.”

“Then every few years, they claim the tax bureau has changed or the location has moved, forcing merchants to reseal documents with official seals, repeatedly collecting the same tax.”

“For instance, in the early Zhengtong reign, the Ministry of Revenue ordered the abolition of the Xuzhou tax bureau collecting less than 3,000 guan annually; Xuzhou stopped paying upward, but continued collecting downward.”

“Again, during the Zhengde reign, Xuzhou claimed to be recruiting militia by imperial decree and imposed an additional commercial tax of 111 liang, 9 qian, 4 fen, 5 li, incorporating it into the regular tax to fund annual expenses; yet the county magistrates collected far more—reports say thousands of liang—and this even sparked a popular uprising that year.”

“And there are other obscure accounts—voluntary donations, assessed levies, transit taxes, anchorage taxes, taxes on goods along the canal, shop operating taxes...”

Sun Jigao rattled off a long list of tax names without pausing.

Zhu Yijun listened silently.

When Sun Jigao finished, he shook his head: “Don’t recite what’s already in the Huidian and the prefectural gazetteers—tell me what you’ve actually seen and heard as the advance officer.”

No sooner had he spoken than a gust of wind nearly blew off Zhu Yijun’s hat; he quickly tightened the loosened strings.

The Emperor’s relentless questioning left Sun Jigao sweating; luckily, as the advance officer, he had truly done his work.

He followed the Emperor down the city tower, stood still, then spoke slowly: “According to local people, patrol officers, archers, and canal interceptors frequently extort money—sometimes just a few wen, sometimes six or seven liang—plucking every feather as the goose flies by.”

“There are also officials who intercept merchants at border checkpoints, extending their reach dozens of li, demanding bribes from travelers; those who pay are allowed to pass, while those who refuse are seized, dragged before officials, and subjected to severe punishment.”

“Yet perhaps due to Your Majesty’s passage, I have not personally witnessed such scenes.”

How could he have?

Zhu Yijun waved his hand indifferently: “The world is not pure.”

“As early as the forty-first year of Jiajing, someone impeached that Xuzhou secretly seized the authority to collect heavy cargo taxes and checkpoint levies; to evade central inspections, they even appointed unofficial clerks to collect taxes at bridgeheads and roadside.”

“They have ‘unofficial personnel’—Brother Sun, what you see are merely a few thugs bullying the market.”

Sun Jigao bowed in submission.

When Pei City was first built, it had four gates: the East Gate named Yongqing, the South Gate Huayuan, the West Gate Hengxiu, and the North Gate Gongji, each with a gate tower.

In the twenty-fifth year of Jiajing, the city walls were reinforced with stone and brick, and the gate names were changed: East Gate became Changchun Gate, West Gate Shuiqing Gate, South Gate Laixun Gate, North Gate Gongchen Gate.

The group stood beneath Laixun Gate; Luo Sigong led the way, Jiang Keqian followed with two soldiers.

Their menacing appearance cleared a space in the constant stream of people at the gate.

The Emperor looked around; Sun Jigao kept talking.

“Moreover, in my observation, the daily expenses of Xuzhou’s local yamens are routinely imposed upon merchants and canal transporters.”

“They call it ‘harmonious purchase,’ but it is in fact forced buying at low prices, or exorbitant shop rents; if a shop refuses to cooperate, it is accused of smuggling—minor cases lead to confiscation, major ones to exile.”

Zhu Yijun paced beneath the city wall, hands behind his back, glancing at the posted notices, then concluded: “So in essence, it is still mostly the seizure of commercial taxes.”

The local business environment is terrible.

Sun Jigao nodded: “Since the early Chenghua reign, Xuzhou’s commercial tax has remained fixed at 13,118 liang, 5 qian, 3 fen, 5 li, never increased.”

“But according to our rough review of Xuzhou’s accounts, the local invented commercial taxes likely exceed 180,000 liang!”

“It is said that the former prefect, Zhang Zhan, once abolished extra commercial and sluice taxes upon taking office, but within half a year, he was forced to restore the previous rates.”

Hearing this, Zhu Yijun laughed bitterly.

The central government’s total levies on land, grain transport, commerce, tea, salt, and tribute combined were under 100,000 liang—yet Xuzhou’s commercial tax alone approached double the entire central tax, not to mention other annual, fixed, and miscellaneous levies—as if the center had never granted the locality any regular tax allocation.

Deep-rooted corruption!

“Former prefect? After this, Zhang Zhan must have been removed?”

Famous figures in history are rare; Zhu Yijun knew nothing about prefect-level appointments, and even the Ministry of Personnel had only a few more pages of files to go by.

Most personnel appointments still relied heavily on the opinions of local officials.

Zhang Zhan was a figure whose official reputation was sharply divided.

Some said he was an inept purist, only seeking fame and reputation, stirring chaos among colleagues wherever he went and leaving the people in bitter complaint.

Others said he was upright and incorruptible, exceptionally capable, devoted to cleansing the world’s corruption, and thus hated by his peers.

Just as the exemption of extra commercial and lock toll taxes could be seen as ignoring local realities and catering to wealthy merchants, or as pitying the people’s hardships and sweeping away entrenched abuses.

The central authorities far away in Beijing found it hard to tell the truth.

But the southern tour itself was meant to bridge such information gaps; visiting the virtuous and seeking talent was one of its primary goals.

Sun Jigao nodded: “At the time, Li Shidi, the Censor of Fengyang, impeached Zhang Zhan for misconduct, erratic governance, and sowing unrest.”

“Zhang Zhan could not defend himself, so the Ministry of Personnel ordered him to retire.”

“But later, Pan Jixun, the Director of River Management, recommended him, and Zhang Zhan was appointed as Director of River Management.”

Sun Jigao paused, pointing to the Sishui River flowing beside the city: “Today, the Sishui River Management Office is on holiday; Zhang Zhan should be at home in Peixian.”

In the sixth year of Jiajing, the Yellow River breached Xuzhou, flooding into Peixian’s Chicken Cry Terrace, flowing east through the Grand Canal into Zhaoyang Lake, depositing silt and severely blocking navigation.

The Director of River Management petitioned the Jiajing Emperor to establish a temporary office in Peixian to assist with river control.

In the thirty-seventh year of Jiajing, the Yellow River breached northeast of Caoxian, splitting into six branches at Duanjiakou in Shanxian before entering the Grand Canal, merging with the Xu River; the entire 250-li stretch from Xinji in Caoxian to Xiao Fugiao in Xuzhou became silted up.

In the forty-fourth year of Jiajing, the Yellow River breached Zhaojiaquan in Xiaoxian, flooding northward; over 200 li of the Grand Canal in Peixian were completely blocked, and another 200 li upstream of Xuzhou became a flood zone.

At this point, the Yellow River’s southern channels were in utter chaos, and Peixian’s temporary river office became a permanent institution.

Zhu Yijun clicked his tongue: “When superiors seek wisdom, they can always tolerate a Monkey King.”

As long as superiors wanted to act, capable officials wouldn’t be buried—given Pan Jixun’s endorsement, Zhu Yijun now felt somewhat inclined toward Zhang Zhan.

River management was good.

Xuzhou’s fiscal problems had been “repeatedly ordered investigated and reformed, yet never resolved” for generations; no mere prefect could fix them.

Even the Emperor’s personal visit might yield little solution.

After hearing this, Zhu Yijun now had a general understanding of Xuzhou.

“Plant such causes, reap such fruits.” He murmured another “Amitabha,” “Let’s enter the city first.”

This demeanor clearly meant he had suddenly decided to include a visit to Zhang Zhan in the itinerary.

The Emperor ended the topic and walked toward the city; the others hurried to follow.

Entering through Laixun Gate, there ran a commercial street parallel to the Sishui River, connecting the northern and southern gates, called Shunhe Street, lined with shops and thronged with customers, locally known as Xiao Jiezi.

Today, due to the big market, the street was crowded with small vendors—yes, itinerant hawkers.

Frequently, half-grown children squatted nearby, helping their elders shout and sell.

But local customs weren’t just about watching the spectacle.

The most refined scholar among them, Sun Jigao, took the lead, pulling aside passersby and chatting aimlessly.

“Old man, I’d like to ask you something.”

“Ask who?!”

“Ask something!”

“Imperial exam? I never went to school!”

The Imperial Top Scorer did his duty, but the group’s imposing figures and fearsome looks made them unwelcome.

“Auntie, I’d like to ask you something.”

“I know, I know, we’re all living in peace and contentment…”

Sun Jigao was furious but understood why the people feared them; he helplessly looked toward the Emperor.

Zhu Yijun naturally understood that look and acquiesced: “Sun Top Scorer, proceed as you wish.”

With the Emperor’s approval, Sun Jigao broke away from the group and vanished into the crowd.

Without the civil officials beside him, Zhu Yijun felt more at ease.

He followed the scent of baked bread to the center of the street.

Zhu Yijun watched the peddlers along the road and approached a stall selling fresh meat.

“Good sirs, how much for this meat?”

Zhu Yijun now lived a life of constant disguise; he never forgot his persona—calling them “sirs” came naturally.

The vendor was a tall middle-aged man—a butcher, a respected and courageous figure in the village.

He was accompanied by his family: his wife handled the accounts, his son and daughter helped carry meat and shout prices, lending a hand.

Seeing customers approach, the vendor’s first reaction was wariness.

Though the visitor dressed as a monk, with kind eyes and a gentle face, his seven or eight burly guards behind him were clearly no ordinary men—who knew if this wasn’t the reincarnation of Lu Tihai?

The vendor sized him up repeatedly, stammering for a long while without daring to speak.

Seeing this, Zhu Yijun smiled warmly: “Good sirs, don’t fear. I am the Vajra Dharma King of the Western Altar of the Great Protector Peace and Security Temple, journeying west to retrieve the true sutras.”

“These men are imperial guards—nothing to fear.”

Li Rusong, newly assigned to the Emperor’s personal guard, still didn’t understand his master’s nature; upon hearing this, he nearly choked on his breath.

The vendor’s son, inexperienced in the world, immediately peeked out from behind his father: “Oh! I’ve read Journey to the West—are you like Tang Sanzang, with scary-looking demons who are actually good people?”

Before he finished, his head was shoved back behind his father.

The middle-aged vendor held his son down and bowed apologetically to Zhu Yijun: “Holy monk, do you buy meat?”

Clearly, he didn’t believe a word.

Zhu Yijun ignored the vendor and looked with surprise at the boy who had spoken.

It wasn’t the fact he’d read Journey to the West that surprised him—it was that the boy spoke standard Mandarin—not southern Hongwu Pronunciation nor northern Zhongyuan Elegant Speech, but the recently promoted Putong Guanhua.

“Wine and meat pass through the intestines, but the Buddha remains in the heart—no harm done.” Zhu Yijun brushed off the vendor with a casual remark, then asked curiously, “Young sir, you speak Putong Guanhua?”

The vendor’s wife, apparently a devout Buddhist, heard the profound Buddhist verse and immediately lit up with belief.

Seeing the holy monk ask, she blurted out: “Ah, years ago, some high official came to the county, shouting ‘One Sound Across the Four Seas, One Heart Among All,’ and messed around in schools and private academies.”

She didn’t explain how he “messed around”—clearly, she didn’t understand.

Zhu Yijun knew the “high official” was almost certainly Xiong Dunpu.

It seemed this fellow, always demanding money and power, was actually doing real work.

In truth, over the years, for the sake of Ming’s educational outreach, multiple measures—newspapers, dictionaries, standard Mandarin—had borne some fruit.

Seeing the visitor wasn’t leaving and seemed ready to chat, the vendor quickly interjected: “Holy monk, what meat do you want?”

Clearly, he wanted to close the deal and get rid of them.

Zhu Yijun clasped his hands, wearing a compassionate expression: “Sitting is meditation, walking is meditation. When in a land, follow its customs—how could I not taste the local specialty? Do you have any live dog meat? Could you spare me a few?”

For an Emperor traveling outside the capital, food was a complicated matter.

Such meat had to be bought alive; only if it remained lively for two days was it fit for the pot.

But the vendor’s face changed at this, and he quickly corrected: “Holy monk, call it ‘fragrant meat,’ fragrant meat! We have two left in the pen—we’ll sell them cheaply to you.”

Zhu Yijun blinked: “Sir, this is…”

Seeing the group’s appearance and accent clearly marked them as outsiders, the vendor hesitated, then lowered his voice to explain: “Our county magistrate is superstitious, believes dog meat violates taboos.”

“We can’t openly defy him, so we sell it under another name.”

Hearing this, Zhu Yijun sucked in a sharp breath!

It’s reached this far?!

Even the eunuch nearby found it absurd; Wei Chao stared in disbelief at the vendor: “Dogs are one of the Six Domestic Animals of Confucianism—your county magistrate has broken ritual and decorum!”

Chickens, pigs, dogs, and hogs were universally accepted as livestock by Confucius and Mencius—this was heresy.

Zhu Yijun couldn’t help asking: “May I ask the county magistrate’s full name?”

This was common knowledge, nothing to hide; the vendor lowered his voice and bowed toward the county office: “Our magistrate’s surname is Xiao, name Jiucheng.”

Zhu Yijun said, “Oh.”

Xiao Jiucheng—no wonder.

Historically, he rose to become Prefect of Huzhou, obsessed with clothing taboos, especially believing white robes brought bad luck, and banned their wearing.

His subordinate Xie Zhaozhe mocked him in verse: “Why do white robes offend your majesty’s light? The prefect turns pale as frost”—a famous joke of the time.

For such officials who had abandoned Confucian faith, Zhu Yijun felt both annoyed and amused: “Very well, then—two pieces of fragrant meat, please.”

The vendor nodded eagerly: “Holy monk, follow me.”

Zhu Yijun nodded to Wei Chao, signaling him to follow.

Once the vendor left, the female vendor stayed to watch the stall.

While paying, Zhu Yijun casually asked a few more questions: who was the most brutal local bully, who had powerful patrons, what businesses thrived, whether land surveys affected meat stalls.

Only the devout could be so easily fooled—the female vendor answered everything openly; a male vendor would have grabbed a knife and chased them off.

“What’s hardest? Besides the Yellow River floods, what else?”

Bullies, thugs, corrupt officials—the people could endure them. But when it came to the Yellow River, which drove families from their homes, their grief was truly heart-wrenching.

“In the third year of Longqing, Peixian breached—we sealed our wells, abandoned our ancestral homes, and hid outside for half a year until the dikes were repaired.”

“Then the next year, a whole autumn of rain came; the Yellow, Huai, and Sishui rivers surged; in April of Longqing five, the Yellow River burst eleven dikes at once!”

“We don’t know what ‘tofu-dike’ means—we had a breach in Wanli one, another in Wanli three; we never had a peaceful day!”

“Only after Wanli five did things improve a little.”

Zhu Yijun listened, growing ever more silent.

Since ancient times, the Yellow River has been paramount to governing and prospering the realm.

Throughout history, countless floods have burst their banks, rivers have changed course, bringing death to the people, inundating farmland, drowning cities, altering landscapes—countless lives along the banks have suffered immense pain, truly a great calamity with profound sin.

The sorrow of an era, when it falls upon an individual, is sorrow piled upon sorrow.

The family of four at the butcher’s stall clearly had some wealth, yet even they had endured multiple displacements before returning to their homeland; beyond them, how many bloated corpses and starving skeletons lie buried along the Yellow River’s banks, leaving no trace?

The fake monk Zhu Yijun’s face softened with genuine compassion, soothing: “The court’s river management often takes years, and results come slowly.”

He wanted to say better days lay ahead, but feared it would sound ironic, so he could only express it obliquely.

The female vendor, upon hearing this, sneered: “Build fewer tofu-dreg levees, and results might come faster.”

This was the second time she’d said it; Zhu Yijun took notice.

He paused, then countered instead of asking: “The Yellow River surges wildly; breaches are common, are they not? Good woman, do not give in to anger.”

The female vendor, challenged by the high monk, grew agitated.

She hurried to explain: “Master, I’m not speaking nonsense.”

“In the fifth year of Wanli, Zhang Zhan, the Director of Waterworks, came here to manage the river, drove out several corrupt officials, and rebuilt the Li Family Ditch and the levees around Longzi Beach.”

“Before that, the river breached every year; but after that, for three years, whenever the Yellow River rose, it held firm!”

Zhu Yijun heard the name Zhang Zhan again, and was not surprised.

In the fifth year of Wanli, a major flood struck: the Yellow River burst at Dangshan, the Huai River breached at Gaojiayan, and the Si River burst at Peixian—nearly half the empire suffered flooding. It was then that Pan Jixun demanded men and funds for several major projects.

It seemed Zhang Zhan had won much popular support then.

As for the tofu-dreg levees, he’d have to ask Director Zhang face to face later.

Thinking this, Zhu Yijun casually asked for directions: “From this, Director Zhang seems a true benefactor to the people—how could a humble monk not pay his respects?”

“Good woman, do you know where Director Zhang Zhan’s residence is?”

It was a simple question.

Yet the female vendor, upon hearing it, sighed unexpectedly.

As Zhu Yijun puzzled over this, she said: “You cannot pay your respects anymore; if you go there now, you might still chant sutras to guide his soul.”

“Walk straight down this alley to the end, turn north—just ahead is the East Gate. The Zhang family’s mansion has white funeral banners—you’ll see it at once.”

With that, she extended the change she’d prepared.

Zhu Yijun froze.

Zhang Zhan is dead?

Again?

Zhu Yijun could not hide his shock and turned to Jiang Keqian.

The latter shook his head slightly, indicating the Embroidered Uniform Guard had found nothing unusual during their prior reconnaissance—his death must have been perfectly plausible.

Zhu Yijun, suspicion rising, turned to the female vendor: “May I ask, when did Director Zhang pass? What was the cause?”

No wonder he was suspicious—his current undercover mission was forced by the Tianjin affair.

The vendor, trusting him completely, answered without hesitation: “Alas, they say he was traveling to Huai’an to meet his superior, but his carriage lost control just outside the county, crashed into a donkey cart—it was chaotic, and he was trampled. Today is exactly the seventh day.”

Zhu Yijun felt slightly relieved.

At least he hadn’t died right before or after him.

Just as he was about to press further, the female vendor leaned forward, glancing furtively around.

Once passersby had moved away, she crept close to Zhu Yijun, winking and whispering: “This is suspicious—everyone in our village says he was murdered. Master Zhang had been investigating river corruption just days before, and now he’s dead under mysterious circumstances.”

“Six or seven attendants traveled with him—only Director Zhang died.”

“And the coachman? He suddenly had a promissory note for six thousand taels, cashed it all overnight, and vanished. In my view…”

As the vendor was recounting the rumors, she spotted her husband returning and cut herself off abruptly, busying herself with the butcher stall.

Everyone behind the emperor fell into thought.

Jiang Keqian hesitated, then stepped forward to request permission: “May I scout around?”

Zhu Yijun nodded absently.

When Wei Chao and Sun Jigao returned, they saw the emperor standing still, head bowed, frowning as if lost in thought.

“Your… Dharma King…”

Sun Jigao, a civil official, was the only one who could speak up—he stepped forward softly.

Zhu Yijun came back to himself.

Seeing it was Sun Jigao, he instinctively clasped his hands and murmured a true Buddhist verse: “All beings fear consequences; I, the humble monk, fear causes.”

Amid Sun Jigao’s bewildered stare, Zhu Yijun patted the top scholar’s shoulder and muttered, “The business environment in local prefectures and counties remains poor—because the official ecosystem is corrupt.”