Chapter 298: Breaking the Deadlock (V)

The man below the hall had long since shed his pitiful facade.

Though Wang Cheng's face remained pale and his hair disheveled, his eyes were cold as stars, calmly fixed on Zhou Wenchang, who sat above.

The composed, dignified bearing he exuded was the very essence of a censor—one Zhou Wenchang knew all too well.

Perhaps the courtroom was too stifling—when Zhou Wenchang released his grip on the gavel, a clear, damp palm print was left on its wooden surface.

He was now utterly convinced: the man before him was no ordinary commoner.

By all logic, he should cut his losses immediately—disperse the crowd, halt the trial, shut the doors, and humble himself, offering tea and apologies. Even if his superiors mocked him, it wouldn't wound him deeply.

This was what any shrewd county magistrate would do.

But Zhou Wenchang couldn't bring himself to do it.

It wasn't out of lofty integrity, but sheer reluctance.

In that brief exchange of glances with Wang Cheng, Zhou Wenchang vaguely saw his former self.

He, too, had once been young and triumphant, full of ambition—at twenty-three, he had placed second in the imperial examination, the youngest of the top three scholars since the dynasty's founding.

...Though that record was thoroughly surpassed at the next examination by Le Wuya, who achieved the rare feat of placing first in all three levels.

And Le Wuya was even younger than him.

What's more, he hadn't even lived to see the year Le Wuya rose to prominence and shone brilliantly.

In his second year as a censor, he went out on inspection, stumbled upon a lead, and without hesitation submitted a memorial impeaching Zhuang Xun, the commander-in-chief of Jizhou.

At the time, Zhuang Xun, perhaps relying on his daughter Zhuang Lantai's favor in the palace, had openly built an extravagant viewing terrace in his backyard to celebrate his elderly mother's eightieth birthday, so she could enjoy opera performances.

As a censor, Zhou Wenchang considered it his duty, and after verifying the facts, he reported the matter to the throne.

The overreaching terrace stood right there in the Zhuang family's backyard, plain as day.

Sure enough, once the memorial was submitted, the emperor flew into a towering rage and severely reprimanded Zhuang Xun.

However, mindful of Zhuang Xun's distinguished military achievements alongside Yuan Weiyan in defeating the Japanese pirates, the emperor ultimately stripped him of his rank and forced him into retirement.

Not long after, Zhou Wenchang received his own "reward"—

Exile to Dansui as a county magistrate.

On the surface, being sent out to serve as an official was naturally a stroke of good fortune.

The capital's officialdom was crowded with talent; countless censors grew gray-haired, still stuck in their advisory posts, never getting promoted.

To gain an external appointment was to have room to maneuver and climb the ladder step by step.

Yet where one was posted revealed the emperor's true feelings.

Clearly, the emperor didn't think much of Zhou Wenchang.

Dansui was rich in mineral resources, but that was it.

Any minerals extracted had to be fully surrendered to the court—dig more, get no reward; dig less, face questioning from above.

Of course, with the mines at his back, making money wasn't hard. If he greased the right palms, he might secure a path to advancement.

But unless heaven bestowed extraordinary fortune and he struck gold or silver veins during his tenure, he was destined to languish there in mediocrity, achieving nothing remarkable.

A young, passionate heart, doused with such cold water, went cold.

On the day Zhou Wenchang left the capital, only Lord Wang Su of the Censorate saw him off, walking five li with a willow branch in hand.

At that time, Lord Wang was still relatively young, not yet bald, and shook his head repeatedly as he sighed: "You, you—you're truly foolish."

Zhou Wenchang, even younger and more naive then, felt his sincere devotion had been wasted, his eyes reddening with grievance: "Please, Lord Wang, enlighten me."

"Had you but consulted me, you wouldn't have ended up in such a state," Wang Su said in a low voice. "The emperor dotes on Imperial Consort Zhuang. With such irrefutable evidence, the emperor had no choice but to punish him—but tell me, do you think the emperor is happy about it?"

Zhou Wenchang felt as if struck by a club. Alarmed, his convictions began to waver: "But Commander Zhuang was indeed in the wrong!"

"Yes," Wang Su said patiently. "But you may not have seen Commander Zhuang's subsequent confession. He claimed the design was given to him by someone else, that he thought it looked fine and used it, unaware it exceeded regulations. Imperial Consort Zhuang, he said, had long resided deep in the palace and knew nothing of affairs outside, and he begged the emperor not to blame her."

Zhou Wenchang retorted indignantly: "He says he didn't know—does that mean he really didn't?"

Wang Su remained gentle, yet every word pierced: "You see, you're being stubborn again. In the emperor's eyes, the fact that he admitted his fault, offered an explanation, and knew to shield Imperial Consort Zhuang—that's good. At least better than you, you stubborn fool."

He raised a hand vaguely toward the sky: "What people think matters least. What matters is the emperor's heart. You've read the sages' books thoroughly, yet can't grasp this principle? If not, why were you so readily used as a pawn?"

Zhou Wenchang was stunned: "Lord Wang, you... what... what do you mean by that?"

He hastily gathered his robes and knelt, kowtowing: "Please, Lord Wang, teach me!"

A flicker of pity passed through Wang Su's eyes as he slowly shook his head: "One must walk one's own path to remember it. You're in your prime, a talent worthy of the rank of second-place scholar. Think deeply and carefully—that's the proper course. Once you've figured it out, write to me and we'll discuss it."

Dansui had few official duties, leaving Zhou Wenchang plenty of time to think.

Zhuang Xun, being a military man, might genuinely be unfamiliar with such fine points of ceremony.

Moreover, Zhou Wenchang had thoroughly investigated Zhuang Xun's residence—the commander kept no private soldiers, nor had he made imperial robes. Throughout the entire household, the only violation of regulations was this newly built terrace.

And he had built it not for his own pleasure, but to celebrate his mother's birthday, planning to dismantle it after the festivities.

It was precisely then that someone had secretly tipped him off.

Zhou Wenchang, his blood boiling, fearing Zhuang Xun would destroy the evidence, hastily reported the matter.

But whether or not Zhuang Xun had been framed, he had indeed committed the violation—there was no denying it—and a lifetime of military achievements crumbled to dust.

And he, the promising new second-place scholar, had also touched the emperor's taboo, and was banished far away to a place where he could accomplish nothing.

Zhou Wenchang suddenly realized, with a start, that he might well have been used.

Unfortunately, he realized it too late.

In his grief and indignation, he wrote a letter to Wang Su, seeking guidance.

The only person in the world willing to offer him counsel seemed to be Lord Wang.

Soon, Wang Su replied. He urged him not to forget his duty as a censor, to oversee all quarters, while also humbling himself, caring for the people, and doing every duty well. The words sounded grand and beautiful, but putting them into practice was another matter entirely.

The so-called "overseeing all directions" meant secretly spying on the mining affairs of neighboring counties, and if any official was found corrupt, he would quietly report it to him.

Having suffered a setback in the matter of Zhuang Xun, Zhou Wenchang had learned to be more cautious.

He bided his time and observed without revealing his intentions, waiting until the evidence was conclusive before reporting those people's crimes to Wang Su, aiming for a single decisive strike.

Later, people like Zhou Wenchang came to be known as the "Changmen Guard."

In those years, he had to report various matters to Le Wuya.

Zhou Wenchang was impressed by the abilities of this rising star.

But Wang Su had done him a kindness, and the one he truly wished to serve was Wang Su.

Thus, Zhou Wenchang slacked off under Le Wuya's command, yet secretly and continuously sent Wang Su evidence sufficient to topple others, as a token of his loyalty.

That Le, with his immense power and arrogance, would not give even a hint of support to those who crossed him.

And so, year after year, Zhou Wenchang remained stuck in the stagnant backwater of Dansui County.

With the emperor far away and the ability to secretly control others' fates, Zhou Wenchang gradually found this life not so bad.

However, after Le Wuya's dramatic downfall, Zhou Wenchang discovered that his work was becoming increasingly difficult.

One day, the Mining Inspector Niu Sanqi came straight to his door, directly revealing his identity, and demanded that he sell him the dirt on mining inspectors from other regions.

If those men fell, Niu Sanqi might get first pick of a lucrative post and make a windfall.

Zhou Wenchang had no choice.

These years, he had lived very frugally.

The reason was simple: every drop of ill-gotten gains he squeezed from the mines went to fund his network of informants.

And Niu Sanqi knew exactly where that money came from.

Ever since he had gotten leverage over Zhou Wenchang, Niu Sanqi's appetite had grown insatiable, and he grabbed money more and more unscrupulously.

Only then did Zhou Wenchang realize that he had sunk deep into the mire—embezzling on one hand, and using the embezzled money to spy on whether others were embezzling.

Occasionally, waking from a dream at midnight, drenched in cold sweat, he would wonder why he had come to Dansui County in the first place.

Did he not know that Imperial Consort Zhuang enjoyed great imperial favor?

But how could he stand by and watch an imperial relative overstep their bounds?

If the emperor did not punish severely, how was that different from Emperor Xuanzong tolerating Yang Guozhong?

And now, he was neither man nor ghost—unable to be an upright official, nor a loyal one, and calling him a treacherous official didn't quite fit either.

Zhou Wenchang himself couldn't figure out what kind of creature he was, so he simply muddled through, living one day at a time.

And so he delayed and stalled, until Niu Sanqi was literally done in by his own greed.

He didn't treat the miners as human, so the miners sent him to become a ghost.

When Zhou Wenchang saw Niu Sanqi's corpse with eyes wide open in death, he felt no satisfaction.

Instead, boundless fear surged over him like a tide, nearly drowning him.

He had painstakingly managed Dansui for so long without ever making a mistake—how could Niu Sanqi, a living, breathing man, be beaten to death by miners right under his nose?

If the emperor sent someone to investigate Niu Sanqi's death and learned of his leniency toward him, wouldn't all his painstaking efforts to regain the emperor's favor—treading on thin ice, slowly and steadily—be wasted in vain?

That was over a decade of time, effort, and hardship!

...

Zhou Wenchang sat in the courtroom, in a daze, immersed in the mists of the past, unable to extricate himself.

The common folk outside found today's spectacle more entertaining than usual, each wishing they could stretch their necks three feet long to peer inside.

In Zhou Wenchang's eyes, these weren't people, not subjects—they were his achievements, the proof and monument of his years of toil.

He could not afford to lose their support.

He was unwilling to let go.

And besides...

If this Wang Cheng before him truly was a censor, then he had already offended him; he might as well let him finish speaking.

True, he could slam the gavel and adjourn the court.

But Wang Cheng had been pleading his case, and the first witness had been cross-examined into a tangle of contradictions, on the verge of revealing the truth. If he forcibly silenced him and dismissed the crowd now, that would truly make an enemy of him for good.

Wang Cheng had no idea that Zhou Wenchang had mistaken him for a censor, nor that his deliberate imitation of Le Wuya's strategy of feigning weakness had sent the magistrate's mind spinning through memories.

Seeing him with downcast eyes and long silence, Wang Cheng prompted, "...Magistrate."

Zhou Wenchang snapped back to reality, picked up the slightly slippery gavel as if grasping his own tottering career, and slammed it down hard: "Call the next witness!"

Author's note:

Magistrate Zhou, a fan of "doting son" literature.