Volume One: Carefree Journey Amid Indistinguishable Paper Leaves Chapter Seventy-Eight: Crafting Names with Ingenious Intent

Yang Ning and his companion led their horses to the entrance of the village, where they saw a large crowd gathered ahead—men, women, the elderly and the young, numbering at least a hundred. The village was in chaos, chickens scattered and dogs barking, all in a ruckus. Yang Ning and Gu Qinghan tied their horses to the side and moved closer. They saw the villagers, all bristling with indignation, staring at a group of men before them.

The difference between those men and the villagers was obvious at a glance. All were clad in fitted, short garments, their builds robust and strong. Five or six burly men clustered behind a middle-aged man in grey attire. The man wore a grey band around his head, appearing to be in his forties, with a face full of fleshy lines—one look at his fierce visage was enough to know he was no decent character.

Behind them stood several fine horses, clearly indicating they had arrived on horseback. Yang Ning knew that in the Great Chu, good horses were rare and precious; ordinary families could never own such animals. Evidently, this group was not of humble origins.

“So, what is this? Are you trying to fight, or to kill?” The man in grey swept his gaze over the villagers holding their farming tools, a mocking smile on his lips. “If you really want to kill, those hoes in your hands won’t do.”

At the forefront of the villagers stood a tall, dark-skinned man, nearly forty years of age. Yang Ning could only see his back and did not know his face. At his side stood over a dozen sturdy laborers with farming tools, facing off against the intruders.

Yang Ning and Gu Qinghan squeezed into the crowd. Although a few villagers glanced at them curiously, the people’s attention was focused on the confrontation, and no one paid them any mind.

“Steward Luo, these men have just returned from the fields and mean no harm.” The burly villager at the front spoke in a loud voice. “But as for your demand, we’ve discussed it, and I’m afraid we cannot comply. Everyone deserves a way to live; you cannot push us to death’s door.”

“Hold on,” said the man in grey, clearly Steward Luo, raising his hand to stop him. “Han Yi, you’re the head of King Lu’s Village, so you should understand—the so-called demand is not my idea. This comes from the Marquis of Embroidered Garments’ household.” He cupped his hand and gestured to his right. “The Marquis has passed; the whole nation mourns. He was a pillar of the state, and his funeral cannot be like any ordinary family’s—the expenses are enormous. The Marquis was the pride of Jiangling. All of us depend on the Marquis for our livelihoods. Now that he’s gone, anyone with a conscience should know to show respect and gratitude. Yet you people keep making excuses. Are you not beneficiaries of the Marquis’s generosity?”

Yang Ning hadn’t expected Steward Luo to mention the Marquis of Embroidered Garments right away. So the news of the Marquis’s death had already reached Jiangling.

Gu Qinghan’s face was cold and aloof, saying nothing.

Han Yi, the dark-skinned man, immediately replied, “Steward Luo, we have not forgotten the Marquis’s kindness. But you’re demanding one dan of grain per household this time. We simply cannot afford it.” He half-turned, gesturing at the villagers behind him. “Look, Steward Luo, the people of King Lu’s Village may not be gaunt, but they’re all thin and worn. Though we’ve just harvested, this grain must last us until next year. Many families barely have enough to eat. If every household gives up another dan, I ask you, Steward Luo, how are they supposed to survive?”

“So, by your reckoning, the Marquis’s honor is not important?” Steward Luo sneered. “The Marquis was upright and incorruptible. The household’s income depends on us. If we don’t help at this critical moment, who will uphold the Marquis’s dignity? Would you have the household lose face among all the officials, just for your pitiful grain?”

Yang Ning frowned and glanced at Gu Qinghan. She understood and shook her head slightly.

Suddenly, a villager nearby called out, “Steward Luo, has King Lu’s Village ever failed to pay a single grain these years? When you said the Marquis fought at the front and the nation was in peril, you taxed us forty percent. We didn’t complain. You imposed a poll tax, one dou of grain per person; we said nothing. The corvée labor, you conscripted us for work and didn’t even feed us; we still didn’t object. All for the Marquis’s sake. We know that the good days we once had were thanks to him. In hard times, it’s right to suffer with the Marquis. But in recent years, our rations have dwindled; feeding ourselves is a problem. Yet you invent new taxes again and again, heavier each year. How are we to go on?”

The villagers all around were roused to indignation. Someone shouted, “When the old Marquis died, there was no demand for extra grain. Now the Marquis has passed, why have the rules changed?”

Yang Ning’s expression was cold and stern; Gu Qinghan’s face was frosty, her delicate fist clenched.

Steward Luo’s gaze turned icy as he sneered, “Seems the Marquis was too good to you, and you’ve become spoiled. The land you farm was granted to the Marquis by the Emperor. Never mind the extra grain—if we took back all your land, you’d have to hand it over without complaint.”

“That makes no sense, Steward Luo,” Han Yi said in a deep voice. “I’ve heard scholars say, ‘under heaven, all land belongs to the king.’ But even then, I’ve never heard of the court seizing land at will. Our land has passed down for generations and been farmed by our families. We pay all due taxes; even the Marquis himself has no right to take our fields.”

Steward Luo grinned, eyes fixed on Han Yi. “Han Yi, it seems you won’t drink the wine offered, but the wine of punishment. I’ll ask again: will you or will you not deliver the grain for the Marquis’s funeral?”

Han Yi said loudly, “I’ve said before, people need grain to live. We’ve paid all that’s owed. If you invent new levies, not a single grain more will you get from us.”

“Well, you’re a real man.” Steward Luo raised his thumb. “Han Yi, don’t think I don’t know—someone went to the capital to lodge complaints against the Marquis’s household, accusing us of arbitrary taxation. Were you involved in that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Han Yi replied with a cold laugh. “But if you keep pushing us, I, Han, will go to the capital myself and ask the Marquis’s household in person why the taxes have become so heavy these years.”

“You think you can get into the Marquis’s household?” Steward Luo said lightly. “That last one who went to the capital, when he came back, we broke his limbs. He’ll spend the rest of his life in bed. Haven’t you heard?”

Han Yi laughed. “Of course I’ve heard. What, do you mean to break my legs today, Steward Luo?”

The villagers at his side immediately raised their hoes and carrying poles.

Yang Ning leaned closer to Gu Qinghan and whispered, “Someone went to the capital to complain?”

Her face was icy, but she shook her head ever so slightly.

“Han Yi won’t pay the grain. Do you all feel the same?” Steward Luo swept his gaze over the crowd. “If your leader refuses, do you all wish to stop living as well?”

“We won’t pay,” someone immediately shouted. “This time, not a single grain from us!”

The other villagers joined in, voices rising.

Steward Luo sneered, raising his hand to point at one man. “You—step forward. What did you say?”

The man shrank back, but mustered his courage and took two steps forward. “I… I said I won’t pay. The grain we owe—” Before he could finish, one of Steward Luo’s men rushed out, seizing the man’s neck.

The villager, startled, was thin and frail—no match for the burly attacker. Instinctively, he raised his carrying pole, but the brute, clearly trained, snatched it away with one hand, yanked it over, and without a word, raised it high and smashed it down on the villager’s head.

A wretched scream rang out; the blow struck the man’s forehead. He staggered and collapsed, blood streaming down his face. The villagers were shocked—some angry, most terrified.

“Stop!” Han Yi shouted in fury. “What do you think you’re doing?” He rushed over to check the man’s injury, several young men at his back hot with anger, surging forward with him. Steward Luo’s men charged to intercept.

Yang Ning’s brows knitted tightly. He could see at a glance that those brought by Steward Luo were all practiced brawlers—though not martial experts, they were skilled at fighting. The villagers stood no chance.

Sure enough, though fewer in number, the brutes tore through the crowd like wolves among sheep, fists and feet flying. In moments, five or six villagers were knocked to the ground, some with broken limbs, screaming in agony.

Though anger blazed in their hearts, the other villagers, seeing such savagery, dared not advance.

Han Yi, tall and strong, had not intended to brawl, but with the fight underway, he had no choice. When a burly man lunged at him, he met him head-on, grappling with the attacker. Nearby, another brute, having felled two villagers, saw Han Yi still struggling and snatched up a carrying pole, aiming it at Han Yi’s head from behind.

He raised the pole high, but before he could bring it down, he felt it wrenched from his grasp. Startled, he turned—thinking another villager had intervened—only to see a youth of sixteen or seventeen, dressed unlike any ordinary peasant, holding the pole. The brute was astonished; the youth looked frail and gentle, yet had seized the pole from his grasp with surprising strength.