My father ordered me to kill the emperor, but His Majesty bestowed a princess upon me instead.

The next morning, fog rolled in over the capital.

The fog wasn't thick, but it clung to the ground, creating a hazy, grayish atmosphere.

As the carriage left the city, its wheels creaked as they rolled over the cold, damp flagstones. Ah Liu sat by the carriage shaft, clutching a bag of hot flatbread, his face filled with a tragic expression.

I lifted the curtain to look at him.

"The way you look, are you going to see a soup kitchen or to your execution?"

Ah Liu turned around.

"Young master, it's pretty much the same for me. There are disaster victims at the soup kitchen, and those victims might cause trouble. If they cause trouble, the officials might draw their swords. If the officials draw their swords, we might get hacked. Just thinking about it makes breakfast taste so bad."

I reached out my hand.

"Give it to me."

Ah Liu immediately hugged the hot pancake tightly.

"It's not that bad."

Yan Xiaoyi sat at the back of the car, leaning against the carriage, her eyes half-closed.

If this person doesn't speak, he looks a lot like an old piece of clothing hanging on a car.

But just as the car left the south gate, he suddenly opened his eyes.

"Someone is following us."

Ah Liu almost stuffed the biscuit up his nose.

I asked, "How many waves?"

"Two groups."

Which side?

"One group looks like the Censorate, they behave too formally. The other group doesn't seem like good people."

Ah Liu whispered, "Master Yan, what you said is as good as nothing at all."

Yan Xiaoyi glanced at him.

"Then why don't you go ask?"

Ah Liu shut up, stuffed the hot pancake into his mouth, and showed everyone how busy he was.

I didn't turn around.

I know that Zhao Guanlan sent people to follow him from a distance.

It's hard to say who the other group is.

It might be the Ministry of Revenue.

It might be Xu Sandao.

It's also possible that they're checking accounts and want to see how I make mistakes.

The roads outside the capital are more difficult to travel than those inside. A light drizzle last night caused the wheels to get stuck in the mud, making progress slow. The further west we went towards the soup kitchens, the more people we saw.

These people were different from the common people of the capital.

The people of Beijing have a sense of place when they walk.

No matter how poor you are, you still know which alley your home is in and where to go home when it gets dark.

Disaster victims are different.

They walk as if floating.

His clothes were old, his bundle small, his eyes empty, he held a child in his arms and led an old man by the hand. His face showed no hope, no anger, only a numb hunger.

When you're starving, you don't even have the energy to hate.

The western porridge stall was located next to an old tea stall five miles outside the city.

It was called a soup kitchen, but it was really just a few wooden pillars supporting an oilcloth, with three large pots set up next to it. The firewood under the pots wasn't burning very brightly, but it produced a lot of smoke that stung people's eyes.

There was a queue in front of the stall.

The line is not long.

Because many people were kept out.

Two constables stood by the wooden railing, holding booklets in their hands. Next to them was a soup kitchen manager dressed in a gray robe, with a string of wooden plaques hanging from his waist.

He would call out a name and let someone in to get porridge.

Those without names were kept outside.

As I got off the bus, I heard a woman pleading.

"Sir, the child hasn't eaten anything proper for three days. Half a bowl will do."

The servants were impatient.

"Your names aren't on the roster, so why are you getting porridge? We've already told you, the disaster victims in Jiangbei have all been resettled. You migrant workers shouldn't even think about fraudulently claiming government rations."

The child in the woman's arms was only four or five years old, with his eyes closed and his lips dry and chapped.

She knelt down, her forehead hitting the muddy ground.

"We're from Jiangbei."

The constable sneered.

"You're from Jiangbei? The Ministry of Revenue's accounts show that all the disaster-stricken households in Jiangbei have received their grain rations. You say you didn't receive it, but the Ministry of Revenue says you did. Are you more accurate than the Ministry of Revenue?"

Someone nearby muttered a curse under their breath.

The constable glared at him.

"Who said that?"

No one dared to speak.

The person in charge of the soup kitchen frowned and said, "Don't be silly. Without a wooden sign and a register, you can't get any. That's the rule."

I stood at the back of the crowd and didn't go over immediately.

Ah Liu's face was grim.

He suddenly couldn't eat the hot pancake in his mouth anymore, so he quietly wrapped it back in the oil paper.

I asked, "Why aren't you eating?"

Ah Liu whispered, "It's choking."

I looked at the three pots.

The porridge at the soup kitchen was very thin.

It's unusually rare.

When the large spoon was stirred, the rice grains seemed to be frightened, and only a few floated to the surface after a long while.

The account book stated that one pot was enough for a hundred people.

If this pot of porridge were to be served to a hundred people, each person would probably only get a mouthful of hot rice soup, and after drinking it, they could also take a look at their face.

Ah Liu whispered, "Young master, this porridge is even cleaner than the water we use to wash pots in our mansion."

I said, "Don't insult the dishwater."

Ah Liu paused for a moment, unable to suppress his laughter, but immediately held it back.

Laughing in a place like this will likely get you beaten up.

I left Yan Xiaoyi to watch the surroundings while I led A-Liu to the side of the porridge stall.

There were piles of firewood and rice bags over there.

There isn't much firewood.

Most of the firewood is damp.

It produces a lot of smoke but little fire when burned.

The Ministry of Revenue's records state that most of the firewood was locally sourced, with some donated by local gentry.

If this pile of firewood in front of me can be called dry firewood, then the short blade in my sleeve can be called a fire poker.

The rice bags were piled under the tarpaulin, and the openings were tied very tightly.

I squatted down and glanced at the print on the rice bag.

The seal is old, and some of the red paint has peeled off.

Charitable granary.

There's another half-word below, but it's not clear.

Ah Liu also squatted down.

"Young master, is there something wrong with this rice bag?"

"Let's take a look first."

I reached out and touched the bottom of the bag.

There was some dust at the bottom of the bag, but it wasn't thick.

This indicates that the rice bags were recently moved in.

The bag looked very old, as if it had been stored in a warehouse for a long time.

Old bag, new bag.

Not surprisingly.

Disaster relief rice often includes grain from old granaries.

But I smelled something.

Musty smell.

It's very light.

I rubbed the rice that was leaking from the bag opening with my fingertips.

The rice grains were dark, with broken grains and some small black spots.

This is not good rice.

But it's not completely inedible bad rice.

It's more like the leftover grain from an old granary; after removing the worst layer, you take it out to cook porridge.

I asked a young man carrying water next to me.

"Where did this rice come from?"

The young man looked at me warily.

"Who are you?"

I took out my Censorate badge, hid it under my sleeve, and only showed it to him once.

His expression changed, and he immediately lowered his head.

"I don't know."

"have no idea?"

"I really don't know. The rice cart arrived at night and was unloaded before dawn. The person in charge only said it was official grain."

Which charity granary?

The young man hesitated.

I handed him two copper coins.

He glanced at it but didn't dare to take it.

I added another one.

He accepted it.

well.

Many people in this world dare not speak, not because they don't want to, but because the price hasn't made them feel that they can take the risk.

The young man lowered his voice: "It's not Xiyicang. Xiyicang's bags are smaller, and the print is square. This bag... looks like the old Beicang's."

Old Beicang?

I frowned.

The Ministry of Revenue's records show that the grain distribution for the western soup kitchen was recorded as being handled by the western granary.

It's not the old Beicang.

Where is the old Beicang warehouse?

"It's been abandoned for a long time. I heard it was sealed off three years ago because the grain was moldy and inedible."

three years ago.

It's been three years since then.

Liugou Village was relocated three years ago.

The old Beicang warehouse was closed and abandoned three years ago.

In the Ministry of Revenue case, the events of three years ago are like a thorn hidden in the flesh; touching it hurts.

Just as I was about to ask another question, a commotion broke out over the soup kitchen.

The woman who was holding the child was pushed to the ground by the bailiffs.

The child rolled out of her arms and let out a weak cry.

The woman rushed over to hug him, but the constable stepped on the wooden sign in front of her.

"They dare to use a fake wooden sign to fraudulently claim something?"

I stood up.

Wooden sign?

I walked over quickly.

The woman lay prone in the mud, clutching tightly to half of a wooden sign. The sign was cracked, and the other half lay at the constable's feet.

The constable cursed, "More than a dozen men come every day with wooden plaques, each claiming to be a disaster victim from Jiangbei. They're not on the Ministry of Revenue's register, that's all!"

I approached.

"Take your foot away."

The constable turned around and said impatiently, "Who...?"

When he saw my official robes, his voice froze.

The person in charge of the soup kitchen also quickly stepped forward.

"And who is this gentleman?"

I showed my badge.

"Shen An, Censorate."

The crowd fell silent.

It was eerily quiet.

Several people shrank back.

A few people looked up at me, their eyes filled with an indescribable light.

It was like finally seeing an official who could speak.

It was like finally finding an official to criticize.

The person in charge of the soup kitchen changed his expression and hurriedly bowed.

"I was unaware of Lord Shen's arrival; I have been rude."

I ignored him and just looked at the constable.

"foot."

The constables quickly moved aside.

I bent down and picked up the half of the wooden sign.

A name was engraved on the sign.

Fang Liu Shi.

It's Liugou Village again.

I asked the woman, "What is your relationship to Fang Liushi?"

The woman looked up, her face covered in mud and tears.

My mother-in-law.

Where is she?

He passed away last winter.

A low murmur rippled through the surroundings.

I looked at the wooden plaque in my hand.

Fang Liushi was one of the deceased in Liugou Village.

According to the Ministry of Revenue's records, three dou of grain were received, equivalent to two qian of silver.

In reality, her daughter-in-law, holding her child, knelt outside the porridge stall begging for half a bowl of rice soup.

I asked, "What's your name?"

"Fang Chenshi".

"Have you ever received any relief food?"

She shook her head, her voice trembling.

"No. The village issued tokens, saying that we could collect our grain based on the tokens. But when we went there, they said our names weren't on the roster. Later, someone said that our family had already received it. But my mother-in-law is dead, and my father-in-law is dead too. We, the living, don't even have names."

After she finished speaking, someone in the crowd suddenly shouted:

"We don't have names either!"

"I'm from Qingping County. The account book says my family received two dou of grain, but I've never even seen the grain sack!"

"The roster of new residents in Beidi, Yong'an County is fake! We are not new residents; we escaped!"

The sounds came one after another.

Like a spark buried in the mud, it was finally blown up by the wind.

The person in charge of the soup kitchen's expression changed drastically.

"Lord Shen, the disaster victims are easily provoked; they should not be trusted!"

I look at him.

Did I ask you a question?

The person in charge choked.

I picked up Fang Liu's half of the wooden plaque, and then had Ah Liu take out Fang Deshun's wooden plaque.

Two wooden plaques were placed together.

From the same village.

Same surname.

There are also signs of alteration.

It's the same thing: dead people receive food.

I asked the person in charge, "Where is the roster for today's soup kitchen?"

The person in charge hesitated.

I repeated: "roster."

He dared not refuse, so he had to send someone to fetch it.

The roster is very thin.

It's too thin to possibly manage so many people.

I opened it.

The sign reads that 132 people are eligible to receive porridge today.

There were at least two or three hundred people standing outside the tent.

I asked, "Why didn't the others send it?"

The official in charge said, "The roster is empty."

"Who compiled the list?"

"The Ministry of Revenue has issued the order."

"Which department in the Ministry of Revenue issued the order?"

"Master Ma."

well.

Manager Ma is back.

I continued flipping through the pages.

Today's roster does not include Fang Chenshi, Fang Xiaogen, or the disaster victims who just shouted.

But at the end of the roster, I saw a string of special markings.

Each group consists of ten people, with a small circle drawn next to them.

There is a horizontal line inside the circle.

This is unlike the markings commonly used by the Ministry of Revenue.

It looks like a symbol used to count bags in a warehouse.

I closed the booklet and looked at the porridge pot.

"How much rice was distributed today?"

The person in charge said, "Three stones."

How many people are in the tent?

One hundred and thirty-two.

"One hundred and thirty-two people, three bushels of rice, why is the porridge so thin?"

The person in charge was sweating profusely.

"Well... there are many disaster victims, and we're worried that people might snatch the porridge, so we can only add more water."

I laughed.

"You're very good at saving rice for the Ministry of Revenue."

The person in charge knelt down with a thud.

"Lord Shen, you are wise. I was merely following orders."

I've heard this sentence many times.

Qian Rong's people said that.

The clerk in the Ministry of Works once said that.

The bailiffs escorting Qian Rong almost said that too.

Obeying orders.

These two characters are really convenient in the capital.

It can blot out the sky above and bury corpses below.

I crouched down and looked at him.

"On whose orders?"

The person in charge trembled.

The crowd quieted down.

At this moment, everyone was waiting for his answer.

But he dared not say it.

Yan Xiaoyi had somehow appeared behind me, his hand on his sword sheath, looking towards a certain spot outside the crowd.

I glanced at him in the direction of his gaze.

A man in blue cloth turned to leave through the fog.

There appears to be a mole below my left eyebrow.

My eyes narrowed.

Isn't this the gentleman in blue clothes that Fang Xiaogen's mother was talking about?

"Yan Xiaoyi".

I had barely opened my mouth when Yan Xiaoyi moved.

Like a cat finally waking up, he darted past the edge of the crowd in the blink of an eye.

The man in blue realized something was wrong and ran away.

The crowd immediately erupted into chaos.

Ah Liu was so frightened that he clutched the register and cried out, "Young Master! Someone has run away!"

Of course I saw it.

But I didn't chase after him.

I bent down and tore off a loose, old seal from the rice bag.

There was a small red paint stain on the back of the cover.

I wiped away the mud and grime with my fingers.

Two fragmented characters are visible below.

Qinghe.

My heart sank.

Qinghe?

The Ministry of Revenue's accounts clearly state that the grain was distributed from the West Soup Dispensary, but the actual distribution was from the West Charity Granary.

But the old stamp on the rice bag here is Qinghe.

I recalled what Qiutang said yesterday.

In addition to the Ministry of Revenue, the public granaries should be investigated.

I recalled the three words Qian Rong spoke before he died.

Account settlement meeting.

Qinghe.

Settle accounts.

Some coincidences in this world are as coincidental as someone handing you the hilt of a knife.

Yan Xiaoyi had already chased them out of the fog, but the man in blue cloth had vanished without a trace.

The rice bag seal in my hand suddenly became hotter than the pot of thin porridge from before.

Because the rice in the West Soup Dishes did not come from the West Granary listed in the Ministry of Revenue's accounts.

It came from a place that wasn't even mentioned in the Ministry of Revenue's records.

Qinghe Yicang.