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

Chapter 103 One pot of porridge can't feed three people.

Manager Ma stood by the pot, his face as white as if he had just been dug out of a rice sack.

More and more people are gathering outside the porridge stall.

There were disaster victims, onlookers from outside the city, and two Censorate officials standing at a distance.

What were the people in the Ministry of Revenue most afraid of?

I'm not insulting you.

It's about settling accounts in public.

The criticism can be attributed to public anger being instigated.

But once the accounts are settled, with the pot, rice, firewood, and ashes all in front of them, no one can turn a pot of thin porridge into thick porridge.

I looked at Manager Ma.

"Master Ma, you're from the Ministry of Revenue. Tell me, how much is three shi of rice?"

Manager Ma was sweating profusely.

"Three bushels of rice, of course it's three bushels of rice."

"How much porridge can you make?"

"It depends on the size of the pot, the amount of water, the quality of the rice..."

"Stop talking nonsense."

I pointed to the pot in front of me.

"With this kind of pot, three bushels of rice, three pots a day, enough to feed 132 people. Is that even enough to fill their stomachs?"

Manager Ma hesitated for a moment.

"The purpose of disaster relief soup kitchens is not to provide disaster victims with a full meal, but only to temporarily prolong their lives."

That's too much like what the Ministry of Revenue said.

Even hunger has its rules.

I nodded.

"Alright. A temporary reprieve. But how many lives can this pot of porridge save?"

Manager Ma couldn't answer.

I turned to ask the old man who was cooking porridge.

The old man had gray hair, was covered in cigarette ash, and was clutching a wooden spoon in his hand. He was too frightened to look up.

How many pots do you cook each day?

The old man's lips trembled.

"Three...three pots."

I looked at him.

"Think it over before you speak."

The old man knelt down with a thud.

"Please spare me, sir! I was just tending the fire!"

"I didn't ask who you are, I asked how many pots you're cooking."

The old man looked up and glanced at Manager Ma.

Manager Ma immediately said in a deep voice, "Tell the truth."

These three words sound like they're asking him to tell the truth.

Actually, if you want him to think things through, who can prevent him from living to tomorrow?

I walked up to the old man and squatted down.

"If you lie today, the Ministry of Revenue may not be able to protect you for life. If you tell the truth today, at least I can put your name in the case file. With the case file there, the people who want to kill you will have to think twice."

The old man's eyes immediately reddened.

He said in a trembling voice, "A pot."

A buzzing sound came from the crowd.

Manager Ma's expression changed drastically.

I asked, "One pot a day?"

The old man gritted his teeth and nodded.

"Most of the time it's one pot. When there are many people, we add more water to half a pot of old rice. The person in charge said that even if the accounts say three pots, we can't actually cook three pots. If we do, there won't be enough rice."

I asked, "Where did the rice go?"

The old man lowered his head.

"I don't know. Carts come and go at night. I just keep the fire going."

I looked at Manager Ma.

"Did you hear that, Manager Ma?"

Ma, the steward, immediately said, "How can an old fire-starting soldier determine the Ministry of Revenue's accounts based on his testimony? Lord Shen, he might be acting under someone's orders to deliberately frame someone."

I nodded.

"rational."

Manager Ma was just about to breathe a sigh of relief.

I added, "So it's not just about asking people."

I walked up to the woodpile.

"Watch the firewood."

Ah Liu followed, carrying the roster, and whispered, "Young master, can firewood talk too?"

"He's better at talking than others."

I pointed to the woodpile.

"According to the Ministry of Revenue's accounts, the West Soup Dishes Station prepares three pots of soup daily, and over thirty days, the total firewood usage is seven dan (a unit of weight). Yesterday, Vice Minister Zheng said that many local gentry donated firewood, so the official firewood supply is less than expected."

Manager Ma immediately responded.

"Exactly."

I looked at him.

"What about donating firewood?"

Manager Ma hesitated for a moment.

"Donations of firewood by local gentry are not necessarily all recorded in the official accounts."

"I didn't ask about bookkeeping."

I bent down and picked up a wet piece of firewood.

"I asked where the firewood was."

He stopped talking.

I threw the wet firewood on the ground.

"To cook porridge, you need a fire. To start a fire, you need firewood. Whether the firewood is purchased by the government or donated by local gentry, it will turn to ash once it enters the stove."

I walked over to the three stoves, squatted down, and poked the firebox with a stick.

The ashes from the stove were pitifully thin.

The first stove had ash.

The second stove had very little ash.

The third stove was spotless, without even a decent amount of charcoal ash.

I asked the old man, "How long has it been since you last used the third pot?"

The old man said in a low voice, "It's been seven or eight days."

"Why not use it?"

"No rice."

The crowd became chaotic again.

I raised my hand to press it down.

"Don't panic, or we won't be able to investigate."

These words are more effective than the bailiffs' shouts.

The disaster victims actually quieted down a bit.

I stood up and looked at Manager Ma.

"Master Ma, the Ministry of Revenue's accounts show three pots of porridge daily. But the third stove hasn't produced any ash in seven or eight days. Could it be that the Ministry of Revenue is cooking porridge in a cold pot?"

Ah Liu couldn't help but chuckle.

She then covered her mouth tightly.

Manager Ma's face was a mixture of pale and flushed.

"Perhaps it's about rotating the cooking utensils."

"it is good."

I pointed to the second stove.

"The second stove has less ash. The rice stains on the bottom of the pot are shallow, and there are heavy fresh wash marks, indicating it was used at most three to five days ago. Tell me again, which pot is next?"

Manager Ma did not answer.

I picked up the damp firewood again.

"This firewood is wet. Wet firewood burns slowly and produces more smoke, so it takes more than twice as long to cook a pot of porridge as dry firewood. If we follow the Ministry of Revenue's account of three pots a day, this amount of firewood won't even last five days. But the account says the West Porridge Shelter has been open for thirty days."

I paused for a moment, then lowered my voice.

"Not enough rice, not enough firewood, the pot is useless, and we have no ash."

"Master Ma, what have you been using to cook porridge for the past thirty days at the Ministry of Revenue?"

The surroundings were deathly quiet.

Only the water in the pot was still bubbling.

The voice was very soft, but it sounded like it was asking me a second time.

What should we use to make porridge?

The sweat on Manager Ma's forehead finally began to fall.

He still wanted to hold on.

"Lord Shen, these are just preliminary observations on site and may not prove that the Ministry of Revenue's accounts are falsified. Firewood can be stored elsewhere, rice can be transported in batches, and cooking pots and stoves can be replaced."

I laughed.

"Can."

Manager Ma was taken aback.

I said, "Then please have Steward Ma bring out the records of the other firewood pile, the batches of rice and grain, and the change of cooking stoves."

Manager Ma remained silent.

"No?"

He still wouldn't say.

I nodded.

"Ah Liu, write this down."

Ah Liu wrote it down immediately.

As I spoke, he took notes.

"The porridge shed in the west claims to cook three pots a day, but an investigation revealed that the third stove had not been used for seven or eight days, and the second stove had thin ash and the firewood pile was damp and rotten, which could not last for thirty days; the old stamp on the rice bag does not match the Ministry of Revenue's account of the western granary, and it is suspected that it came from the Qinghe granary; today's roster has 132 people, there are more than 60 nameless disaster victims outside the shed, and two households are carrying wooden plaques of the dead from Liugou Village. The old soldier who tends the fire at the porridge shed said that most days only one pot is cooked."

By the end, Ah Liu's hands were shaking so badly they were practically trembling like a sieve.

"Young master, this... can this be written?"

"It's already written."

"What if the Ministry of Revenue doesn't recognize it?"

I looked at Manager Ma.

Whether the Ministry of Revenue recognizes it or not is their business. The stove ash will.

Manager Ma's face was grim.

He finally lowered his voice and said, "Lord Shen, why push things to the extreme? The Jiangbei disaster relief accounts involve a wide range of issues. It's not that the Ministry of Revenue doesn't want you to investigate, but they don't want the disaster victims to be exploited. Today, you publicly sealed the certificates at the soup kitchen. If this stirs up public sentiment, who will take responsibility?"

Again.

Popular support.

They are masters at using public opinion to intimidate people.

When the disaster victims are starving, people don't talk about public sentiment.

When blocking the soup kitchen, they didn't talk about public sentiment.

When I'm about to audit the accounts, public sentiment suddenly becomes incredibly valuable.

I also lowered my voice.

"Manager Ma, I didn't stir up the people's hearts; you all endured it."

Manager Ma's lips twitched.

I turned to the disaster victims and said, "Those who register temporarily today will receive half a bowl of porridge first. The elderly, children, and the sick will receive it first. Anyone who tries to grab or cause a disturbance will have to wait in line. Wooden signs, household registrations, and family records will be registered, and the Censorate will review them afterward. If anyone fraudulently receives the relief rations, I will arrest them. If anyone truly does not receive the relief rations, I will also arrest them."

Someone asked, "Who are you arresting?"

I looked at Manager Ma.

"Whoever swallowed it, we'll arrest them."

Someone in the crowd let out a soft "good!"

The sound quickly subsided.

They dared not shout.

But that suppressed sound was louder than a shout.

Fang Chenshi, holding the child, knelt down before me.

I asked Ah Liu to help her up.

When Ah Liu helped the man up, his own nose turned a little red, and he muttered, "Don't kneel, don't kneel. Our young master is very poor right now, and there's no money to reward him if he kneels."

Fang Chenshi was stunned for a moment, and then she laughed through her tears.

The laugh was very soft.

It felt as light as if it were about to break.

It was hotter than the porridge from before.

After the soup kitchen was temporarily stabilized, I ordered the Censorate officers to stay and guard the seal.

Yan Xiaoyi leaned to the side and whispered, "You've torn the Ministry of Revenue's face off today."

I said, "No."

He looked at me.

"Not yet?"

"I only lifted a corner."

Yan Xiaoyi remained silent for a moment.

"Then you'd better tear your whole face off quickly. Otherwise, they'll tear your face off first."

That's not a pleasant thing to hear.

But it makes a lot of sense.

On the way back to the city, Ah Liu carried those rosaries, wooden plaques, and rice bag covers as if he were carrying ancestral tablets.

Seeing that he was stiff the whole way, I couldn't help but say, "Relax."

Ah Liu looked miserable.

"Young master, if we lose these things, will we all die?"

"almost."

He hugged her even tighter.

"The younger one can't relax."

It was already dark when the carriage entered the city.

Several disaster victims were being kept outside the city gate, where guards were checking their identification tags. An old man stood in the wind, clutching a wooden tag as if it were his last chance to survive.

I lowered the carriage curtain.

Today's event is just the beginning.

The dead receive grain, the living are nameless; the Qinghe granary is filled with damp firewood and thin porridge.

Each piece looks small.

Taken together, it's a man-eating mouth.

And now, I've just put my hand into its mouth.

When I returned to Chengpingfang, I thought I could at least have a cup of hot tea.

As soon as he entered the door, Ah Liu froze at the entrance.

I looked up.

A group of people were standing in the courtyard.

Two more red boxes appeared.

A middle-aged man dressed in the official robes of the Ministry of Rites stood under the corridor. He had a thin face, his left hand was tucked into his sleeve, and his right hand held a book of wedding dress measurements.

When he saw me return, he smiled and bowed.

"Lord Shen."

I looked at him and already knew who it was.

He smiled very politely.

They were as polite as if they were distant relatives of Zheng Huaien.

"Your humble servant, Zhou Xian, the Minister of Rites, has come by order of the Ministry of Rites to help Lord Shen try on his wedding attire."

Ah Liu almost dropped the roster in his hand.

I remained expressionless.

"It's late tonight, how about tomorrow?"

Zhou Xian's smile remained unchanged.

"The wedding is only eight days away, we can't afford to miss it."

Two embroiderers behind him had already held up the bright red dress.