PCA Chapter 216

Su Cen was not unfamiliar with the Ministry of Justice prison. He had lived here for most of a month, though during that time he was more confused than lucid, and apart from it being cold and dark, he hadn’t retained much impression of it.

 

This time coming here, he finally experienced what hell on earth looked like.

 

Upon entering the prison gate, he was hit by a surging smell of blood, mixed with the odor of burned hair—fishy, foul, and pungent.

 

Going further in, he could hear the whistling sound of whips cutting through the air and the continuous cursing of jailers. Strangely, there were no corresponding wails of anguish, which carried an eerie quality within the terror that made Su Cen inexplicably panic.

 

When they reached the torture platform, he saw a person suspended in mid-air by several iron chains, head hanging down, with bloodstains covering the ground and several broken whips scattered to one side.

 

Su Cen stared for a long while before recognizing that this was Qi Lin.

 

Even Zheng Yang, who had come ready to bite someone to death, couldn’t bear seeing this scene and was retching violently to one side.

 

The jailer nodded obsequiously, thinking this was another court official coming to press for results, and stepped forward saying: “Rest assured, sir, we’ll definitely make this kid confess today.”

 

“Confess to what?” Su Cen asked coldly.

 

The jailer replied matter-of-factly: “Confess to evidence of Prince Ning’s collusion with the Turks.”

 

“So all the cases the Ministry of Justice solves are forced confessions? Even matters concerning the regent’s life and death, the great crime of treason, can be extracted through torture?!” Su Cen snatched the whip from the man’s hands and threw it heavily to one side. “Let him down!”

 

The jailer’s face went pale, and only then did he properly examine Su Cen, carefully probing: “May I ask which official this lord is…”

 

Su Cen pressed his lips—this was the inconvenience of having no official position; at crucial moments, he didn’t even have a title to invoke.

 

Zhang Jun had just spoken with the Vice Minister of Justice and arrived late. Seeing the situation in the prison, he couldn’t help but frown and said to the jailer: “When told to release someone, just do it. Where do you get off with so much nonsense?”

 

The jailer didn’t recognize Su Cen but knew Zhang Jun, so he could only lower his attitude, saying with difficulty: “But this person is insane. Releasing him might disturb you honorable officials.”

 

“Insane?” Su Cen frowned—he had never known Qi Lin could go mad.

 

The jailer continued: “It’s quite strange. He was fine before—though he wouldn’t confess, he never resisted. But today, he suddenly went mad, not only broke free from the ropes but also injured several of our men. We had no choice but to chain him with iron shackles.”

 

Su Cen stepped forward a few paces when something hard pressed against his foot. He stepped back and bent down, picking up a bead from among the bloodstains on the ground.

 

The bead was smooth and round with a thick patina—it was a prayer bead.

 

A prayer bead in such a filthy place created a jarring sense of incongruity with the surroundings.

 

“Where did this come from?” Su Cen asked.

 

“This…” The jailer examined it for a long while, then turned to ask the other two jailers: “Is it yours?”

 

The other two also shook their heads. Su Cen sighed inexplicably: “Let him down. He won’t go mad.”

 

The iron chains clanged and rattled. Even after being lowered, those legs could no longer support him. Qi Lin knelt on the ground, head still hanging, but one hand was clenched tight, using the last of his strength.

 

Su Cen stepped forward and crouched down beside him: “Are you alright?”

 

The head that had been hanging finally lifted with difficulty. As soon as he opened his mouth, blood first seeped out from his cracked lips.

 

Su Cen frowned: “Bring some water.”

 

Those extremely parched lips immediately pressed against the water bowl upon contact. He choked several times in between but continued drinking before finishing coughing. Finally, the bowl was drained, with water both drunk and spilled.

 

After drinking, he could finally speak.

 

“It has nothing to do with Master…” Qi Lin’s first words were: “The Turkic people have a tradition—no matter how deep the hatred, they don’t kill children who can’t yet reach a horse’s back. We took it upon ourselves to release them. Master knew nothing about it…”

 

Su Cen pressed his lips. After the Battle of Lake Buyr, the Three Guards of Tuduo had gained a reputation for being cold-blooded and ruthless, slaughtering their own people. Now when they showed mercy, they were still cursed as ungrateful wolves. So what was loyalty, what was righteousness—these things were never truly recognized when applied to these foreign peoples.

 

“But why did you confess?” Su Cen said in a heavy voice. “Clearly, as long as you don’t admit it, they have no evidence. After all these years, no one has questioned it. Would they really go to the Turks to ask the Turkic Khan if his surname is Ashina?”

 

The tightly clenched palm finally opened, revealing two blood-stained prayer beads lying quietly inside.

 

Qi Lin said softly: “They captured Ling’er.”

 

Coming out of the prison, Su Cen shivered in broad daylight. He had been rushing around since returning yesterday and hadn’t had time to check if Qu Ling’er was still at home. After he left, Ah Fu had somehow made his way back to Yangzhou, but seeing Ah Fu reminded him of those events in the capital, so he later sent him back to Suzhou. In the end, only Qu Ling’er remained here.

 

He had momentarily forgotten that Qu Ling’er was also from the Secret Door, and now that Li Sheng was in power, he naturally wouldn’t spare him either.

 

Su Cen’s heart filled with panic. Feng Yiming was already dead—could Qu Ling’er also…

 

Zheng Yang, knowing his concern, comforted him: “Li Sheng still needs to keep Qu Ling’er to threaten Qi Lin. He should be safe for now.”

 

Only then did Su Cen reluctantly nod.

 

“It’s time for the burial,” Zheng Yang said. “Let’s go.”

 

For the burial of a fourth-rank court official, there were only a few sparse people in front of the Feng residence.

 

After all, Feng Yiming wasn’t truly one of them. He came from humble origins, studied hard for ten years to pass the imperial examination but was only assigned a minor position without advancement. He had joined the Secret Door but could easily betray it, often using unscrupulous means to achieve his goals. So his poor reputation in court was understandable.

 

But Su Cen knew that everything Feng Yiming did was for that one person. He didn’t care about fame or status—all he wanted was to stay by Li Shi’s side, even if only as a court jester or strategist.

 

So this past year, Feng Yiming had been licking honey from a blade’s edge, yet also fulfilling his heart’s desire.

 

Outside the gate, they unexpectedly encountered Ning Santong.

 

The most brilliant and dazzling young talents of Chang’an, now gathered together again, were already completely transformed.

 

Ning Santong smiled at him: “You still came back.”

 

Su Cen nodded: “I came back.”

 

After these two sentences, they had nothing more to say. The three stood at the gate for quite a while before entering one after another.

 

Upon entering the residence, they discovered that not only was it quiet outside, but there were also few people inside. Just a simple coffin was placed in the hall with an old servant busy receiving guests. Apart from that, there wasn’t even a single person dressed in mourning.

 

Su Cen frowned: “How can it be like this?”

 

“Brother Feng was never married to begin with, and after Uncle’s troubles, he dismissed all his servants. He knew this day would come—even this plain coffin was prepared by himself.” Zheng Yang sighed softly. “He came back alone, and now he’s leaving alone.”

 

The deceased had passed. Su Cen clenched his fist tightly, stepped forward to offer incense, then resolutely stood up and picked up the mourning clothes set aside, putting them on himself: “Since there’s no one else, I’ll wear hemp and mourning for Feng Yiming.”

 

Zheng Yang and Ning Santong exchanged glances and also put on mourning clothes.

 

The time had come. The pallbearers entered to carry away the coffin. Su Cen and the others accompanied the funeral procession to outside the city, watching as Feng Yiming’s coffin was nailed shut and buried.

 

A thin layer of yellow earth separated the eternal parting of the living and the dead.

 

After all the ceremonies were completed, Su Cen stood before the grave, gazing for a long while at the engraved tombstone, then suddenly declared loudly: “His given name was Yiming, courtesy name Yanju, born in the tenth year of Yonglong, achieved the rank of chuanlu in the eighth year of Tianshou. During the Yuanshun era, he served as Supervising Censor at the Censorate. Unafraid of powerful interests, he impeached the Minister of Personnel for land appropriation, earning Prince Ning’s recognition. After more than a year, he was appointed Prefect of Yangzhou. When Yangzhou officials and merchants colluded, driving up the price of official salt while private salt ran rampant, he kept the common people in mind. Standing alone and alert in the flood of corruption, he lay dormant for over three years, reformed the salt administration, abolished the salt monopoly, and returned it to state control, allowing the people to have salt to eat—his benevolent policies were deeply appreciated. That year, he was promoted to Salt and Iron Transport Commissioner of Huainan Circuit. After half a year of management, the state treasury had surplus. The following year he was transferred to Vice Minister of Public Works, punishing corrupt officials, eliminating petty men, supporting the state from collapse—his loyalty and integrity were real, and all officials remembered his aspirations. That year, compelled by traitors, he died at the age of twenty-seven. He lived in his time, never regretting his ultimate pursuit. Alas! May his spirit accept our offerings!”

 

Feng Yiming—the crane’s call echoing through the marshes, one cry startling all—had finally departed with grace, riding the crane westward.

 

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