Near dusk.
The rain finally let up a little, shifting from the relentless downpour of the past days to a fine, drizzling mist, but the sky only grew darker. The leaden clouds hung so low they seemed ready to collapse onto the earth at any moment.
At the eastern gate of Shengjing, a few gate guards were huddled in the gatehouse, taking shelter from the rain.
One of the younger ones hugged his spear and dozed against the brick wall, his head bobbing up and down like a chicken pecking at rice. Another, older guard crouched by the threshold, holding a bowl of hot tea, sipping it now and then, his gaze drifting through the curtain of rain toward the darkening horizon at the end of the official road.
In weather like this, the number of people entering and leaving the city had dropped by seventy or eighty percent. The official road was utterly empty—even the most industrious peddlers had vanished.
Suddenly, the sound of urgent hoofbeats came from the far end of the road.
The hoofbeats were rapid and frantic, like drumbeats hammering on the muddy ground, growing louder as they drew nearer. The older gate guard set down his tea bowl, rose to his feet, and squinted down the road.
Through the veil of rain, a galloping horse was charging madly toward the city gate.
The horse was soaked through.
It was impossible to tell whether it was rain or sweat.
Froth hung from the corners of its mouth, dripping in clumps. Its eyes were wide and bulging, nostrils flared, each breath expelling twin plumes of white vapor.
A rider was hunched over its back.
His straw rain cloak hung askew from his shoulders, and his hat had long since been lost somewhere. The man lay flat against the horse's neck, both hands clenching the reins so hard that his knuckles had gone pale and bloodless.
The older gate guard took a reflexive step forward.
He was about to call out.
But then he saw the horse's front legs buckle about a dozen paces from the gate. The animal seemed to have all strength drained from it at once, and collapsed to the ground with a heavy thud.
The rider was hurled violently from the saddle, tumbling through the mud several times before coming to a stop.
Several gate guards rushed out immediately.
The fallen messenger lay sprawled in the mud, struggling to get up, but his arms trembled too much to support his own weight. Every attempt ended with him collapsing back into the mire.
The older guard hurried to his side in long strides.
He crouched down.
And reached out to help him up.
The moment he touched the man, he was startled—beneath the clothing, the messenger was covered in cold sweat, chilled as though he had just been pulled from icy water. His entire body was shaking, not from cold, but from complete and utter exhaustion, that uncontrollable trembling of muscles beyond their limits.
"Brother, what—" the older guard's words were cut short as the messenger suddenly thrust up a hand and seized his wrist with a death grip.
That hand was ice-cold.
But it held on with astonishing strength.
Like a drowning man grabbing hold of the last floating log.
With his other hand, the messenger fumbled at his chest, trying several times before tearing open his shirt and pulling out an oilcloth bundle from the most hidden place against his skin. It was wrapped tightly in layer after layer, and even though the man himself was drenched through, the bundle remained perfectly dry.
"Yunyang Commandery..." the messenger spoke, his voice hoarse like a damaged bellows being dragged open, every word squeezed out between his teeth. "Flood... levee breach..."
Before he could finish, he erupted into violent coughing, his whole body curling up like a shrimp, a trace of bloody froth seeping from the corner of his mouth—the telltale sign of a rider pushed far past the limits of human endurance.
The faces of the guards around him all changed at once.
The younger ones exchanged glances, seeing the same fear reflected in each other's eyes.
It was the older one who kept his composure. He took the oilcloth bundle and felt its weight in his hand—it was heavy, not just from the layers of cloth, but as though a mountain had been pressed into his palm.
He turned and handed it to a young guard nearby, his tone urgent and quick: "Quick! Get this delivered! Don't waste a single moment."
The young guard took the bundle and sprinted into the city, mud splashing all over his trouser legs. He paid it no mind, his footsteps echoing through the gatehouse.
Fading into the distance.
Gradually disappearing at the end of the long street.
The older guard withdrew his gaze, looking back at the messenger collapsed on the ground, then at the horse lying in the mud, its mouth foaming more and more with each breath. His heart squeezed tight, as though gripped by something.
He had served as a gate guard for decades. He had seen riders delivering urgent dispatches, seen couriers from various prefectures bringing news, seen postal station attendants changing horses without rest. But he had never seen anything like this—the horse hadn't been swapped out; it had been literally ridden to death.
For someone to push a horse to this state, how many horses must have died along the way? No one could know.
He crouched down, removed his own straw rain cloak, and draped it over the messenger, saying quietly, "One of you stay and look after him. The rest, return to your posts."
He paused, then added in a voice so low it was almost to himself, "Something big is about to happen..."
...
The Imperial Study, bright with candlelight.
Dozens of palace lanterns lit the entire room as bright as day, yet they could not illuminate the dark clouds on the face of the old emperor of Great Qian. He sat behind the imperial desk, clutching the urgent report just delivered from Yunyang Commandery. A thin sheet of paper, yet heavier than a thousand pounds—his fingers had turned pale from the grip.
The contents of the report were brief, no more than a hundred characters.
But every single one cut to the bone.
Summer floods. Raging waters. A levee breach. Yunyang Commandery and the surrounding townships inundated. Urgent plea for the court to dispatch relief troops and provisions.
Since ascending the throne, the old emperor had never felt so strongly that being emperor was a very difficult job.
A breach in the main levee of the great river at Yunyang Commandery!
He knew exactly what that meant.
It was currently the height of the flood season, with continuous rain and the river at its most violent. The upstream waters had been like a chained dragon, held back by the barriers. With the main levee breached, restraint was gone.
The waters, carrying mud and debris, would roar downstream with unstoppable force.
The counties and prefectures below would be underwater unless they sat on high ground. In the best case, houses would rot; in the worst case, it would be a disaster of apocalyptic proportions.
Rough estimates put the number of affected citizens at nearly a million.
A million.
That number was enough to send any official in the court into a state of terror.
That was a million mouths to feed, a million lives to save. Without food, without shelter, without hope—what would happen? Would corpses litter the fields and people eat their own children in desperation? Or would someone rise up in the despair, rallying the hungry and the hopeless, picking up hoes and hatchets, and turn to banditry, storming the government offices?
In the aftermath of natural disasters, survivors who could not go on turned into wandering bandits. In the annals of history.
Such things had happened more than once or twice. If even one in ten of a million people rose up in rebellion, that was a hundred thousand bandits, enough to throw any region into utter chaos.
Bungle this, and the very foundations of the state would shake.
This was not an exaggeration. This was a reality no emperor wanted to face.
The old emperor clutched the urgent report, the veins on the back of his hand bulging one by one, his knuckles cracking as they tightened.
As a ruler, he was not supposed to let his emotions show on his face.
The art of kingship: never reveal joy or anger, remain unmoved even as Mount Tai crumbles before you.
His late father, on his deathbed, had held his hand and told him this word by word. His tutors had drilled it into him for half his life, and he had demanded the same of himself.
Yet now.
He could not hold it in any longer.
But at this moment, he had no mood whatsoever for managing his expression.
All he felt was fury!
Fury!
And more fury!
A hundred thousand taels of river works funds—he had not failed to allocate them.
The court's emphasis on water governance had never slackened over the years. The upper reaches had trees planted to hold the soil in Shaanxi and Gansu, the levees in the middle reaches were repaired every year, and even the successive previous emperors had never dared to neglect such matters—so naturally, he did not dare either.
Last year, the Ministry of Works had submitted a memorial stating that the river embankments in Yunyang Prefecture required major repairs.
He had signed off with a flourish of his brush.
A hundred thousand taels of silver had been allocated in full.
A hundred thousand taels—not one hundred, not one thousand, but one hundred thousand taels. That was more than enough to build a solid levee in Yunyang Prefecture that could hold back a flood.
But with all that money poured in, the embankment had simply collapsed like this?
It couldn't even withstand one summer flood?
If the river had breached because the water level had topped the levee, the old emperor could have called it a true act of nature—something unavoidable. But a levee failing outright? That was a problem of human making!
Was my hundred thousand taels used to buy a slab of tofu?
The old emperor asked himself this question silently.
He did not say the words aloud, but his expression, his stare, his trembling hand clutching the report—they spoke louder than anything he could have said.
The ministers standing in the Imperial Study all kept their heads lowered, not daring to let out even a breath.
Everyone who could stand here—
Which one of them wasn't a high-ranking official in the court of Great Qian?
The Six Ministers, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, several inner-cabinet ministers close to the throne—any one of them, if they stamped their foot, could make the entire court shake three times. But at this moment, they barely dared to breathe, like a flock of quails tucking their necks in during a thunderstorm.
The old emperor raised his eyes and swept his gaze across the faces before him, one by one.
That gaze was like a dull blade scraping across skin—not sharp, but heavy, pressing down so hard that none could lift their heads. Finally, his eyes settled on the Minister of Works, Zhou Bingzhong.
Zhou Bingzhong was a veteran minister nearing sixty, having spent most of his life in the Ministry of Works. He had risen step by step from a clerk to Minister, earning a reputation as a capable and diligent official, having never made any major mistakes.
But at this moment, he felt as if he were being roasted over an open fire.
Beneath his crimson official robes, cold sweat had already soaked through his undergarments, plastering them to his back with a chilling dampness that crept up his spine.
"Zhou Bingzhong."
The old emperor's voice was not loud, but those three syllables landing in the Imperial Study struck like a muffled thunderclap, jolting Zhou Bingzhong's entire body.
"Your servant is here." He quickly stepped out of formation, bowed, and his voice carried a tremor he himself hadn't noticed.
"I recall," the old emperor spoke, his tone calm and even—so calm it made one's scalp crawl—"that last year, the Ministry of Works submitted a memorial saying the river embankments in Yunyang Prefecture needed major repairs. I allocated a hundred thousand taels of silver. Is that correct?"
"Your Majesty, it is indeed so," Zhou Bingzhong's voice was as dry as sandpaper scraping wood. "The Yunyang Prefecture river embankments had fallen into disrepair over the years. The Ministry of Works did allocate a hundred thousand taels of silver for repairs and reinforcement."
"A hundred thousand taels." The old emperor repeated the number, each syllable emphasized heavily, as if savoring some flavor. "A hundred thousand taels of silver to repair an embankment, and it can't even survive one summer flood. I just want to ask Minister Zhou—were my hundred thousand taels used to build flood defenses, or to buy tofu?"
The moment those words left his mouth, the air in the Imperial Study seemed to be sucked out.
Tofu?
Using that word to describe a hundred thousand taels of the national treasury—any discerning person could see this was already the harshest of rebukes.
Sweat beads the size of soybeans rolled down Zhou Bingzhong's forehead.
He didn't dare wipe them away, didn't have time to wipe them away. He only kept his body bowed, speaking hurriedly in his own defense: "Your Majesty, the Yunyang Prefecture river embankments did undergo major repairs, and the Ministry of Works has records on file. But—"
He paused, as if weighing his words, or perhaps steeling himself for something. He gritted his teeth before continuing: "But the specific details of the embankment repairs were supervised and implemented by the local authorities themselves."
"Yunyang Prefecture, being situated at the intersection of three prefectures and far larger than a standard county, was established as a prefecture directly under the jurisdiction of North River. The Ministry of Works was only responsible for approving funds and reviewing engineering plans. As for the actual construction, materials, recruitment of craftsmen, and final inspection—those were all handled locally."
The implication was clear: the silver was allocated, the plans were reviewed.
But what kind of embankment was actually built, whether real or fake materials were used, and whether anyone had their hands in the pot—that, he truly didn't know.
The old emperor listened to this explanation.
He said nothing.
He leaned back in his dragon throne, his gaze fixed on Zhou Bingzhong, staring until the Minister broke out in a cold sweat, until the other ministers in the Imperial Study lowered their heads even further, terrified that the gaze might fall on them.
After what felt like an eternity, the old emperor let out a cold snort.
That single sound.
Squeezed out from his nose.
Light as a feather, yet like a knife slicing across everyone's hearts. Every single person present could hear what that snort meant—You people, you certainly push the blame off yourselves cleanly enough.
But the old emperor also knew that Zhou Bingzhong was telling the truth.
Great Qian was vast.
There were hundreds of prefectures and counties across the realm. The Ministry of Works couldn't possibly assign someone to oversee every single project.
The silver was passed down, the plans were reviewed, and everything else was left to local diligence and oversight. That was the established practice of Great Qian—not a loophole created by Zhou Bingzhong alone.
If one truly sought accountability, the Ministry of Works could at most be charged with "failure to supervise." The rod would fall, and Zhou Bingzhong would not be able to bear it—but striking him alone would also accomplish nothing.
The old emperor withdrew his gaze, no longer pressing Zhou Bingzhong. Instead, he spoke in a low voice: "This matter, I will send someone to investigate. Now, let us first discuss disaster relief."
Zhou Bingzhong, as if granted a reprieve, retreated several steps back into the formation. He pulled out a handkerchief, wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, and his hands were still trembling.
He felt that this old life of his had just walked past the gates of hell today.
The old emperor's gaze swept across the assembled ministers, and his voice sank—no longer carrying the stifling fury of moments before, but replaced by a keen-edged sharpness and decisiveness fit for a sword blade.
The main branch of the great river had breached its levees.
On its own, North River simply couldn't handle it.
Not enough manpower, not enough grain, not enough supplies—not enough of anything.
If handled poorly, a million refugees would become a million bandits. A disaster that could shake the very foundations of the state was imminent. The court had to coordinate, and not a single moment could be wasted.
"Ministry of Revenue." He spoke.
The Minister of Revenue, He Jian, quickly stepped out of formation and bowed: "Your servant is here."
"Immediately allocate disaster relief funds, grain, and medicinal herbs. The grain reserves for the next ten days must be gathered first—no delays. Additionally, transfer sixty thousand shi of millet from the capital's granaries and send it to the disaster zone ahead of schedule."
Sixty thousand shi of millet, plus medicinal herbs, tents, and cotton quilts—this was no small sum.
He Jian quickly calculated in his mind.
Although the Ministry of Revenue wasn't in a particularly comfortable position this year, disaster relief was a matter of utmost priority. This money had to be squeezed out no matter what. He gritted his teeth and bowed: "Your servant obeys the decree."
The old emperor's gaze shifted to another side: "The grain from the capital's granaries will be escorted by the Three Thousand Battalion. Summon the commander of the Three Thousand Battalion to enter the palace immediately and await orders."
The Three Thousand Battalion—that was the elite force guarding the capital, stationed to protect the most critical place beneath the Son of Heaven's feet.
They were dispatching three thousand elite troops to escort the disaster relief grain—first, to make clear just how seriously the court regarded this matter, and second, to serve as a deterrent. With such crack soldiers guarding the supplies, if anyone along the way were foolish enough to set their sights on this lifeline of grain, they had better first weigh whether their own necks were sturdy enough.
“Sixth Son, Eighth Prince,” the old emperor spoke again.
Two figures stepped forward in unison.
“You two will oversee the disaster relief and resettlement efforts. Organize whatever personnel you need, make your preparations at once, and depart at dawn tomorrow.”
“Your children obey the imperial decree,” they both said, bowing low.
The old emperor looked at his two sons before him, his gaze lingering on Li Chengyu for a heartbeat, then on Li Chengyan for another, before withdrawing. His tone turned suddenly sharp: “During relief operations, anyone who disobeys orders—execute. Anyone who inflates prices—execute!”
The two “execute”s came from his mouth without a moment’s hesitation, without a flicker of doubt, like twin daggers dipped in poison, driven hard into every heart present.
None of the ministers in attendance harbored the slightest doubt that if anyone truly took advantage of this great disaster to stir up trouble, hoard goods, or profit from national calamity, this old emperor would genuinely kill.
Of course, there were some things the old emperor left unsaid.
Some words.
No need to spell them out.
Everyone present was sharp enough to understand: those who could be killed also included the victims of the disaster.
After a natural catastrophe, when desperate survivors banded together to rise up—this was hardly unheard of in any dynasty.
Those ordinarily law-abiding farmers—their fields drowned, their homes washed away, their families on the brink of starvation—at that point, royal law, moral order, loyalty to crown and country—all of it meant less than a single meal.
One man raises his arm, a thousand voices answer, and you have a tide of unrest strong enough to shake the very foundation of a region.
Sending the three thousand elites to escort the grain served one purpose: guaranteeing the relief supplies arrived safely. The other purpose was this: being ready at any moment to mobilize local garrison troops, to suppress rebellion, to crush those not-yet-formed bands of rioters with elite force, so that no spark might grow into a wildfire.
The old emperor leaned back in his dragon throne, his gaze sweeping across the faces before him.
Finally, it landed on the figure at the very end.
That person stood behind all the other ministers—slim of build, with a square, honest face, wearing a deep crimson official robe embroidered with the xiezhi unicorn emblem—the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, Jiang Zhiwei.
“Jiang Zhiwei,” the old emperor said, his voice heavier now than it had been during the deliberation.
Jiang Zhiwei stepped forward, bowed in salute, his movements measured, his tone steady: “Your servant is here.”
“I want you to send people to investigate,” the old emperor said, looking straight at him, each word deliberate. “Who exactly dared to lay hands on the funds for the river dike repairs.”
One hundred thousand taels for riverworks—no small sum.
If the dike had truly been built properly, it wouldn’t be crumbling like bean curd. But if someone had dipped their fingers in along the way, layer after layer of graft, leaving less than a third actually spent on the project—then it was no wonder the dike gave way.
Jiang Zhiwei bowed and accepted the order, without a single extra word, simply saying: “Your servant obeys the decree.”
The old emperor looked at Jiang Zhiwei’s face—a face that seemed untouched by anything—and the fire in his chest did not cool but burned hotter still.
His hand tightened around the urgent report, knuckles whitening further.
Originally, a hundred thousand taels had been allocated.
The dike repaired, everything would have been fine.
Now the dike had collapsed, floodwaters raged, a million victims, and the court had to allocate grain, mobilize troops, provide relief, resettle survivors, suppress riots—costing how much more than a hundred thousand taels?
How many hundreds of thousands?
And on top of that, the court’s dignity, the emperor’s own authority, and countless lives of common people—was this ever just about a hundred thousand taels?
The imperial study fell silent.
The candles flickered in their holders, letting out the faintest crackle, stretching and shrinking the shadows cast on the floor.
“Does everyone understand?” After a moment, the old emperor raised his eyes, sweeping his gaze across each person present.
“Your subjects obey the decree.”
“Then don’t just stand here gawking.” The old emperor waved his hand, his voice carrying fatigue yet still edged with authority. “Go make your preparations. Before dawn, mobilize the men you need, allocate the grain you must. If anyone delays, don’t blame me for showing no mercy.”
The assembled ministers bowed in unison and backed out of the imperial study.
The hall doors closed slowly behind them, shutting away the candlelight within.
The ministers stood on the corridor steps. Night wind laced with rain lashed against their faces, the chill soaking to the bone—yet no one had the leisure for pleasantries…
