As night fell, sparse torches were lit across the camp.
Flickering orange light danced between the tents, casting the bustling figures into shadows that stretched long and short by turns. In the distance, from the direction of the prefectural city besieged by floodwaters, came a faint, muddled clamor—mingled with the rush of water and the moaning night wind—woven into a somber nocturne.
The tent assigned to Pei Cijing and Shen Ninghuan sat in the middle of the camp, modest in size but kept clean and tidy.
Inside, a layer of dry straw had been spread over the ground, covered with felt blankets that gave softly underfoot, free of the damp chill outside. Two oil lamps burned in the corners, their dim, warm glow wrapping the entire tent in a cozy, tranquil atmosphere.
A simple wooden table stood at the center, its surface covered with maps, documents, and a few ledgers. Brushes, inkstone, and paper were set to one side, the ink freshly ground and still gleaming with moisture.
Pei Cijing sat at one side of the table.
Before him lay a thick stack of materials on Beihe Province.
These had been compiled for him by the Hanlin Academy before his departure, including the populations, land taxes, and local products of each prefecture in Beihe, along with records of past floods and strategies for their management.
He held a charcoal pencil in his hand, sketching and annotating in the blank margins of the map. Occasionally he paused, studying a particular stretch of terrain before resuming his work.
The lamplight cast a faint shadow across his face, lending an uncharacteristic seriousness to his usual indolent expression.
The preliminary work of disaster relief had already been set in motion.
The boatmen were split into two shifts, ferrying grain and medicine into the city day and night without pause. The residents trapped atop the city walls were being brought out in batches and settled in makeshift shelters erected on the outskirts of the camp.
The accompanying physicians and apothecaries made their rounds through the shelter area, distributing herbal remedies and brewing epidemic-prevention decoctions to stave off disease among the crowds.
The entire relief operation was busy but orderly.
Smoothly coordinated.
Now that everything had fallen into place, Pei Cijing—as a late arrival in an already-functioning system—found he had little to contribute, nor was his intervention needed.
In any team, everyone has their own position and duties. Don't meddle in what isn't yours, don't stick your hand in where it doesn't belong—that was the most basic rule.
What he needed to think about were the matters further down the road.
Disaster relief was not a task that could be completed overnight. Rescuing people, distributing grain, and providing shelter were only the first steps—ensuring the common folk didn't starve or die of disease in the short term was the bare minimum.
But what happened after the floodwaters receded?
The fields were flooded, the crops lost, the houses collapsed. The people were left with nothing—how would they survive? How long could the court's relief grain sustain them? A month? Two months? Six months?
The court couldn't support them indefinitely. The state treasury's silver was finite, the relief grain stockpiles were numbered—there would come a day when they ran out.
On that day, if the people still couldn't support themselves, they would either continue to starve—or—
they would drift away from their homes and band together in revolt.
Such events were recorded far too often in the history books. After every major disaster, if efforts to restore production lagged behind, natural catastrophe would transform into man-made calamity—and man-made calamity was always far more terrifying than nature's wrath.
The Daqian court was not without a response to this.
The usual method was "work relief."
The government would provide funds and grain, recruiting disaster victims to participate in recovery and reconstruction efforts—repairing dikes, building roads, digging canals, constructing houses—so that the people had work and food. This solved both their livelihood and the task of post-disaster rebuilding.
It was a two-birds-one-stone approach.
But there was one unavoidable problem: it required sustained investment, massive amounts of silver and grain, and the process could last anywhere from half a year to a year or even longer.
What Pei Cijing was pondering
was precisely this.
Was there a possibility of having the disaster victims engage in productive work during the rebuilding process—not merely consuming grain and silver, but conversely creating value, transforming labor into concrete economic benefit?
If that could be achieved, the court's fiscal burden would be greatly reduced, and the people, once the rebuilding period ended, would also have an additional means of making a living.
Pei Cijing's finger moved slowly across the map, tracing the blue lines marked as rivers, passing over red squares denoting cities, until it came to rest on a mountainous area northwest of Yunyang Prefecture.
Limestone.
Clay.
These two things were the core raw materials for cement.
Before even arriving in Yunyang, he had already consulted the region's mineral deposits. In the mountains northwest of Yunyang Prefecture, limestone reserves were quite substantial, and clay was abundant everywhere—inexhaustible.
His gaze continued across the map.
Then, his finger stopped.
Coal.
Near that mountainous area, there was actually coal as well.
Coal was a common fuel used by the common folk of Daqian—longer-burning than firewood, hotter, and cheaper.
If the cement workshop required large amounts of fuel, coal was undoubtedly the best choice—far cheaper and more convenient than burning timber.
Limestone, clay, coal—the three primary raw materials needed for a cement workshop were all gathered in that mountainous area northwest of Yunyang Prefecture.
Pei Cijing flipped his charcoal pencil and tapped the spot lightly with the blunt end.
Where the three resources converged, near a small river, with flat, open terrain perfect for building a workshop and convenient for transport. Limestone and coal could be quarried from the mountain and shipped downstream on small boats, while clay could be extracted on-site.
This place—
was practically a heaven-sent location for a cement workshop.
He began to calculate silently to himself.
If a cement workshop were established here, recruiting disaster victims to take part in mining, firing, and transport, it could solve the livelihood problem for a large number of refugees.
The cement produced could be used locally for repairing dikes, paving roads, and constructing houses—saving the court the expense of shipping materials from elsewhere—and any surplus could be sold, bringing in more grain and supplies.
It was a plan that paid off in multiple ways.
The more Pei Cijing thought about it, the more feasible it seemed. He studied the spot he had circled on the map, and the corner of his mouth curled up slightly.
Tomorrow, he'd send someone to take a look at that location.
If the on-the-ground survey matched the map's markings, he could write up a detailed proposal and present it to Li Chengyu.
That Sixth Prince was a shrewd man—he wouldn't need much explanation. As long as the numbers were clear and the pros and cons laid out plainly, the other man would make his own judgment.
Pei Cijing set down the charcoal pencil, leaned back against the cushion behind him, and let out a long breath.
The tightly wound string in his mind
finally loosened a notch.
He raised a hand and worked the stiffness out of his neck, the vertebrae crackling faintly. He'd been hunched over the map for the better part of an hour, and his back and waist were aching.
He turned his head, looking toward the other side of the low table.
Shen Ninghuan sat there, several files spread open before her, the lamplight softening the lines of her profile into something warm and gentle. One hand pressed the edge of a file, the other held a brush as she wrote on a sheet of paper, her brows furrowed in thought, lips pressed together slightly—the whole of her as still and serene as a painted scene.
The candlestick on the table sat to her left, its flame casting her shadow against the tent wall, swaying gently with each flicker of the fire.
Pei Cijing made no sound. He simply rested his chin on his hand, tilted his head, and quietly watched his wife.
She looked beautiful when reading case files.
That look of intense focus on her face—as if she were completely immersed in those tedious documents—made the wind outside, the distant hoofbeats, and the footsteps of patrolling guards near the tent all seem utterly irrelevant to her.
Pei Cijing found himself lost in the sight.
A line of poetry he had read in his past life came to mind—"The most tender is the lowering of that head, like a water lily too shy to brave the breeze."
Though his wife was lowering her head not out of shyness but in battle against those dreary files, that quiet, absorbed temperament was more captivating than any water lily.
His wife at work.
There was indeed a special charm to it.
With that thought, the corner of his mouth curled up involuntarily. He shifted the hand propping up his chin and continued his unabashed staring.
After what felt like a long while, Shen Ninghuan finally set down her brush and looked up.
The moment she raised her eyes, she met her husband's smiling gaze.
That look was direct, unreserved—it was clear he had been watching for quite some time.
Their eyes met across the small distance, neither saying a word. They simply held each other's gaze for a moment, then, without prompting, both burst into quiet laughter.
Pei Cijing quickly rose to his feet, walked around to the other side of the low table, and sat down beside his wife. He picked up the teapot, poured a cup, and offered it to her with both hands, his tone carrying a hint of eagerness. "You've worked hard, my dear."
Shen Ninghuan didn't stand on ceremony. She took the cup and took a small sip.
The tea had already cooled to warm—just right for drinking. The leaves had been brought from the marquis's estate before they set out; though not of any famous vintage, the flavor was crisp and left a lingering sweetness. In this crude camp, it qualified as a luxury.
She swallowed the tea, set the cup back down on the table, and looked up at her husband, a hint of amusement in her voice. "This is hardly hard work. I merely read through some documents."
"Reading documents is still hard work," Pei Cijing said with exaggerated seriousness. "Your eyes tire, your neck aches, and your wrists hurt too. Come now, let me massage you."
So saying, he reached out.
Shen Ninghuan gently swatted his hand away and shot him a look—one that carried a flicker of feigned annoyance, a trace of amusement, and a warmth she couldn't quite hide.
"Stop fooling around. Let's talk business." Her tone grew more composed, her gaze returning to the documents before her.
Pei Cijing dropped his playful demeanor as well, sitting up straighter beside her, waiting for her to continue.
Shen Ninghuan tapped her finger lightly on the several open files on the table and began. "Chen Qiming served as the governor of Yunyang for over five years. I went through his administrative record, performance reviews, and official correspondence during his tenure. Overall, his reputation is fairly decent."
"He's fair in handling matters, incorruptible in personal conduct, never takes bribes or squeezes his subordinates, and refuses even customary holiday gifts from those under him. A few cases he handled were done impressively well. His superiors mostly rated him as 'competent' and 'diligent'—never a word like 'embezzlement' or 'dereliction of duty.'"
She paused, her finger coming to rest on the edge of the topmost file. "Based on these records, he seems like a good official."
Pei Cijing listened, his brow furrowing slightly.
Fair, incorruptible, never taking bribes—such a man would impeach a deputy governor who had never even handled river works funds? Without any reason at that?
And right before taking his own life.
A thought surfaced: this feels a bit like the thief crying 'stop thief!'
"Was there anything unusual about him, then?" he asked.
Shen Ninghuan paused thoughtfully, as if recalling the details Zhao Wenhuan had disclosed earlier. From beneath the stack of files, she pulled out a thin piece of paper on which she had jotted down additional details from a further interrogation of Zhao Wenhuan. The handwriting was neat, the points clearly organized—she had recorded them while the iron was hot.
"According to Zhao Wenhuan's recollection, Chen Qiming began showing signs of emotional instability about a year ago," she said, looking at the notes. "Sometimes he would fly into rages over nothing, erupting over trivial matters, to the point where even his closest retainers were afraid to go near him."
"At other times, he would fall silent for entire days, locking himself in his study and seeing no one."
"Zhao Wenhuan said that during that period, Chen Qiming seemed like a different person. The steady, composed demeanor he once carried was gone, replaced by an indescribable restlessness and anxiety."
Pei Cijing's brow furrowed even deeper.
Emotional instability.
Flying into rages for no reason.
Days of silence.
These symptoms together—they didn't sound like ordinary mood swings.
More likely, something was wrong with his mind!
"And then?" he pressed.
Shen Ninghuan's gaze lifted from the paper to meet her husband's eyes. "Zhao Wenhuan said that Chen Qiming began visiting Baiyun Temple once a month after that, seeking discussions with the abbot to calm his mind. And sure enough, after each visit, he would return noticeably more settled, and his temper would stay in check for a few days."
"The Abbot of Baiyun Temple?" Pei Cijing repeated the title.
"Yes," Shen Ninghuan nodded. "Zhao Wenhuan said the abbot is renowned for his spiritual depth and commands considerable prestige across the entire North River region. Many officials and noble families have dealings with him."
"Chen Qiming was introduced to him by someone else. After his first visit, he couldn't praise the abbot enough, calling him a 'true master.'"
The tent fell quiet.
The candle flame danced in its holder, emitting a faint crackle.
Pei Cijing leaned back against the cushion, his fingers drumming absently on his knee. His gaze rested on the mountain area he had circled on the map, but his mind was no longer on it.
This Chen Qiming—something was off.
Something was wrong from the very beginning, when he filed that impeachment against Zhao Wenhuan—a deputy governor who had nothing to do with waterworks being impeached by his superior for embezzling river management funds made no sense at all.
And waterworks were Chen Qiming's own responsibility.
It felt a bit like the thief crying 'stop thief!'
Now, add to that the emotional instability and the regular visits to the temple for "discourse"—the whole picture became even more suspicious.
An official who had served well for over five years, with a consistently good reputation, suddenly undergoes a dramatic change in temperament and loses control of his emotions.
Sure, some people do go mad for no apparent reason, but when a normal person's mind breaks down, there's usually a cause.
Something was definitely going on!
Pei Cijing's brow knitted into a deep frown.
In his previous life's world, mental illness had been one of the most difficult conditions to treat—complex causes, lengthy treatment cycles, and even the most top-tier psychiatrists couldn't guarantee they could "calm" someone suffering from a mental breakdown.
And an abbot at a Daoist temple—through mere discourse—somehow stabilized a man who had lost control of his emotions?
That effect was a little too good.
Too good to be true.
Pei Cijing's finger came down heavily on his knee.
He wasn't one to dismiss the mystical. There were indeed things in this world he couldn't understand—men of true cultivation like Master Qingyun, who had seen through his origins at a single glance. That depth of skill was unfathomable, and even thinking about it now made his spine tingle.
But here was the question—
Could the Abbot of Baiyun Temple really be such a man?
Pei Cijing felt as if a light had been switched on somewhere in his train of thought—not a glaring brilliance, but enough to illuminate things that had previously been shrouded in obscurity…
