Chapter Eight: Never Say That No One Knows of Our Sins

Censor Mao was in a foul mood. Although he had triumphed in the governor’s office yesterday, leaving the magistrate of Shanyang spitting blood in fury, Mao knew well that victory brought its own anxieties. That blood startled the assembly, but also cornered him. Should the magistrate succeed in turning the tide, Mao’s fate would be dire indeed. He would become a notorious example, reviled by the people, ostracized by his peers, and, worst of all, condemned by the imperial court. His lifetime of integrity would be ruined in an instant. What had his ten years of diligent study been for, if not for promotion and prosperity? A fire burned within him.

Just then, a maidservant brought him tea. Mao took a sip, then spat it out immediately. Slamming the table, he shouted, “What are you thinking? Trying to scald me to death?” The maid was terrified, dropping to her knees and begging for mercy. Mao glanced at her coldly but said nothing, striding out of the room. The girl collapsed, pale and limp. Soon, several burly men entered, dragging her away. From the rear of the Censor’s residence, cries and sobs echoed, fading shortly into silence.

“Master, the maid is dead. I had Mao San carry her to the burial grounds outside the city,” reported the steward. Mao showed no surprise; clearly, this was not the first such incident. He looked at the steward and asked, “How goes the acquisition of land?” The steward hesitated, his face troubled. “Master, the price is too low. Those peasants refuse to sell, preferring to subsist on relief. It’s all the same to them—once the disaster passes, they’ll still have a way to live.”

“A few farmers, and you’re at a loss? In these times, who isn’t indebted to the court for taxes and levies? Arrest them and lock them away; if they don’t die, they’ll be stripped to the bone. The land deeds will be ours.” Mao declared.

“Yes, Master,” the steward replied, swallowing whatever words he wished to say. After all, a maid had just been killed in the rear courtyard; best not to tempt fate.

Mao dismissed the steward, pondering how to ensure the magistrate of Shanyang would not succeed. Meanwhile, Liaochen had already visited the old mistress and the governor’s wife, and was now preparing to see the ailing magistrate, for the incident of spitting blood was, after all, linked to him.

Seeing the magistrate again, Liaochen was startled. In just half a month, the magistrate had grown haggard beyond recognition. Liaochen sighed, saying, “You have exhausted yourself for the disaster victims, true to the people and faithful to the emperor; fortune will surely repay you in time. Rest well, sir. Leave the remainder to me.” With a respectful salute, he turned to leave. In his previous life, Liaochen had read much, and knew that in the Ming dynasty, the so-called ‘upright officials’ often accomplished little, but could easily ruin matters. He had not expected to witness it firsthand.

To those greedy for profit, one must wound their interests; to those hungry for fame, one must tarnish their reputation. There are no absolute secrets in this world. You may escape justice in the living realm, but the underworld keeps its own records. Under the mandate of heaven, none can escape.

That night, Liaochen called upon the local City God and Earth God. Mao’s karmic debts and disasters were revealed in full. Liaochen knew the Ming bureaucracy was corrupt, but to find someone so shameless and cruel was rare. “If you do not die, how can the people live?” he murmured, astonished that a scholar could have so many wrongful deaths on his hands. What manner of life forged such a fiend?

At dawn, Liaochen visited the governor again, producing a sheet of paper and handing it over. The governor glanced at it and was shocked. “Where did you get this?”

Liaochen answered frankly, “Under heaven’s mandate, who can truly escape scrutiny? These are merely records from the underworld; I copied them ahead of time. In truth, these retributions should befall Mao only after his death.”

The governor’s face darkened. Who among men has not committed misdeeds? If someone could always obtain such records from the underworld, who could rest easy?

“Your Excellency need not worry. The underworld has its own laws; such records are not easily brought to the realm of the living. I will not do so again—none can bear the guilt of disturbing the balance between Yin and Yang.” Liaochen understood the governor’s thoughts and continued, “This occasion arose only because Lord Ji Xin, the local City God, could not bear to see the people suffer and made an exception. Such things cannot happen again.” He did not wish to become an enemy of the officialdom, so he explained the source clearly; otherwise, to be a public foe in the bureaucracy would bode ill.

The governor was reassured, but thoughts of the underworld lingered. Heaven’s net is vast; having served in office, he could hardly claim spotless virtue. He resolved privately to do more good, lest he be forced to repay his debts in the afterlife.

After reading the document, the governor, though aware of Mao’s corruption, had not imagined him to be so utterly vile. He sighed, “Unthinkable, unthinkable. Mao is a learned man, yet lacks all integrity, committing such evil. Alas.”

“Can you use this as evidence to arrest him?” Liaochen asked.

“No,” the governor shook his head. “Officialdom is not so simply divided into black and white. What Mao has done, from the cabinet elder to the lowliest clerk, all are guilty to some degree. If we do not use these charges for impeachment, it is well. If we do, he will only be safer. Ultimately, officials serve for profit. No one dares pierce that veil—not even the emperor.”

Liaochen sighed inwardly, “After two hundred years of Ming rule, the calamity of the Jia Shen year was truly fated. With a century left before its fall, things are already thus; how could it not perish?”

“But while an official cannot act, the people can. If the people bring charges, I may investigate truthfully and report to the throne—dismissal and prosecution become possible,” the governor added.

“Why can the people do what officials cannot?” Liaochen asked, puzzled.

“In the bureaucracy, everyone knows the score; all benefit and none dare expose the truth. Yet, to serve as an official, one must champion the people’s cause. Redressing grievances is an essential part of a clean reputation. Thus, the people can bring charges. If they succeed, I too gain a name for justice.” The governor chuckled, stroking his beard.

Liaochen thought privately, “Is this not merely hypocrisy?” Outwardly, he appeared delighted. “Thank you for your guidance, Your Excellency.”

With the path clear, Liaochen wasted no time. He rescued those whom Mao would have imprisoned, instructed them to seek justice at the governor’s office, and left them to their fate. He then found a secluded spot, arranged seven oil lamps in the pattern of the Northern Dipper, drew his peachwood sword, gazed at the stars, invoked his power, lighting the lamps one by one, and commenced his ritual, stepping in the celestial patterns and reciting sacred texts.

Meanwhile, Mao was in his study, furious as he prepared a letter. He could not fathom why the governor had suddenly decided to play the upright magistrate. When Mao heard the news and hurried over, the governor refused to see him, citing the need to avoid suspicion. Mao realized trouble was brewing, but having committed such deeds, he had his own backing. Not only did he have allies among the censors, but also friends in the ministries. Moreover, the matter concerned the reputation of the upright officials; the Censorate would not rest easily. As he wrote, the closed window in his study suddenly swung open. A gust of cold wind swept in, making him shiver. A nameless fear crept into his heart.