Chapter Sixty-Seven: Schemes and Eloquence

At this point, Di Ying paused, then continued, “There was nothing unusual—no dirt or foreign matter—under the deceased’s fingernails or in the nail beds. This suggests… she did not struggle fiercely in the water.” He sighed before going on, “There are multiple wounds on the body, both old and new, inflicted at different times—most are whip marks, with some from sticks and stabs. All were sustained while she was alive.

“Several bones throughout her body were fractured by force. Judging from the oldest injuries, we can infer that the earliest harm she suffered was at least a year ago.”

When Di Ying finished, he set about tidying and suturing the body.

The room fell silent. Only the sound of Di Ying pulling the suture thread and Peng Liang writing the autopsy report could be heard. It was an eerie stillness, stifling and hard to breathe in.

The sunlight gradually slanted across the floor.

“Find her a place where no one will disturb her, and see that she’s properly buried,” Di Ying said, covering the corpse with a white cloth and giving instructions to Di Shun.

On his way out to wash his hands, Di Ying loosened his jaw, aching from being clenched, and issued a series of orders to Di Shun. At last, he looked Di Shun in the eye and reminded him earnestly, “Be quick about it!”

Di Shun obeyed, immediately setting people to work without pause.

As for Di Ying, he took the dossier of recent information collected by Di Shun, along with a few other notes, and slipped out the back door of the carriage house with Peng Liang, blending into the street.

Where to go?

He was hungry.

Rubbing his stomach, Di Ying headed to a place called Drunken Poetry Pavilion.

As the name suggested, this two-story tavern was lively yet refined—a favorite gathering spot for scholars and students, lovers of literature and art.

Upon entering, they saw groups of young men in long robes clustered together in the main hall, debating matters of war.

“Our army has two hundred thousand men. Why not advance on multiple fronts and strike directly at the enemy’s capital? This stalemate only subjects the cities to repeated devastation, wasting supplies and soldiers’ lives for nothing!”

“What do you know? The enemy also fields two hundred thousand, and with battles on multiple fronts, how can we support each other?”

“Exactly! Such a move would not only leave us unsupported, but the enemy could cut off our retreat. Then we’d be unable to advance or withdraw—a perfect recipe for disaster!”

“You’re wrong! If we advance on separate routes and lay ambushes, avoiding the enemy’s main force, we could strike from all sides, exhaust them, then regroup for a decisive blow and win in one fell swoop!”

“Nonsense! Before the soldiers march, supplies must be secured. If our army penetrates deep into enemy territory, how will we guarantee provisions? Without food, what will the troops fight with?”

“What’s the point of all this talk? None of you have even passed the military examinations.”

“You don’t understand. Every army’s supervisor is a civil official. Our time will come. At worst, we can always petition the court and let His Majesty decide.”

The debate grew heated; one man pounded the table, gesticulating wildly.

Di Ying and Peng Liang skirted around them and found a quiet spot in a corner.

Peng Liang, listening, grew animated as well. Di Ying, however, propped his elbows on the table, resting his face on two fingers, expressionless. He even yawned.

Unexpectedly, a young man noticed this and, offended, pointed at him, saying, “The nation’s borders are troubled—we should all be concerned! Even if we can’t serve in the army, we should be racking our brains for good strategies to help the court and bring peace to the people. You look like an educated man—how can you dismiss our passion so casually?”

Di Ying said nothing.

He had no intention of arguing with such a hotheaded youth. He pretended not to hear, seizing the moment when the food arrived to lower his hand, pick up his chopsticks, and begin to eat.

The Great Xia Dynasty was an open society, especially regarding public speech. Thanks to Lai Wangcai’s “influence,” reporting news or submitting petitions had become commonplace. Such public “armchair strategizing,” so long as it didn’t concern the emperor or certain sensitive matters, was permitted.

Di Ying actually enjoyed hearing the people’s views on all kinds of affairs.

But the young man took a dislike to him. Seeing Di Ying ignore him, he strode over, raising his voice, “Hey! I’m talking to you! You’re really going to treat us as if we’re nothing? You must apologize here and now!”

The corner of Di Ying’s mouth twitched.

Just then, a man in a jade-green robe strode confidently through the door.

The troublemaker, spotting him, immediately turned away to greet him, bowing enthusiastically, “Brother Qin, so you’ve arrived!”

The other students also gathered around, greeting the newcomer. Some immediately sought his insight.

“Brother Wei, I hear you’re exceptionally studious and famed for your eloquence in the capital. I’m confused about the concepts of ‘Mediocrity’ and ‘the Way.’ Could you explain them in detail?”

Qin Tiezhong, hearing this, placed one hand behind his back and replied, “‘Mediocrity’ means steadfastness—neither leaning nor deviating; ‘the Way’ is the method by which one attains this state of mind.”

Another listener shook his head and countered, “‘Mediocrity’ means balance and harmony—it’s about neither standing out nor falling behind. ‘The Way’ refers to how one maintains this mindset.”

Challenged, Qin Tiezhong’s interest was piqued. He immediately launched into a fervent debate, citing classics and arguing his position. He was a proud man, never one to back down—especially not in public.

While they argued on, Di Ying finished his meal quickly and quietly, then slipped out.

As they walked away, Peng Liang murmured, “That Qin Tiezhong is Lai Wangcai’s right-hand man. So young, yet he’s already on the wrong path.”

Di Ying chuckled and replied softly, “He has more ‘ambition’ than Lai Wangcai.”

Peng Liang glanced at his superior, starry eyes blinking, and asked, “Are you really going to move against Lai Wangcai, sir?”

Di Ying shot him an incredulous look and tugged at his mouth, saying nothing.

Peng Liang sighed inwardly, dousing any unrealistic notions he’d entertained.

…

Meanwhile, Qin Tiezhong’s thoughts were elsewhere. As Di Ying and Peng Liang exited the tavern, even as he debated fiercely, Qin Tiezhong’s gaze followed Di Ying’s retreating figure.

He recognized him as Di Ying, the man whose thunderous campaign against old cases had earned him renown among both the people and the officials.

Spotting Di Ying made Qin Tiezhong want to bring a matter to Lai Wangcai’s attention.

But he was not one to concede defeat. Only after winning the debate did he hurry to Lai Wangcai’s residence.

When Lai Wangcai heard his reason for coming, his face—shadowed by candlelight—revealed nothing of his mood. Fingering his string of prayer beads, he reminded Qin Tiezhong, “Don’t forget how we clawed our way up from the streets to our current station. If you don’t want to fall hard, remember always: we are but the knives.”

Qin Tiezhong, hearing Lai Wangcai’s gruff, rasping voice—like a blade scraping iron—replied unwillingly, “But I feel certain his appearance at Drunken Poetry Pavilion today was no coincidence.”