Chapter Seventy-One: Terms and Responsibilities

He had intended to plead for help, but as the words reached his lips, Song Wen swallowed them back. In haste, he changed his request: “Could you help examine the corpses, identify who those charred bodies belong to? Would that be possible?”

Di Ying, hands tucked into his sleeves and belly slightly protruding, cast a lazy glance at Song Wen. He replied unhurriedly, “Why are you so anxious, Lord Song? Do you suppose there are any distinguished figures among those bodies? If such people could be burned to death so easily, I’d be the first to laugh.” With that, he shook his head, seemingly regretful.

Earlier, when thick smoke had surged into the main hall, Di Ying had risen swiftly and, before anyone else could react, slipped out of the building. He found a secluded spot, restored his true appearance, and quickly called for men to cut a firebreak, preventing the blaze from spreading. All the while, he kept an eye on those who managed to escape. There was no way out through the rear courtyard, so only the side windows and the second floor offered any hope of escape—all within his line of sight. Regrettably, all those dressed in fine, luxurious garments had made it out safely.

“Lord Di, at a time like this, you still have the heart to joke... Please, help me,” Song Wen pleaded, stamping his foot in distress.

Di Ying smiled and asked, “You want me to do it? The moment I reach out my hand, the case will fall under my jurisdiction. Brother Song, you’re not trying to set me up, are you?”

Song Wen was taken aback. “I didn’t mean it that way, truly, Lord Di. Please don’t misunderstand.”

Di Ying lifted his chin. “Then take a moment and think about it, will you?”

Song Wen hesitated. “What if we work together on this case?”

Di Ying shook his head. “Why would I take on such a hot potato?”

Song Wen gritted his teeth. “You really won’t take it?”

Di Ying continued to shake his head. “I won’t.”

Song Wen spun in place. “Name your terms!”

Di Ying narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Song Wen. “You, who are always so adept at smoothing things over, why this sudden show of backbone? You could easily muddle through—call it a crowd knocking over a candelabrum, a stray spark from the kitchen, too many draperies inside—call it an accident, and no one would question it. At worst, you could throw up your hands and declare it unsolved, send it up to the Ministry of Justice. Eventually, it would land on my desk anyway. Why put yourself out now? What are you scheming?”

Song Wen was silent.

He grabbed Di Ying by the arm, pulled him into a secluded corner, and lowered his voice. “Drop the act—midnight is almost upon us, and you, Lord Di, just happen to appear here? You really think I’ll believe it’s a coincidence? Tell me what you want me to do, plainly. Stop trying to trap people and still expect them to walk into the trap willingly!”

Di Ying was speechless. When had he come to be so poorly regarded? He rubbed his nose and replied softly, “Eighty-eight children’s household registrations.”

The moment the words fell, Song Wen’s eyes widened dramatically. He pointed at Di Ying, then at the charred building, then at himself, his mouth opening and closing but unable to utter a sound. Seeing Di Ying nod emphatically, Song Wen stood dumbstruck for a long while before finally muttering, “You’re utterly deranged, monstrous beyond compare. Should I clap my thigh and say, ‘Go on, have your fun, I’ll take the blame’? After all, you’ve already told me there are no bigwigs among the dead. So I could just tidy things up, sprinkle a little water, toss down some earth, smooth it over and call it done. But, damn it, I just can’t bring myself to do it...”

As he spoke, Song Wen slumped to the ground. After a few breaths, he clung to Di Ying’s legs, looked up, and pleaded, “Can you send me somewhere else? With you in the capital, there are too many pitfalls—I can’t shoulder this burden.”

Those eighty-eight children had been painstakingly selected, favorites of powerful people, gathered from all over at enormous cost and effort. The true master behind the “Tooth Market”... Just the thought sent chills down Song Wen’s spine. How could Di Ying be so formidable?

“Of course. Once I’ve settled this, I’ll head over to the Ministry of Personnel and arrange—no, draft—a transfer for you,” Di Ying said cheerfully, helping Song Wen to his feet.

“You really mean to send me away?” Song Wen protested. “If I leave, who in the capital’s prefecture office will help you?”

Standing upright again, Song Wen blurted this out almost involuntarily.

Di Ying burst out laughing, clapping Song Wen on the shoulder. “Why would I send you away?” Meeting Song Wen’s puzzled gaze, Di Ying only raised an eyebrow, offering no explanation, and rolled up his sleeves as he strode toward the line of charred corpses.

Song Wen stood speechless for a long while, unable to fathom which of his mind’s wires had crossed, or why he’d bargained with Di Ying to stay in the capital. He could not understand why he had suddenly pledged his loyalty to Di Ying.

He lingered in the shadows, watching Di Ying crouch before the bodies, examining them with utmost care and not a trace of disgust, his every movement meticulous. For the first time in a long while, a glimmer of resolve flashed in Song Wen’s eyes. He turned and melted into the darkness, racing toward the patch of light at the far end of the alley—toward the city office where household records were managed.

...

Elsewhere, Zhang Maoqing, the imperial censor who had narrowly escaped the inferno and returned home still trembling, hadn’t even changed out of his scorched clothes. After calming himself with a cup of tea, he retired to his study. He sat down to grind ink and write with a determined hand.

He intended to memorialize the emperor, to impeach those officials who trafficked in children, to loudly denounce the Tooth Market’s abuses, and above all, to expose the sinister hands manipulating events from the shadows.

His wife, anxious, followed him in. When she saw the words he’d already written, her brows furrowed and she whispered, “Husband, do you truly mean to write these things? You, your parents, I, and our entire family—our lives will be forfeit.”

Her words made Zhang Maoqing’s brush pause. He gazed at his wife apologetically and replied, “I owe a duty to the court.”

“Duty...” His wife gave a bitter smile. “You think only of your duty to the court, but what about your duty to your parents? To your wife and children? To your family? Can you set those aside so lightly?”

Hearing this, Zhang Maoqing gently touched her hair, sighed deeply, and answered, “A man who wishes to stand upright in the world must, at times, make a choice.”

She quietly pressed his hand, held it, and placed it back upon the desk. Picking up his brush, she placed it in his hand and, rolling up her sleeves, began to grind ink for him. Tears fell silently into the inkstone, blossoming in the black pool.

Zhang Maoqing let out a long sigh to the heavens, gripped his brush, and continued to write.

But before he could finish another line, he was interrupted. Two young men, clad in the robes of the Court of Judicial Review, kicked open the door and burst into the room.