ITIEQ C16

Chapter 16 – They Must Live!

A day at Qingbei Academy began at cockcrow. If students had no pressing matters at home, they were permitted to reside in the east and west wings, spared the daily toil between home and school.

“Master Dan, you’ve misplaced that. Books on agriculture belong on shelf D.” Lang Xingyue took down the text Dan Bowen had set wrong, placing it properly on the wooden rack beside.

“From now on, leave it to me. If I’m busy outside with washing, just put them on that desk—I’ll arrange them.”

Dan Bowen scratched his head, blushing. “Your memory is remarkable, Xingyue. I’m clumsy with hands and feet. I’ll trouble you often.”

“I came here as a worker. What talk of trouble is there?” Lang lowered his eyes, drawing a stack of rough papers from his sleeve. “If you have time, might you look at these?”

Dan Bowen peered down—lines and lines of tiny script. It was the small experiment Teacher Xi led them on after yesterday’s class. Lang had been outside, yet, hearing only once, noted down nearly everything correct. Truly impressive!

“This part here is wrong. At this step, salt-water must be added. Only when boiling yields pale yellow sediment do you proceed.” He pointed carefully, explaining.

Lang remembered diligently. “Thank you, Master Dan.”

“What Master—what nonsense! Within Qingbei, we are one family! Though Teacher Shen has not formally enrolled you, you hold ink in your breast and talent in your brush. He forbade you not from the library, and Teacher Xi instructs you without reserve. Surely both hope you advance with us. If you don’t mind, call me Brother Dan, and I’ll answer as such.”

Lang pressed his hands in thanks. “…Then, Brother Dan, I am grateful.”

Dan Bowen smiled kindly, ruffling his hair. “Good. I’ll go first then.”

Watching him depart, Lang smoothed the rough papers neatly upon the desk.

It had been half a month since that fateful day in the fields with Young Master Shen. Half a month spent at the Academy, tending its room of books. From the dizzy awe of the first day, to the dull routine of now—only half a month.

He had never known such a place existed. Priceless manuscripts, life-saving remedies, canons for ruling states—like sweet dew from Heaven, within touch of his hand.

And the teachers were stranger still. Lang was no rustic easily overawed—he had seen even albino infants born with hair all white. Yet the golden-haired, golden-eyed child truly shocked him. For this child knew heavens above and earth below. Lang was famed ten miles round for memory, the “born student.” Yet this child could recite word, page, line—without error. Could answer every calculation without need for bamboo tallies. That even students older by a decade called him “Teacher” felt perfectly natural.

Not to mention the unheard arts and inventions whispered as “black words” of the Academy. Or little tricks—like the formula for “soap” Lang once overheard. He’d never even heard his brother mention noble homes possessing such. Out in the world, it would sell dearly, winning a rich life.

The longer he stayed, the stronger he longed. Here, books were free for all; learning knew no age. The place brimmed with vigor. Even he, once but servant, could devote all without fear of slight.

Like Student Dan of moments past—of peasant stock like him, holding a secret formula of immeasurable worth, yet not even coveting its profit. For Lang’s fleeting greed, he felt shame. Gold that day from Shen Gongzi, the lectures each teacher gave—such gifts were Heaven’s bounty. He must repay peach with peach—never betray with thorn.

“Everyone! Urgent news!”

Lost in thought, he heard Lü Song rushing in.

Seeing Shen Gongzi’s servant, Lang hurried to summon. Five gathered instantly. Lü Song explained nothing, herded them all to the carriage. Fortune—the snow-white steeds hauled with strength, enough space for all to sit.

Eyeing Lang left alone, he thought a moment. “The Young Master lacks hands—come also.”

Lang raised his eyes, stars flashing within.

Two snow-crystal steeds pulled the carriage, racing past the gates towards the fields outside the city.

“What business does Teacher Shen have? Will Teacher Xi be there? Yesterday’s lesson—I had some confusion, was hoping to ask.” On the carriage, Dan Bowen asked in jest.

“Forget lessons for now.” Lü Song’s ever-joyous face wore rare gravity. “I can’t explain now. You’ll understand at once.”

Everyone braced themselves for weight. Carriage rattled out, dawn whitening sky. Noise rose ahead, muffled shouts unraveling into clarity.

“You go too far! How dare you commit such outrage!”

“We fled famine, committing no crime—do you feel no shame in heart?”

Shen Qinghe had just arrived. Today he had shed official robes, wearing narrow-sleeved dark garments, hair bound neat for ease of movement. Swift, nimble, severe.

Breaking into the crowd’s center, a sight— a woman in rough cloth sat upon earth. Rope of straw bound a man’s corpse to her back. His arms, sticking out stiff and green, showed he was long dead.

Shen asked the onlookers: “What has happened?”

The scribe grinned bitterly. “Commoners talk without filter. Another died last night. They let news slip—about bodies burnt.”

“Lord! Lord!” The woman, fresh from weeping, staggered forward when path opened, clutching at Shen’s robes. “My husband died because of me! Burn me, not him!”

He crouched. The woman’s hair wild, face filthy, skin bruised and blackened, sight like hell itself. The refugees stood far off, watching silently. Their lives hung in hands of others.

“I burn bodies not to shame him. Corpses heaped long spread pestilence. Cremation protects all.”

“No, Lord! If his body is burned, he cannot be reborn, cannot return as man! My family is dead—their corpses gnawed in fields by dogs. Only my husband remains. Let him at least rest whole!”

She bowed low, refusing to rise, tears long wrung dry.

Shen Qinghe was silent.

The scribe sneered. “Why chatter with her, my lord? We’ll drag her off—quick and done.”

Hearing them, the woman gave a shattered cry that scalded the marrow. Yesterday gruel returned life, today it withered. Only Shen’s gentle face inspired her. Again she knocked her head on earth, begging to preserve her man whole.

Silent, Shen knew: even among literate peers, cremation was taboo—let alone among peasants. Against officials, he could press with words—but not here among powerless.

These refugees marched amid corpses daily. Each town spurned them as plague. Now at the capital’s gate, they were kept outside. Given gruel sometimes, cast off others.

Every family had a corpse to mourn, every roof cried empty. What words could suffice? Even if soldiers dragged corpses to burn, none here would dare resist.

Beneath scant woods, sun climbed, but clouds blotted light. Chill lingered.

The woman’s sobs whispered still.

Truly, there was little to hesitate. Only in such times—the knife must cut swift.

“Come! Someone come!” A voice cut in behind.

A boy crimson-faced was rushed forward. A physician examined.

“Chills and fever. White tongue coat, crimson tongue body, pest lodged in lungs. Who else shows pain, fatigue, cough?”

Faces withdrew. None answered.

After calamity, plague ever followed.

Shen Qinghe’s heart sank. It had come.

The scribe shrieked: “You wretches! Bearing plague, hiding it—think to kill us too?” He staggered back.

One muttered weakly: “Perhaps not plague. I ache not. Perhaps cold. It will pass, surely…” His voice broke to disbelief. All knew plague meant death. Needed food—but again cast beyond hope, to die unburied?

They had asked no wealth, no peace beyond modesty. Was this Heaven punishing greed?

The scribe clutched Shen. “Lord! If plague spreads to nobles inside the city, my head will not suffice! I want none of this! Mercy’s heart now is worthless—slay them now before doom comes!”

The widow no longer wept. Knowing, perhaps, fate sealed. She set her body down gently, stroking her husband’s face, whispering.

And Shen remembered—a distant afternoon, he once bore another on his back, to village clinic. How could one who laughed at dusk be gone by dawn? Faint sun, cruelest farewell.

One man broke then. Held long futile despair cracked to sobbing shrieks.

Once begun, cries spread contagion. Soon, the camp shook with despair.

Last night Shen had named himself duckweed, but at least duckweed floated on water. These refugees were drifting dandelion fluff—land here, flourish briefly, or fall crushed to rot. Their loudest moment—a single burst of grief. Then silence, death unmarked.

The scribe still whined. Shen’s veins throbbed.

“Shut up!” he barked.

Stunned, the man snarled: “You’ll ruin yourself for these wretches! Not my concern!” Cloak flung, he stormed off.

Dan Bowen’s boys arrived, staring from margins, helpless at sobbing throngs.

With breath full, Shen shouted: “And you—be silent too!”

The wails lingered. He scowled.

He had spent thirteen years clawing from a mountain village. Thirteen years learning tears were useless.

“You’re not dead yet! Already crying funerals? Pest lodged, evil enters you—yet still you cower? Weeping fuels its strength, quickens your end! Wish to die quicker? Then confess now, spare our effort!” His voice, ice, wielded truth in their terms.

Effect came—the cries faltered, eyes fixed on him.

“This is the capital, beneath heaven’s Son! Dragon qi enshrouds it—have you heard of plague dwelling here?” he thundered.

They considered—none recalled such tale. Shen gambled—distance muffles news. Yet their faces eased. He pressed forward: “What pest comes here will quail before Emperor’s might. Its power already dimmed. With will, you overcome. Here are best doctors and herbs. What use sobbing?”

“Save us, Lord!”

They bent knees again, knocking heads.

“To be saved, you follow! Cremation, not insult: those corpses already filled with demons. Fire and prayer cleanse them, monks from the Protector Temple chanting to bless. Purified, they shall be reborn whole anew. Do you hear?”

Religion carried weight. Protector Temple’s monks were lofty, rarely seen by rich nobles, let alone peasants. Now told their dead would gain monks’ blessings, faces softened. Resistance to embalming flame dulled.

“Divide yourselves now! Those ill, to the patient camp set apart. Illness shan’t be hidden.”

One asked, trembling: “In the camp—will there be physicians?” Fear bit.

Shen gazed firm: “Of course. The Imperial Physicians who return men from death—they will banish demons, heal you.”

A plague? To Great Yong, hell’s door. But with his System—he dared wager he’d find cure.

“The physicians!” Joy burst bricks from clay faces. To them—heaven’s finest healers. They were saved!

Seeing resolve rekindled, Shen raised voice: “Any ill, go at once to the new camp. If you hide and spread, even physicians can’t save you! Life or death—yours to choose!”

Already the willing rose, borne by family, or alone with ragged bundles, filing toward marked ground.

They wanted to live.

They must live!