ITIEQ C49

Chapter 49 – Into Hell I Go

A single raging fire lit up the desolate night, and the statues of the White Lotus Sect’s so‑called Holy Transcendent Bodhisattvas twisted into grotesque and demonic shapes in the cremation flames. By the front gate, the tower’s finely carved wooden idols — half of one serene face already charred black — no longer bore a trace of compassion.

The temple’s main doors had been flung wide. Yao Guang entered spear in hand, and on seeing Shen Qinghe safe and sound, he let out a breath of relief before shouting: “Seal the temple!”

The men and women who had followed in confusion now looked on in stupefaction at the soldiers flooding in, watching helplessly as they were bound together, lined up like candied hawthorn skewers.

Yao Guang shouted: “The White Lotus Temple has committed countless crimes. Now Heaven itself sends down fire upon you! If you don’t want to be dragged down with them, then speak truthfully when questioned!”

The Daoists quivered, their eyes darting desperately toward the “living Bodhisattva” they worshiped.

Shen Qinghe merely touched his nose lightly. “The law shows no mercy—I cannot interfere. But since you weren’t the masterminds, just speak the truth and you’ll live. As for the true ringleaders—none of them shall escape.” He let his gaze rest pointedly on the so‑called “mastermind.”

The old Daoist, dragged from his bedding into a chain of calamities, now sat swollen‑faced and bruised, tied up like a dumpling, dazed. When the court troops stormed back in, he at last understood. This was the imperial trap all along! Unable to strike openly, they had resorted to vile tricks!

He kicked and thrashed, nearly throwing off the strong men restraining him. “To act wantonly like this is to defy the true spirits! Ghosts will cling to you, and after death your corpses will be gnawed by demons!”

“Such foul curses! If you dare speak again, I’ll rip your tongue out!” Yao Guang snapped, raising his hand as if to act. The Daoist shrank back at once.

Shen Qinghe smirked, a devil’s leer dancing in the firelight across his face, like one risen from hell. “You spent your life bowing to false gods — with not a shred of repentance. Do you not realize why this divine retribution has come upon you today? You worship false deities, commit every vile deed, angering the heavens themselves. You prattle of ferrying souls to paradise… did you ever wonder whether your own end will be peaceful?”

For all his years managing the White Lotus Temple, the old steward Daoist knew well what was really being run inside: there were no gods, only clay and wood. He had never once seen anything real — it was all just a mask for deceit!

He had exalted himself as a manipulator of gods and Buddha, his name and his silver flowing as steadily as a stream. But tonight, confronted by seeming divine wrath, his bulging eyes rolled wildly. Words of arrogance froze on his tongue.

As soldiers pressed down on his shoulders to haul him away to cells, he sneered leisurely at last: “Yellow‑fanged brat, I advise you take heed. You think dragging me off here will change anything? In two days’ time you’ll be begging to let me out!”

Shen Qinghe’s eyes flickered.

“Oh? Waiting on your ‘Reverend’ to save you? Well, you’ll be waiting a long time — he’s already roasted about eighty percent done.”

The old Daoist snorted. In lowered voice, he warned: “Don’t say I didn’t advise you — think thrice before you act rashly. I know every great official here. Within three days even your superiors will be scrambling to fetch me. Hm! Boy, your road ends here.”

His mind made up, fear fell away. He even seemed at ease.

“Not afraid you’ll be rescued — but afraid no one bothers to rescue you.” Shen Qinghe pulled a ledger from his sleeve and tapped it against the Daoist’s stunned face. “Take him away. Lock him shut.”

Yao Guang scowled deeply. “Didn’t expect Cangzhou to have such a thorny mess.”

“There’s a big fish behind them. We’ll need patience — fish long, reel slow.” Shen Qinghe said softly, “Cangzhou is remote. His Majesty is far in the capital; the whip is long but cannot reach. With aristocratic clans blocking the middle, central authority struggles to extend here.”

Yao Guang groaned, head already aching at such words. “Enough talk of this—what I want to know is, how did you make this White Lotus Temple…” He threw his chin toward the roaring inferno. His eyes sparkled. “It even thundered like the heavens! Had I not known it was you, I’d have thought real spirits had descended to smite them!”

“My teacher once had a saying: ‘Master mathematics, physics, and chemistry, and you’ll fear nothing across the world.’”

“They tried to use incense to harm people — but laced into the incense were large amounts of aristolochia, and niter. I mixed in carefully balanced sulfur… and then—boom!” Shen Qinghe mimicked a flower blooming with his hands.

Yao Guang whistled in amazement. His mind only excelled at war, and he immediately pictured: “If this could be used in the field, then our army would be unstoppable!” Visions of battlefields aflame danced in his eyes.

“Indeed, its power on the battlefield is unimaginable,” Shen Qinghe smiled. “This is called the ‘Ignition‑Salt Technique.’ But its conditions are harsh. The furnace had many impurities. Only thanks to my special advantage*¹ could I calculate precisely where the blasts would trigger. Ordinary fools repeating it would more likely wound themselves tenfold than the enemy.”

The system piped up: “That’s right, it was thanks to me!”

Yao Guang looked disappointed until Shen Qinghe steered the moment around again: “But this is only the most basic powder. I’ve a different invention, especially designed for war, just recently completed. Once we’re back in Qiuchuan, I’ll show you. Might even rival that precious spear of Brother Xiao’s.”

Yao Guang hugged his golden spear jealously with an awkward grin. “T‑That’s… not the same thing!”

Xue Bufan and Kong Zhengqing were workhorses; this sort of duty was second nature. Within days they had accounted for everyone seized at the temple. Those deceived into entering were sent back to their home villages. Those sold with no families to claim them were brought to Qiuchuan, to be enrolled in schools and rebuilt with proper values.

Xiaoman had found her elder sister. Originally she too would have returned home, but Shen Qinghe admired her bravery and offered her an “olive branch.” The girl now idolized him, delightedly accepted, and already dreamt of going to Qiuchuan.

Kong Zhengqing respected Shen Qinghe deeply — for daring the tiger’s den and employing such ingenious stratagems. Xue Bufan, by contrast, thought it exactly like him, bold yet reckless.

They examined the ledger taken back. Every entry confirmed the White Lotus Temple’s filthy dealings, but pursue it as they might, implicated officials could only be accused of dereliction — hardly worse than scandal for tea‑table gossip. To make bones crack and ligaments snap, they had to get the real power behind the sect.

Sure enough, some officials made veiled queries — but all were rebuffed. The captured Daoists still sat smug, sure rescue would come, tight‑lipped no matter the threat.

“I could invoke my authority as Censor‑in‑Chief, and justify executing them first and reporting later. Yet even so, their defiance persists. Whoever protects them must rank higher than me.”

“Not necessarily rank,” Shen Qinghe drummed his fingers on the table. “Great Yong holds a certain group — no titles needed — yet their power in the shadows can stir the nation’s winds.”

“You mean…”

“Exactly. But you, Lord Kong, having dwelt closer to the storm’s eye, would know best what currents boil there.”

Kong Zhengqing frowned, thinking deeply. “If it be of the Five Surnames, Seven Clans*² — they indeed wield such reach. But they are proud, and would scorn to wade into this filthy swamp.”

“You, too, place a halo on the aristocrats?” Shen Qinghe teased him. “You are upright and diligent. When you have leisure, come visit our Qingbei Academy. Men like you are always welcome.”

“I have heard tell of your academy.” Kong Zhengqing laughed. “If time allows, I must indeed see it.” He was about to ask more, when Yao Guang burst through in haste.

“The Daoists—they’re dead!”

By carriage they rushed to the prefectural prison. The corpses still lay warm.

“How did they die!?” Kong Zhengqing seized a jailer by the collar.

The jailer stammered: “My lord, we watched over them constantly. They were old men, we didn’t torture them, we fed them well… yet it turns out they secretly poured away all food we gave. Three days no food nor water. We did not realize. They… starved themselves deliberately…”

“Starved?!” Yao Guang cried, incredulous, rising in fury so sharp even Xue Bufan turned his head. “How could men alive and well just let themselves starve? Do you know what they—”

“Enough, Yao Guang.” Shen Qinghe spoke at last, breaking his long silence as he gazed coldly on the corpses. “Bury them.”

The jailer obeyed quickly. The four walked out heavily burdened.

Yao Guang muttered feverishly: “Just days ago, full of life, flaunting before me! I refuse to believe they’d simply lay down willingly to starve themselves!”

“Indeed there is trickery here,” Kong Zhengqing admitted grimly. “But I already checked every official who met them in these days. None seemed the mastermind.”

“It seems someone does not wish us to dig further.” Shen Qinghe let out a quiet laugh, cold as ice. “What a long reach—they struck and claimed every life at once. We were misled by the old Daoist’s words. In truth, their master never planned rescue at all.”

Was it that they had no chance? Or that they simply never intended to?

“With no more confessions, the trail of the White Lotus breaks entirely,” Yao Guang lamented, ruffling his hair. “We made such progress, even razed the sanctuary. And now—nothing! I cannot accept this!”

“Oh, we’ll pursue it. Of course we will.”

To Shen Qinghe, it was only growing interesting. Leaving the dank prison behind, he stepped into the light. After years in Qiuchuan, mired in endless routine, hidden teeth muzzled, at last he felt the blood surge — like a beast catching the scent of spilling prey.

“What I hate most,” he whispered, “is those who treat humans as less than human.”

The three companions watched him intently.

“I intend to go to Huizhou. Time I properly met this ‘gentleman.’ Let’s hope we have a… pleasant resolution.”

The Xiu Xié Festival, inherited from centuries past, was still celebrated. The great clans all attended, trumpeting their profound heritage. There he could surely glean much.

At the name ‘Huizhou’, Xue Bufan’s expression clouded.

But Yao Guang already scented smoke and fire. His eyes lit like sparks. He too yearned for release of his energy.

And to march with Shen Qinghe—always the promise of intrigue.

Footnotes

 

 

1. Five Surnames, Seven Clans (五姓七望): A phrase denoting the most elite aristocratic families of early medieval China, often dominating politics and culture. Their influence was immense, rivaling imperial authority in some eras.