ITIEQ C72

Chapter 72 – One Wave After Another

Three days later, the carriages returning to the capital halted neatly by the half‑shuttered side gate of Qingbei Academy.

This time, Shen Qinghe had intended to slip away at dawn without a fuss. He had not expected that news of his going to the capital to assume office had already been spread—who knew which attending student had let it out. The student body in Danyang Prefecture was more mixed; a fair number were not so poor that their families had nothing to eat, and their feelings toward this young dean were perhaps not as devout as those at the main campus in Qingbei County—almost possessing a touch of reverence.

Some had only glimpsed Shen Qinghe from afar at the opening ceremony. Yet after reading these strange books and widening their horizons, they knew how great a blessing it was to study here, and their respect for the dean was by no means small.

There had long been a culture of veneration in the scholarly world: those whose biographies were written and passed down were either dazzling in talent or exceptional in bearing, and wherever they went, they drew gazes.

As above, so below. Having finally seized firsthand news, they came to chase their idol—nothing excessive about that!

Of course, the news did not spread perfectly; information gaps among students can be frightening.

The well‑informed had already learned the dean’s exact departure time. Before dawn, they had slipped into the small grove by the gate; when the grove could hold no more, latecomers took to the tall classroom buildings, peering out through windows.

In the end, even the towering clock tower was crowded with people.

The academy’s luxury coach could not be taken; Shen Qinghe had to alight at the gate and change carriages. From the instant he lifted the curtain, he felt—vaguely yet distinctly—watched.

It was only the hour of Mao; the world still half in dreams. He glanced around—

A sea of bobbing heads, black and dense.

“…?” Thanks—now he was fully awake.

Perhaps because there wasn’t quite that quasi‑religious devotion, seeing the living dean—so often praised by their teachers—standing before them, those who met his gaze could not help a cry at seeing their idol. That one shout did it; all the crouching heads began to stir.

Shen Qinghe learned just how many people could hide in so small a patch.

“Are you destroying the greenery?” He pointed at the sign beside them—Please Do Not Step on the Lawn. “This sod was not easy to transplant. Everyone here—report for volunteer groundskeeping!”

The students hiding in the greenbelt, caught and scolded, shuffled out in embarrassment.

“Good day, Dean.”

From the crowd he heard excited whispers, half‑suppressed:

“We saw him in person.”

“So close—he looks younger than me!”

“Our dean is so handsome, hehe…”

What on earth…

“You came to see me?”

The ringleader who had puffed himself up over this covert operation stepped forward first, now shy as anyone. “We heard the dean was going to the capital. We wanted to see you off.”

The dean of Qingbei—seen like a dragon’s head and tail, difficult to meet. They privately joked that by day he went to the heavens to fetch treasured books, and by night returned to sleep on earth.

At first, no one believed it. But then they looked at the books in their hands—and found it quite convincing. What could be more reasonable!

Never heard of, never seen—if these weren’t celestial texts, what were they?

The seemingly unreliable rumor spread from mouth to mouth, and after layers of embellishment, became almost plausible.

The more exaggerated, the more popular—until everyone at the academy longed for a glimpse of this legendary, heaven‑touched dean.

They had barely exchanged a few words before those lurking on the classroom blocks and towers broke. They hurtled downstairs, sprinting madly this way.

They wanted to bathe in the dean’s celestial aura, too!

Shen Qinghe was a little startled. The canteen hadn’t cooked mushrooms last night, had it? Why did every student look… not quite normal?

Gao Rong frowned. “Teacher, let’s go.”

Best strategy: run first.

Flicking his sleeve, Shen Qinghe took three steps up into the carriage and told the driver to move at once. He lifted the curtain and called to those nearby—and to a few of the grove‑lurkers who still seemed sane: “Keep order; no trampling incidents. Volunteer duty still stands—don’t forget!”

Lord Kong Zhengqing, who had been dozing inside, nearly leapt out of his skin at the thunder of feet, babbling dreamily, “Rebels? Rebels are upon us?!”

Settling into the carriage, Shen Qinghe said loudly, “Lord Kong, urge the drivers—before the students trample us flat.”

The carriages rumbled one after another. Shen Qinghe leaned back against the cushions, catching his breath. Amid the chaotic shouts, he suddenly heard a familiar voice.

“Lord Shen! Lord Shen!”

He lifted the curtain again. In the swelling roar, he saw the little girl straining to shout.

“Lord Shen!” She had donned a brand‑new blue‑and‑white academy robe for the day. Seeing the black‑haired youth gaze back from afar, her disappointment vanished. She waved her arm mightily. “My lord—safe travels!”

He studied the familiar brows and eyes and fished a distant figure from memory.

Was it… Xiaoman?

He thought of the gray‑faced, muddy child who had once fallen to her knees in the dirt.

She had tested into the academy—become a formal student?

Two fine horses drew the carriage; that small figure quickly shrank to a blur in his sight.

He dropped the curtain, reclined again, and closed his eyes lightly.

“Fed and clothed, groomed and proper—quite a sight.”

…

The new batch of carriage hubs had been fitted with better dampers. After years of shuttling between Qingbei and Danyang, he still sometimes felt unwell, but compared to the dizziness and vomiting of the early days, it was much improved.

Having traveled and worked in many places, he at last had a ground to stand upon. The endless sands of youth, the wander to the Northwest—those feelings no longer dogged him. In his chest, a heat rose higher than ever.

The youth had grown; the treasured blade kept its edge hidden—he would go to open the world he wished to see.

Danyang was not far from the capital; in three to four days’ drive one could arrive. As daylight began to dim, they reached Qingluo Prefecture—stable and prosperous enough—and chose it as a stop.

They had meant to quietly find an inn for the night. But Lord Kong’s carriage, bearing an official seal, was recognized by the pavilion master at the roadside. By the time they entered the prefecture, officials were already dressed and waiting to receive them.

“Your subordinate is the Prefect of Qingluo—Yan Ruhai.”

Lord Yan himself was as round as a leather ball; when he smiled, he seemed a picture of prosperity. Since coming here, Shen Qinghe had not seen a physique like this; he couldn’t help a few extra looks.

“Lord Kong.” Yan Ruhai had a keen eye—recognizing the Censor‑in‑Chief at a glance. Seeing the black‑haired youth at his side, he dared not slight him. His little eyes, squeezed by flesh, curved. “This must be the newly appointed Little Lord Shen—truly a youthful talent. Knowing the two lords are upright and clear in virtue, I will not trouble you with superficial formalities to disturb your peace. I have only had rooms prepared ahead with perilla baths. After the toil of the road, soaking to loosen the limbs—that will be the least your subordinate can do.”

A set of water‑tight courtesies—every detail covered, and yet not fawning. Shen Qinghe and Kong Zhengqing traded glances—no objections.

Smiling at the man who was as two in one, Shen said, “So considerate—our thanks in advance, Lord Yan.”

The curtain fell; the convoy turned, following a junior officer inward.

Lord Yan’s frame clearly could not ride. Supported by servants, he climbed into a simple uncovered cart.

Shen Qinghe lifted his curtain to glance. The cart had neither awning nor roof. Lord Yan’s body was so ample that once aboard, he filled most of the bed. On bumps, his masses of flesh wobbled up and down. Shen found it amusing and pointed at him. “Lord Yan, you should lose weight.” With such a shape, the three highs would be a given.

Yan Ruhai chuckled dryly, one hand steadying the rail, scolding his servants to drive carefully, while the other mopped sweat—still answering Lord Shen at every turn.

The inn was close by. Shen alighted and waved Lord Yan off from following, entering with Kong Zhengqing.

“With Lord Yan that brawny, if he walked through a troubled county, the people’s eyes would turn green with envy.”

Kong clicked his tongue and, with meaning, said, “One wonders whether what enters his mouth is fine wine and delicacies… or the people’s fat and grease.” He stroked his chin. “That said, Qingluo’s public order does look good.”

“That it does.” Setting aside the far Northwest, even in great prefectures like Yunzhong and Danyang, he had seen “bones frozen by the roadside” with his own eyes. Here in Qingluo, not a single beggar in rags had been in sight—strange indeed.

The road weariness was real; they would set out early in the morning. Shen Qinghe didn’t overthink it. As he opened the door to the guest room, gentle steam drifted from behind the screen: the perilla baths Lord Yan had mentioned were ready. A faint sesame aroma touched his nose.

It seemed to soothe the spirit, easing the heart.

The black‑haired youth shed outer and inner garments and slid into the water—soaking away the fatigue.

Just after the fifth watch, hard knocking roused him. It was long nights in early autumn; the sky outside was barely pale. He glanced at the window, slipped on his shoes, and opened the door.

Gao Rong stood there.

His outer robe was damp, cold still clinging to him—he seemed just returned from outside, drenched in heavy morning dew.

“What brings you here? Aren’t we departing at Chen?”

Gao stepped in close; his face was colder than the dawn frost. Shen said nothing, glanced at the still‑silent inn, dragged him inside, and shut the door.

“What happened?”

“Perilla likes warmth and not cold; it must be grown in rich, loose, well‑aerated soil. Conditions are exacting. Last night, after seeing the top‑grade sprigs steeped in the guest baths, I planned to gather some samples during the night for study…” Gao caught his breath and continued slowly, “When I dug the soil, I found beneath that plot there were freshly buried corpses.”

“Fresh corpses?” Shen Qinghe’s brows pinched.

In this era, death was not rare. Common folk labored all life to scrape together coffin money. In truth, land, shroud, coffin, pallbearers—everything cost silver. “No place to bury the dead” wasn’t a joke. Most were wrapped in mats and buried rough in wasteland. To have a mound rise over you meant a family with means.

“Was the night too dark—did you dig into someone’s grave by mistake?” Shen patted his shoulder, waiting for him to steady.

“No—not ordinary lonely graves.” Gao shook his head, firm. He was a physician; life and death he had seen most; he would not be so shaken by a single corpse. “When light came, I looked carefully. There were at least a dozen—fresh. It was more like a mass grave—newly made.”

Old mass graves drew wild dogs and wolves to dig; within a month, only bones remained and weeds grew thick. How then could delicate perilla thrive?

Laying out his inference, Gao Rong saw Shen lower his head in thought.

Under what circumstances would a mass grave be dug for bodies?

War—disaster… No. Shen ruled those out. A different image flashed up: the capital’s outskirts, when dealing with the Changzhou refugees—

Plague?

He looked at Gao; the latter nodded slowly.

“These people all bore traces of rashes and sores—ulcers large and small. In life, they were afflicted with disease.” Gao’s voice grew colder.

“But they did not die of illness—they were starved to death.”