LBLCPCB C18

Chapter 18

 

The rain showed no end. Even the air turned thick and sticky, sapping strength and will. Zhu Song spent three days shut at home, sleeping through all he had missed. Two more days idle, going stir‑crazy, when an urgent summons yanked him back into the palace.

A catastrophic flood had struck Jizhou. The great river levee, newly built only five years prior, collapsed. Losses dire, devastation across the land.

Emperor Liang’s face was like iron. He spoke little, yet the pressure in Qinzhen Hall weighed suffocatingly.

Zhu Song swept his eyes down the memorial in swift gulps, then feigned calm with a bland line, gauging the Emperor’s temper: “Natural disasters are unpredictable. Your Majesty, be not angered.”

BANG! The Emperor slammed the desk, rage flaring anew. “If it were truly Heaven’s will, I’d accept it gladly! Do you know how much I spent—five million taels of silver—and the damn levee collapsed at the first rushing tide? A wall of tofu would last longer!”

Zhu’s own surprise showed sharp. “A dam, fresh built—falling so swiftly? Impossible.”

The Emperor ground his jaw. “Take my imperial sword, Zhu Song. Dig out the vermin responsible. Not a single one may be spared.”

Bowing low, Zhu answered, “I will not fail Your Majesty’s trust.”

Soon calmer, the Emperor waved. “For now, tempers among the people run hot. You will go publicly as Imperial Envoy of disaster relief. Quietly, afterward, dig the truth.”

Zhu inclined his head. “First feed the starving, then hold the guilty to account.”

“Good,” Emperor Liang agreed. “Take your kinsmen Lingye and Lingwang. Waste no time.”

Thus decreed, Zhu departed, rushed home, gathered his cousins, packed, and within hours the three were en route.

Two relentless days of hard riding brought them into Jizhou’s blighted borders. There Zhu understood the Emperor’s fury. Entire fields drowned. Wailing stretched across the land, waters to a horse’s knees and still rising.

At the provincial yamen, the local governor Yi Kangning, the regional inspector Duan Zhenghong, and the imperial agents already on scene—Vice Minister of Works Song Shunran and Assistant Chief Astronomer Zhang Wanping—waited to greet them. They made polite bows, but the moment words were exchanged, the excuses began.

“The Prefecture opened its granaries at once, sent officers to rescue the trapped,” Yi chattered nervously, “but the waters were too fierce. We could not cope, so we pled to court. Thus His Majesty sent funds with these honored officials—two hundred thousand taels for relief. But the disaster grows, our refugee camps have been swept away, numbers rising daily. Of the silver, little now remains.”

Zhu Song’s brows lifted. Already whining for pity the moment I step in?

He cut in coldly: “How much remains?”

Yi darted glances. Song Shunran sipped tea leisurely, not deigning to answer. Duan Zhenghong’s brows twitched with wordless disdain. Flustered, Yi stammered: “About… fifty thousand taels.”

“Fifty thousand is hardly ‘almost none,’ is it?” Zhu’s tone bit.

Yi faltered, then grasped at Zhang’s prediction: “But Sir Zhang predicts the flood will yet worsen. Even if victims stabilize, fifty thousand cannot last.”

Zhu made no reply, only pressed: “Where are the refugees?”

Yi admitted: “Camps destroyed—being rebuilt. Meanwhile, food is distributed thrice daily at the city gates.”

“Where do they sleep at night?”

Yi stammered: “They—remain outside the walls. Too many to admit without risk of chaos. When new camps rise, it will be solved.”

Zhu swallowed his anger and barked: “Take me there.”

Yi blanched, attempted weak protest about the rain and a welcome feast already prepared. Zhu’s glare silenced him.

At midday, they reached the gate as porridge was given out: huge cauldrons, heat and rice fragrance steaming in the drizzle.

Yi boasted loudly, “For their health, we feed rice daily. Today—potato rice stew.”

Zhu descended to inspect. Indeed, white grain filled the pots. But disaster victims stretched as far as the eye could see. “Five cauldrons for so many—how long?”

Yi promised quick distribution, under an hour. He then announced to the crowd:

“Eat, children of the realm! All must share, and soon your new shelters will be ready! Above stands His Majesty’s envoy, Lord Zhu Song, who will aid all your needs!”

“Thank you, Lord Envoy!” rose the chorus. The governor smiled in smug pride. He leaned smug at Zhu: “Done. Let’s return.”

Zhu’s mouth curved faintly cold. “Yi, if you are so busy, feel free return. I shall walk.”

Paling, Yi had no choice but follow.

As they progressed up the line, Zhu’s anger grew. Near the front, faces were plump, clothing poor but clean, spirits alert. But further on, the crowd changed—gaunt, soaked, skin pale from water‑rot, hopeless eyes. And none but strong young men queued.

Beyond the line, refugees squatted in forests, children huddled in hollowed trees, women and old lying listlessly beneath crude thatches that dripped under storm.

“Why don’t you eat?” Zhu asked softly.

Listless women barely lifted eyes. No answer.

Yi muttered: “They are likely ill—the doctors insufficient.”

Zhu knelt by children in a log hollow. “Why don’t you queue for food?”

A wide‑eyed four‑year‑old blinked rain from lashes. “Are you new here?”

“Yes,” Zhu nodded gently.

“Then you can eat. You’re a grown‑up.”

“And you?”

“We have no strength. Eating won’t help us work. So we don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because if we eat, Uncles won’t. Without strength, they can’t build shelters. Then we’ll all be rained to death.”

Rage burned Zhu Song’s chest. Yi began to sputter excuses: “Children’s wild tales. We have enough food! If they refuse, what can we do, deliver it by hand?—”

But the crowd erupted. “Lies!” “Never enough!” “We queue by turns, always short!” “We beg only—let us into the city walls to escape the flood!”

“Please, Lord Envoy! Have mercy!”

The storm of voices, the governor shouting denials, chaos near riot—when a new voice shattered through:

“I can prove it.”

Heads swiveled.

Through the rain walked a man in azure long robes, another holding his umbrella. As the canopy lifted, all saw—half a face pale as snow, beauty near divine.

Half a face—and for Zhu Song, enough.

Wasn’t he supposed to be in Suzhou ‘resting’? How is he here!

Yet his own face betrayed nothing, only cool words: “What proof?”

The man’s gaze was steady. “I am the proof.”

Yi Kangning almost interjected—but froze at Zhu’s stare fixed wholly upon this new figure. He followed the look, and in that torn half‑mask of beauty suddenly understood. No wonder Zhu’s eyes would not move away.