The remaining arrows in Cheng Jiao-niang’s hand were not shot again, as Steward Cao had already sent men charging forward.
These few soldiers were unarmed and had already been tortured. Moreover, with two of their comrades suddenly shot dead in the blink of an eye, they were utterly terrified and psychologically broken, rendering them incapable of putting up any resistance.
All of this happened in an instant. Those nearby didn’t even fully grasp what had just occurred.
The man who had been set ablaze was quickly smothered by the surrounding crowd using dirt and tree branches, but it was too late—he was already beyond saving, his body burned beyond recognition. Yet, the Zhou family’s attendants still managed to identify who he was.
“It was the man who incited the soldiers to drive away the commoners,” the attendant said in a low voice. “He had an oil jar with him…”
Only then did Steward Cao suddenly understand, though his face still showed disbelief.
“Miss, was this man planning to set us on fire?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Probably,” Cheng Jiao-niang replied, handing the bow and arrows back to Steward Cao. “You handle the rest.”
I don’t know. Probably…
Steward Cao stood stunned for a moment, staring down at the bow in his hands.
She killed a man without even knowing for sure…
Better to kill by mistake than to let one escape?
But this—this was murder!
Then again, when had killing ever been anything unusual for the young mistress?
Thanks to the timely discovery of the fire and the experience of the Zhou family’s attendants—who had dealt with major and minor blazes in the capital—they quickly organized the crowd to fight the flames and rescue those trapped.
The post station’s buildings, made of wood and earth and long neglected, were prone to uncontrollable fires once ignited. Fortunately, the fire had broken out in the rear upper rooms, where fewer people stayed, buying time for the crowded front courtyard to evacuate.
As a result, there were few burn victims, but many injuries from the stampede and crushing chaos.
Feng Lin, who had been at the fire’s origin, also narrowly escaped.
Irritated by the evening’s events, he had slept fitfully. Though the flames were fiercest where he was—precisely the arsonist’s target—he woke in time to crawl desperately toward the door. His loyal attendant, risking his own life, rushed in and carried him out, half-dragging, half-supporting him. Feng Lin suffered only a broken arm from a falling beam and smoke damage to his throat, but his life was spared.
By daybreak, the fire at the post station had dwindled—there was simply nothing left to burn. The scene was a charred wasteland, and exhausted survivors lay scattered along the road outside, having collapsed from terror and exertion.
In the chaos of the night, survival had been their only thought. But now, with their lives spared, the grief of lost belongings and homes set in. Sobs broke out intermittently across the ruins.
Amid the devastation, two attendants half-supported, half-carried Feng Lin as he limped forward. His robes were singed black, his face soot-stained like the bottom of a pot, and his injured arm hung in a makeshift sling. Yet to the postmaster, who had narrowly escaped death, the sight of this man was like beholding a divine savior.
“My lord!” The officials wept as they rushed to receive him.
The commoners, too, caught sight of him. Though many didn’t know exactly what rank he held, his image as a compassionate protector—willing to stand with the people during the crisis—had seared itself into their hearts overnight. The restless dread that followed the disaster seemed to ease the moment they saw him.
“My lord!”
“My lord!”
A wave of weeping villagers surged toward him.
“Did Feng Lin die?”
In the same village house, the clerk no longer spoke with his usual sluggishness—his voice was urgent now.
The two men exchanged a glance, then shook their heads.
“He’s still alive?” The clerk’s face turned ashen as he collapsed back into his seat. “But Wang Da and Liu Zhong were killed… We’re finished, utterly finished…”
Hearing the word “finished” from the clerk’s lips sent a chill through the two men—deeper than the shock they’d felt amid the chaos, watching their comrades die or get captured.
“Not necessarily, not necessarily!” they hurriedly interjected. “The fire was massive. We rushed back to report and didn’t confirm, but he must be dead—there was no way out. We set fires all around the building…”
“Dead or not, it’s over… It’s over,” the clerk muttered, shaking his head. “Wang Da and Liu Zhong were killed on the spot, the soldiers were captured… That’s enough. More than enough…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “How did this happen? Who were those people? How could they have been killed?”
The two men felt their limbs turn to ice. Setting fires and killing people hadn’t frightened them before, but now that they were the ones driven into a corner, the feeling was beyond description.
“We don’t know, we don’t know what happened,” they stammered, voices trembling.
They had been at the rear, and when they rushed out after lighting the fires, they saw the minor official already on the ground, his body ablaze. Then, in the blink of an eye, the tax officer was struck through the neck by an arrow.
All they glimpsed were shadowy figures standing in the distance—they didn’t even get a clear look before turning and fleeing for their lives.
“There’s no point asking about that now,” the clerk said, his face deathly pale as he leaned on the desk.
What good would it do to know who it was? Could they go back and kill them?
“Sir, what do we do now?” the two men asked, their voices shaking.
What could they do?
“Run,” he spat out the word.
Run. Run fast.
That’s how the world worked—victors became kings, losers became outlaws. There was no third option.
Fortunately, he had always been thorough. No matter how confident he was in a plan, he always prepared for the worst.
His family and relatives had already been sent far away, and he carried enough money on him to last a while.
The autumn morning mist drifted around him, thick with a damp, bone-chilling cold.
The clerk galloped along the narrow path on horseback.
The countryside at dawn was quiet and peaceful—early-rising farmers, the occasional bark of a dog, no pursuers in sight. Yet his heart churned with unease, edged with despair.
By fleeing, he was losing everything.
There would no longer be a Clerk Cao in this world, no more Cao family with three generations of accumulated standing in Taicang Prefecture.
Compared to the high-ranking officials of Taicang Circuit who would soon face the storm of cleaning up this mess, he, Clerk Cao, might still be considered lucky. But why did his heart feel so dark and heavy?
How had it all gone so wrong? Why had everything turned against him?
It was the kind of defeat that left the dead—and the living—unable to close their eyes in peace.
Across the morning fields, a single rider fled like a stray dog, desperate and unmoored.
“You tried to burn me alive?”
Feng Lin’s voice was icy as he stared down at the four men forced to their knees before him.
“No! No, it wasn’t us!” the soldiers cried out desperately, kowtowing repeatedly. “We were just following orders!”
After all, they were mere foot soldiers—expendable pawns. When trouble arose, it was always the higher-ups who took responsibility. As long as the officials above fought among themselves, insignificant ants like them would at most be beaten, punished, and then cast aside.
When the crowd realized the fire had been deliberately set, their fury erupted like a volcano.
“Burn them! Burn them alive!”
Someone shouted it first—then dozens of voices took up the chant. Stones and sticks rained down on the prisoners as the mob’s rage boiled over.
“Liu Zhong from the Taicang Circuit Fiscal Commissioner’s Office ordered us to do it!” the soldiers cried out. “He promised us a hefty sum…”
Before they could finish, Steward Cao kicked one of them to the ground.
“Bullshit! How could a petty clerk from the Taicang Circuit Fiscal Commissioner’s Office command you, the Emperor’s own guards?” he roared. “Do you take us for fools?”
The soldiers wailed in protest, pleading their innocence.
“Where is Liu Zhong now?” Feng Lin asked coldly.
Steward Cao gestured, and attendants carried over Liu Zhong’s charred remains—along with another corpse—both burned beyond recognition. The stench was overwhelming.
The crowd recoiled in horror, torn between morbid curiosity and revulsion. Some covered their noses and squeezed their eyes shut, jostling one another as they shrank back, too terrified to look yet unable to turn away completely.
“Burned up all of a sudden for no reason…”
“Nonsense—he was carrying an oil jar! Clearly an accident…”
“More like divine retribution!”
Amid the murmurs of the crowd, Feng Lin, supported by his attendants, stepped forward to examine the two charred corpses.
Though a civil official, Feng Lin had once overseen judicial affairs and conducted autopsies. He felt no discomfort or fear as he crouched down for a closer look at the blackened remains. His fingers probed lightly—then paused as they brushed against an iron arrowhead embedded in one corpse’s throat.
So it was this…
Feng Lin couldn’t help but glance up at Steward Cao, who stood nearby.
The steward was neither tall nor imposing, but his lean, muscular frame hinted at martial training. And now, as if to confirm Feng Lin’s suspicion, the man held a bow firmly in his hands.
“Fine marksmanship,” Feng Lin remarked in admiration.
Steward Cao clasped his hands in salute.
“You honor me with your praise, My Lord,” he replied with a faint smile.
Two nearby attendants exchanged glances of quiet surprise at his words.
As daylight fully broke, the distant clamor of approaching horses grew louder.
“My Lord, local officials have arrived—along with troops from the Taiqing Road garrison,” a guard announced, dismounting hastily from his lathered horse.
In the distance, a procession of several hundred people wound its way toward the scene.
A post station set ablaze, imperial officials burned to death, and countless commoners caught in the disaster—this was a catastrophe of dire consequences. Local magistrates and officials from nearby counties had rushed over, only to be further alarmed when they encountered armored soldiers on the way—their disciplined ranks, grim expressions, and palpable killing intent sending a chill down the spines of the civil bureaucrats.
Though they had yet to arrive at the site, the more astute among them had already deduced the truth: this was no accident, but a deliberate act of destruction.
When they finally took in the horrific scene before them, shock and dismay swept through the crowd. Whether their grief was genuine or performative, every official wore a mask of solemn mourning.
“These are the arsonists. Come take a look—do you recognize them?” Feng Lin rasped, his voice hoarse.
The officials hesitated, nudging each other forward until they had no choice but to approach. When they saw the bodies on the ground, they collectively gasped.
“Do you know them?” Feng Lin asked coldly.
“N-no… we don’t,” the three replied in unison, eyes downcast.
Feng Lin spat in disgust.
Just then, an officer dismounted and saluted. “My Lord, this place is unsafe. We must move you to the Taiqing garrison immediately.” Then, with the deference of a junior, he added, “Uncle Feng, I studied under the same master as Changqing.”
Feng Lin studied him for a moment before nodding in recognition.
“Zhong Qing? Zhong Zijian?” he asked hoarsely.
“Yes,” the officer replied with another bow.
“Changqing mentioned you before my departure,” Feng Lin said, his voice still rough.
“Brother Changqing also wrote to me about your arrival. I deeply regret not knowing you’d already reached this region—I failed in my duty to protect you in time… This negligence could have been catastrophic…” The officer’s face showed genuine remorse.
Feng Lin gave a cold chuckle.
“This wasn’t your oversight—it was the audacity of certain others,” he stated pointedly.
The officer said nothing more but once again earnestly invited Feng Lin to accompany him back to the military camp.
“No, I won’t leave,” declared Feng Lin. “I will wait here—wait for all to see, for His Majesty to witness…”
With these words, he pushed aside his attendants and staggered forward, his unsteady steps carrying him toward the post station ruins where embers still glowed.
“My Lord, be careful!” cried the officials, attendants, and guards in alarm.
Feng Lin came to a halt amidst the devastation. Disheveled, his robes in tatters, his face blackened like charcoal, he turned—a picture of utter wretchedness—and pointed accusingly at the surroundings with his uninjured hand.
“Let the world see! Let them witness what has transpired here!”
“Let all under heaven behold! Let them know to what depraved lengths these corrupt, lawless vermin will go!”
“I shall remain here. I will not budge. Order the Taicang Circuit officials to deliver their account books to me! I will sit upon these ruins—and you there! Have a coffin made for me as well…”
“…I will keep vigil over these ruins. I will guard this coffin. And together, we shall take a long, hard look at Taicang Circuit!”
His hoarse voice, though not particularly loud, seemed to pierce the ears of all who heard it like a physical pain.
As the first light of dawn fell upon that ragged figure standing amidst the wreckage, what should have appeared pitiable instead loomed towering and blinding—a sight too awe-inspiring to behold directly.
