Chapter 211: Liao Yuan

Chapter 211: Liao Yuan

Recently, Zhang Kai had been so busy that he had no time to care whether Luan Yuqiao lived or died.

The sky was dim, the sun heavy, and the atmosphere within the Zhang estate was extremely oppressive. Servants coming and going all walked with light steps and spoke in hushed tones, afraid of provoking their master's ire and earning themselves a beating with the bamboo board.

"Another letter has arrived from the capital," Old Zhan the steward reported to Zhang Kai with a deferential air. "The old master says all is quiet in the capital—everyone is busy with the metropolitan examinations. He asks that you act quickly to avoid future troubles."

Zhang Kai's face showed nothing, but inwardly he cursed.

That damn old fox—the older he got, the craftier he became!

Ever since Zhang Kai had learned of this matter, not daring to act on his own, he had written to the capital to seek his uncle's aid.

Who would have thought that Zhang Yue, having spent years wheeling and dealing in officialdom, had long since perfected the art of passing the buck?

Even though Zhang Kai had laid out the entire sequence of events clearly—explaining that Prefect Wenren had sold him this favor through a combination of carrot and stick, intending to suppress Luan Yuqiao and elevate County Princess Qi for his own use—Zhang Yue still found it strange after much deliberation.

His thoughts went much deeper than Zhang Kai's:

At present, the Fifth Prince and the Sixth Prince were quietly squaring off against each other within the court.

The Emperor was advanced in years. Although Zhang Yue was in charge of ceremonial matters and always addressed him as "Long Live," where in this world was there truly a sovereign who actually lived ten thousand years?

To carve out a good future for the Zhang family under the new emperor, Zhang Yue had secretly aligned himself with the Fifth Prince's faction.

He naturally had to suspect that Wenren Mingke, a member of the Sixth Prince's faction, was setting a trap for him by bringing up this matter.

Otherwise, how could a merchant's son from Jiangnan, who had never once set foot in Huangzhou in his entire life, know of affairs from decades past?

A big shot must have handed him this leverage to use as a bargaining chip.

But then again, he thought, perhaps he was being overly suspicious, seeing enemies everywhere.

Moreover, this matter could not simply be ignored.

According to Wenren Mingke, that "Abbot Liao Yuan" was a witness and had physical evidence in hand—clearly a man who refused to give up, desperately hoping to overturn the case.

It had been over twenty years since the incident. Even Zhang Yue himself could not recall the details of the case.

What if there really was some fatal piece of evidence left behind? What then?

If he didn't eliminate the problem at its root, he'd never sleep easy again.

After receiving the news, Zhang Yue fretted night after night, losing clumps of hair before painstakingly crafting a reply to Zhang Kai, claiming that "this is a weighty matter" and instructing Zhang Kai to "decide for himself."

Zhang Kai was livid when he got the letter.

This was clearly telling him to wipe his uncle's ass!

He was used to being a rich man living the easy life and wanted no part of the mess his uncle had made.

Besides, Huangzhou was a long way off, over mountains and rivers, full of unknowns, and he didn't know a soul there.

No way he was going!

So he wrote another letter, sent fresh messengers and horses, and sent it racing back to the capital, tactfully saying that he, a young and inexperienced nephew, was too weak, that he couldn't reach that far, and that he was afraid he'd screw up such an important job. His uncle, with his crafty old mind, was far more capable than he. He begged his uncle to take care of it right away.

Zhang Yue replied: Nephew, do not underestimate yourself. Act fast, or things will change.

Seeing that this back-and-forth would only make things worse, Zhang Yue, as the elder, had no choice but to quickly divvy up the work:

Zhang Kai, being in Tongzhou, was to keep a close eye on Wenren Mingke and his cronies, as well as tracking the movements of Provincial Judge Zheng Miao—who was on close terms with Wenren Mingke—and his constables. At the slightest sign of trouble, he was to stop immediately.

Zhang Yue, meanwhile, sent an old trusted aide who'd come with him from Huangzhou to the capital years ago, sending him back on the pretext of visiting family to scope things out.

The steward Zhang Yue sent to Huangzhou was named Han Meng—a man he'd used for years.

Unlike Ma Si from Assistant Prefect Wei's household, whose only job was to kill, Steward Han Meng had a face that was naturally smiling.

Just looking at his Buddha-like face, you'd never guess that in the Huangzhou case years ago, he'd taken a whip to a kid who yelled at him, shredding both the whip's tip and the boy's skin.

Han Meng was a native of Huangzhou, so going back home didn't draw much attention.

Upon arriving in Xuan County, Huangzhou, he started asking around about where "Sangui Temple" was.

His cover story was flawless: "My late father once made a vow at a temple here in Xuan County, praying to live past seventy. Last year, my father passed—right at seventy—and on his deathbed, he told me to come fulfill the vow to the Bodhisattva and thank her for her protection. That temple... I believe it was called 'Sangui Temple.' Could you point me the way?"

But wouldn't you know it—after two and a half days of asking around, Han Meng found that nobody had ever heard of the place.

Just as Han Meng was starting to think Wenren Mingke had been full of it, an old man who'd lived in Xuan County for years, well into his sixties, finally responded after hearing his excuse, shakily asking back: "There's no Sangui Temple. Your father wouldn't have meant 'Turtle Temple,' would he?"

Han Meng was speechless.

Xuan County was a poor county, and most of its people were illiterate.

The word "gui" in "Sangui" was way too fancy for them.

So it got passed down by word of mouth as "Turtle Temple."

As Han Meng was caught between laughter and tears, he still wanted to dig up more info.

Unfortunately, Sangui Temple wasn't some big thriving monastery—just a run-down little temple in the mountains. The monks there kept to themselves, grew their own food, and rarely came down the mountain to beg.

When the locals ran into trouble and wanted to burn some incense and pray for peace, they'd think about having to climb over two whole ridges to reach a shabby temple with just a few Arhat statues—and give up right then and there.

...They might as well go to the big temple in the next county over.

As for some "Abbot Liao Yuan," they'd never even heard of him.

Once he had the location, it was easy.

Following the locals' directions, Han Meng set out at dawn, huffed and puffed up two ridges, got lost twice, wandered around for a while, and finally reached Sangui Temple's gate just before sunset.

A thin mist mixed with the heavy dusk, washing over the temple gate.

The bronze fittings on the gate were rusted and peeling, but they'd clearly been wiped clean recently—old, yet with a lively shine.

As Han Meng was looking around, a tall, skinny old monk with a broom came around the east corner of the temple wall.

Startled by the stranger, the old monk stopped short and bowed respectfully: "Greetings, benefactor. What brings you to our temple?"

Seeing that the monk was polite and didn't sound like a country bumpkin, Han Meng politely repeated his made-up story, then casually asked: "My father had a rough time back then, and was lucky enough to get some guidance from the abbot, which set him straight. He made me promise to come meet the abbot in person and thank him."

The old monk had a kind, generous air about him: "I'm the abbot of Sangui Temple. What year did your father visit?"

Han Meng said happily, "Then you're Master Liao Yuan?"

But the old monk shook his head. "No. I'm Liao Yuan's junior brother. My dharma name is Liao Ran."

“So what about Abbot Liaoyuan...”

The old monk said, “Amitabha, let it be known to you, benefactor, that Senior Brother Liaoyuan passed away many years ago.”

Upon hearing this, Han Meng was secretly thrilled.

Dead. That was good.

He had originally planned to set fire to this shabby temple, burning both the human witness and the physical evidence to ashes, to wipe the slate clean.

Now that the witness was dead, he could skip the whole murder-and-arson hassle, and Lord Zhang could breathe a lot easier now.

As for that Wen Ren Ming Ke, though...

Hmph, at least he was straight with the lord—didn’t dare spin any tall tales; the intel he gave checked out.

But this guy was plenty sly too.

Like, did he already know Liaoyuan was dead?

There’s a big difference between having both a witness and hard evidence, versus just the evidence with no witness.

If Wen Ren Ming Ke had known early on that Liaoyuan was dead, he’d have kept that info close to the chest, dragging things out so the young master wouldn’t make a move in Tongzhou, slowly bleeding Luan Yuqiao dry in the business war.

While Han Meng was chewing on all this, the tall, skinny old monk Liao Ran shot him a cold, hard look, sizing him up in silence.

After a long pause, he seemed to make up his mind, tightening his grip on the bamboo broom.

When Han Meng looked his way again, he dropped his gaze, pressed his palms together, and said softly, “Benefactor, it’s getting late, and the road down the mountain is no easy trek. Since fate’s brought us together, why not come in and pay your respects? It’s a humble place, but we’ve got a spare room and a simple vegetarian meal to offer.”

That suited Han Meng just fine.

It was late anyway, and he had nowhere else to go.

He followed Abbot Liao Ran through the temple gates.

Sangui Temple was pitifully small—just one courtyard. The front yard had eighteen beat-up Arhat statues, and the back yard was where they slept and ate.

This place, no bigger than a postage stamp, packed in all eighteen monks, abbot included.

All seventeen of those bald donkeys bunked together in one room, on a single big sleeping platform.

Only the abbot got his own room.

As Han Meng was trying to figure out how to search for evidence, Abbot Liao Ran said, “Our temple’s a crude place, not fit for proper hospitality. Please, benefactor, take the old monk’s room.”

Han Meng put on a show of declining a few times, but inside he was thrilled.

If that bald donkey Liaoyuan had left any evidence behind, the most likely hiding spot would be a room with only one occupant!

Of course, Han Meng wasn’t just anyone—Zhang Yue had picked him for this job because he was sharper than most.

He didn’t let a hint of joy show, and bowed with a straight face: “Then I’ll be putting the abbot out.”

He also kept his mouth shut, careful not to pry into Liaoyuan’s past or his birth name.

Still, to be safe, after the meal he pretended to help a monk clear the dishes and casually muttered, “Master, sorry, but the abbot just told me his dharma name and my thick head already forgot it. I’d hate to be rude—could you tell me what it is...”

The monk answered flatly, “The abbot’s dharma name is Liao Ran.”

At that, Han Meng felt about eighty percent better.

After the meal, he made an excuse to take a stroll, walked a full loop around Sangui Temple, and found a graveyard out back.

Among the gravestones, one stood out, clearly carved with the dharma name “Liaoyuan.”

Next to it was his birth name.

Rao Gaoming.

Han Meng stared at the name.

He remembered that name.

The head shopkeeper of the calligraphy shop, Old Man Rao—so fat that Han Meng had nicknamed him “Fat Pig.” When he whipped him, he’d lay on extra lashes, and watching that fat flesh jiggle in pain cracked him up every time.

Well, well—an old friend.

Han Meng sneered and gave the gravestone a hard kick.

You old fat pig, can’t even rest easy in death—got your master running all the way out here.

After letting off steam, he pulled his foot back and slipped quietly into the meditation room, blew out most of the candles, left one dim lamp burning, and started searching the cramped little room.

Meanwhile, in the corner of the meditation room, a cluster of figures lurked in the shadows.

All eighteen monks of Sangui Temple, not a single one missing, were gathered there.

A few of the older monks, too frail for the cold, had thrown on tattered robes, but most were stripped down to their loincloths, looking like they’d just rolled out of bed.

A bunch of bald heads, staring like ghosts at the figure moving around and searching inside.

Someone whispered in disbelief, “Lord Yue was right—someone really did come for the account books!”

Standing in the middle of the crowd, Abbot Liao Ran stayed silent, his old eyes glinting with a spark, locked on the shadow moving behind the door.

...

Back then, Liao Ran was a tenant farmer.

His wife was bringing him his lunch when a lackey who patrolled the fields for a local gentry spotted her. Lust got the better of him, and he grabbed her, dragged her back to his estate, and raped her.

Upon learning of the tragedy, Liao Ran, summoning his courage, went to the lackey’s door to plead, hoping to have his wife returned.

For humble folk like him and his wife, they had to accept their misfortune.

As long as he could get his wife out and tend to her wounds, couldn’t life go on as before?

He just feared that, having been wronged with no one to support her, she might take her own life in despair.

However, Liao Ran underestimated the man’s brutality and arrogance.

He was beaten severely and thrown into the mountains to be devoured by wolves.

At the brink of life and death, he encountered his still-young Senior Brother Liaoyuan.

At that time, Liaoyuan was a plump monk who had been sent out by the abbot to chop wood.

He gritted his teeth and carried the badly hurt Liao Ran over two mountain ridges.

Along the way, he rambled on about many things, all of which Liao Ran had long since forgotten.

Only one thing Liao Ran remembered vividly, and he never forgot it:

"You gotta hold on, don't you dare die! There's still someone waiting for you."

Liao Ran said weakly, "She's probably... a goner too."

Liao Yuan said loud and clear, "Don't say that! Long as you're alive, there's hope! You gotta get better and see for yourself if she made it! If she's alive, figure out a way to get her outta there; if she's dead, come back up here and keep me company!"

Later, once Liao Ran healed up, he snuck down the mountain, and one midnight, he crept back into Sangui Temple.

After that, he never set foot off the mountain again.

He watched Liao Yuan, once a plump, good-natured monk, take over as Abbot of Sangui Temple.

Liao Yuan was a learned man, smart and gentle. He'd often teach Liao Ran and the other monks to read and write to pass the time up at the temple.

Over the years, he withered into a gaunt, scrawny old monk.

Late at night, he'd run his hand over an old ledger, staring off for ages, like he was waiting for something that'd never show.

Until one year, a handsome young man stepped across the cracked threshold of the run-down Sangui Temple.

Back then, just like now, Liao Ran stood quiet in the shadows with a few other curious young monks, watching Lord Yue talk with Abbot Liao Yuan.

It was the first time Liao Ran ever saw Liao Yuan look so grief-stricken and furious.

What burned in his eyes was a smoldering fire of bitter refusal to accept it.

After taking his leave of the abbot, Lord Yue didn't head out—he changed direction and came straight at them.

Standing in front of them, Lord Yue cut straight to the chase: "I can see Abbot Liao Yuan looks worn out, his face gone gray—he probably doesn't have much time left."

Liao Ran stayed quiet, sizing up the newcomer.

The man had skin like porcelain, faint dark circles under his eyes, and lips so pale they were almost invisible. He had that same doomed, tragic air about him, like a beauty fated to die young.

Liao Ran answered calmly, "Amitabha. Everything in this world is subject to birth, aging, sickness, and death. The abbot's only human, so it's only natural for sickness and pain to dog him. Lord Yue is kind. This humble monk thanks you for the abbot. We'll leave it to fate."

"Fate?" Le Wuya smiled slightly. "A fine word, fate. The abbot's Dharma name is the same character—yuan."

He paused, then said, "The abbot's got an earthly tie that's been unresolved for years. You know about it?"

The monks, who'd scattered like birds, slowly drifted back when they heard it was about the abbot.

Ever since the last abbot passed away, Liao Yuan had been in charge, taking in the homeless and giving them a bowl of hot porridge and a flatbread.

Those who wanted to stay could stay; those who wanted to leave could go.

All the monks here had a deep karmic connection with Abbot Liao Yuan.

They couldn't help but care about what happened to the abbot.

Liao Ran spoke for all the monks: "Benefactor, you're a man of the world. Since the abbot's tangled up in earthly matters, can you help?"

To everyone's surprise, Le Wuya shook his head firmly. "There's not much I can do."

He held up a bundle the abbot had given him: "The abbot was wronged back in the day and ended up here. Besides his own word, all he's got is this old ledger. For a commoner to sue an official and try to reopen an old case, no matter where he goes, he'll just get beaten out with clubs—he can't even get through the courthouse door."

Liao Ran, used to disappointment by now, said calmly, "So what's your plan, my lord?"

Seeing Liao Ran catch on fast, Le Wuya smiled in approval. "I'll cook up a scheme to lure the people connected to Abbot Liao Yuan here, then use your hands to blow the whole thing wide open. But first, we gotta wait till the abbot's dead, so he doesn't get silenced; second, we gotta wait for the perfect moment, or we'll tip off the enemy and it's all over; third..."

He looked at Liao Ran. "You'll have to make some sacrifices."

Liao Ran went quiet, mulling it over.

All his life, he'd been waiting, hoping. But what he waited for never came, and what he hoped for never showed.

"We're willing to give it a shot."

Liao Ran dropped the "humble monk" act and reached out to take the bundle of ledgers. "But if I may ask, when's this 'moment' you're talking about gonna come?"

Le Wuya said, pretty sincerely, "I don't know. Master, you just wait."

"Fine, I'll wait," Liao Ran said firmly. "If I don't live to see it, there'll be someone after me to keep waiting. But tell me—how am I supposed to know if the person's connected to the abbot?"

Le Wuya gave a sly smile, his eyes glinting like autumn water under moonlight: "Simple. If one day a stranger shows up outta nowhere, asking where Abbot Liao Yuan is and wanting to stay at the temple, there's a sixty percent chance he's your guy; if you watch him and he acts shady, then it's ninety percent."

"If that person shows up, what do I do?"

Liao Ran remembered Le Wuya's answer for years and had even made full preparations: when he died, he'd tell his disciple to keep waiting.

Who'd have thought, after all those years of bitter waiting, the phantom "person" Le Wuya described actually showed up!

Lord Yue really came through—he didn't let them down, didn't break his word!

...

The middle-aged monk next to him couldn't hold it in anymore: "Abbot, is it time?"

Liao Ran steadied himself, watching Han Meng in the meditation room find the birthmark wrapped in Le Wuya's old cloak, flip through it a few times to make sure, then tuck it away like it was a treasure.

Right then, a fat head flashed before Liao Ran's eyes.

Sweat was pouring down the back of that neck, and a birthmark shaped like a little gold ingot, about the size of a finger, was plain as day.

He carried him on his back, all the way up to Sangui Temple.

He, Liao Ran, had never truly taken refuge in the Buddha—it was always Liao Yuan.

...Senior brother, watch Liao Ran get your revenge.

When Liao Ran spoke, his voice shook just a little: "Set the fire, burn the place down!"