Chapter 38: Unveiling the Truth, Killing with a Borrowed Blade

Chang Mao deeply regretted his actions—why had he, with nothing better to do, gone and called Zhang Yi and the others over? Lady Lan had had a nightmare and wanted to consult a master. It was he who knew Zhang Yi was still in the capital, and he had sent one of his trusted household servants to fetch him. Never in his wildest dreams did Chang Mao imagine that the very person he had personally invited would become the architect of his present crisis.

Zhang Yi was taking his revenge. From his initial vague suspicions during his conversation with the Chang family, to his step-by-step confirmation, bolstered by both bluff and cunning, by the time he mentioned the well, Zhang Yi was certain Chang Mao had murdered those two servants. Though not a master of deduction, he knew enough about this blockhead. Chang Mao was no genius, and what’s more, he inherited that impulsiveness from the Lan family.

Zhang Yi didn’t need exceptional reasoning skills to see through the matter.

“Send Chang Song in…”

Madam Lan, her face expressionless, ordered Chang Sheng to fetch the man. Soon, the servant who had brought Zhang Yi was ushered in. Seeing Lady Lan’s iron-grey expression and Chang Mao kneeling on the floor, he was gripped by a premonition of doom.

Barely had he crossed the threshold when Lady Lan thundered, “You wretch! How long did you think you could keep your wicked deeds from me? Chang Song, was it you who threw those two people into the well?”

Chang Song had no chance to defend himself. At the mere mention of the well, he was seized with terror. This had been a secret between him and Chang Mao; Lady Lan was never supposed to know. Instantly, he fell to his knees, kowtowing repeatedly, knowing that this disaster would fall harder on him than on Chang Mao.

“Spare me, Madam! It was the young master…he couldn’t control his temper and quietly ordered them beaten to death… We were afraid of trouble and suggested dumping the bodies in the well, pretending they had run away…”

Chang Song stammered incoherently, but the facts emerged all the same.

Lady Lan’s vision darkened—she had never imagined that simply inviting a Daoist priest to perform a ritual would stir up such calamity. She glared at Chang Mao, who kept his head bowed, not daring to meet her eyes. She turned to Zhang Yi, who stood with downcast eyes, seemingly indifferent to all around him.

Now, Lady Lan felt truly at a loss. If she had discovered this herself, she might have dealt with it quietly. If it got out, it would stain the Chang family’s reputation. And before her stood this young Daoist…

“Madam Chang, perhaps it would be best if we left for now? Once your domestic affairs are settled, you can summon us to the temple,” suggested Deng Zhongxiu, his wits at last returning. Lady Lan nodded immediately. With Chang Mao’s trouble before her, all superstitions seemed trivial.

“See the Daoist out!”

Lady Lan quickly nodded, discreetly calling over a maid to escort Zhang Yi from the premises.

When Zhang Yi left the Chang residence, he carried with him one hundred taels of silver, thoroughly satisfied. For the Changs, this was a considerable sum. Salaries in the Ming dynasty were modest; Chang Yuchun was not yet a duke, so his annual income could not be high. Even as a duke, following the standards of Xu Da and Li Shanchang, he would not earn more than 2,500 taels a year—a sum meant to sustain an entire household.

Though to those on Mount Longhu, a hundred taels might not seem much, Zhang Yi was content. He tossed the silver to his steward, Deng Zhongxiu, who was so stunned he was struck by the weight of it.

“Junior brother, am I dreaming? I was so afraid we wouldn’t get out alive…”

Deng Zhongxiu cared nothing for the money. He had been shaking with fear ever since Zhang Yi began exposing Chang Mao’s crime, and even after leaving the Chang estate, he was still out of sorts.

“What’s there to fear? I wouldn’t have spoken if I weren’t sure we’d get out. Brother Deng, you can consider your revenge taken—Chang Mao’s days of comfort are over.”

“But junior brother, Madam Chang does not seem the strict mother type!”

“Just because his own family spares him doesn’t mean others won’t teach him a lesson!” Zhang Yi left it at that, not elaborating further.

With Zhu Yuanzhang’s nature, it was impossible that Chang Yuchun’s household would lack supervision. If Chang Mao had left that well alone, things would have been fine, but now that it had been disturbed, the one in the palace was sure to find out.

There was little risk for Zhang Yi—he also wanted to see if he could use another’s hand to deal a blow.

“To them, human life is as cheap as grass—killed on a whim!” Zhang Yi’s heart was far less calm than he appeared. As a modern man, he had never witnessed such unchecked power over life and death. The Zhang family on Mount Longhu, though large landowners and perhaps exploiters of peasants, was internally ruled by the relatively kind Zhang Zhengchang.

He reminded himself again that this world was nothing like the one he had known. To survive, he would need to exercise the utmost caution.

“My temper will be my undoing one day, but sometimes it’s impossible not to react!” As Zhang Yi mused, Deng Zhongxiu asked, “Junior brother, I just can’t understand—how did you know Chang Mao was a murderer? Did you really see the souls of those two servants?”

His question was tentative, as if expecting the answer to be supernatural. Zhang Yi merely chuckled—the effect was just as he intended. With his magic tricks at the Chang household and by helping Deng Zhongxiu vent his grievances, his senior’s attitude had shifted dramatically. This was exactly what Zhang Yi wanted; as a child, he needed Deng Zhongxiu for many things.

But Zhang Yi had no intention of explaining himself. Maintaining an air of mystery was an essential trait for a charlatan. Deng Zhongxiu, seeing that no answer was forthcoming, wisely asked no more. Still, glancing at his junior’s youthful face, he seemed to see Zhang Zhengchang himself seated before him.

…

Back at the Daoist temple, they found someone waiting. The visitor handed Zhang Yi a letter—home correspondence from Zhang Zhengchang of Mount Longhu. There was not only one letter; Deng Zhongxiu also received his own. Each retired to his quarters to read in private.

Zhang Yi opened his father’s letter, his brow furrowing slightly. The letter first recounted the peaceful state of Mount Longhu, reassuring Zhang Yi. It was the first time he had received so warm a letter from his father, and he felt as if he could see Old Zhang himself narrating life on the mountain.

Though Zhang Yi had once longed to escape that place, reading his father’s words, he was filled with nostalgia. Old Zhang mentioned that the replacement for Deng Zhongxiu would be delayed; Zhang Yi couldn’t help but smile—no doubt the old men of Mount Longhu were too intimidated by the thought of serving him to come.

He decided that in his reply, he would ask his father to let Deng Zhongxiu stay. His senior was coming to trust him, and Zhang Yi did not want to go through the trouble of adapting to someone new. He only wondered whether Deng Zhongxiu would be willing to stay in the capital.

At the end of the letter, Zhang Yi finally came upon the passage that made him frown. His father had reported to the emperor, submitting all of Zhang Yi’s suggestions on how to deal with the Buddhist and Daoist clergy directly to the throne!

“He must be mad!” Zhang Yi was stunned. He had not expected his father to act so rashly—this was almost self-sabotage. For example, the regulation of clergy was not implemented until the fifth year of Hongwu, and the reclamation of the right to issue ordination certificates only in the twentieth year. Zhang Yi could almost sense his father’s mood as he wrote.

“Respect and blessings!” Zhang Yi did not dwell on it, though he realized that his own actions had perhaps already caused a butterfly effect, beginning to alter the course of history. Still, religious reform was but a small wave in the long river of time, and Zhang Yi soon put it out of his mind.

He took up a brush and, in his childish hand, wrote a reply to his father.

Meanwhile, in the imperial palace, Emperor Zhu Yuanzhang and his son were admiring paintings.