ATPnovel Chapter 196 The Person Who Draws the Line Is Out
Chapter 196 The Person Who Draws the Line Is Out
The next morning, there were even more people in front of the makeshift tents than the night before.
Si Mo arrived before dawn. The oil lamp on the table was only half full, its wick covered in black mold. He first copied down the names he had written the night before, then pressed the "first come, first served" paper flat again. A gust of wind made the corner of the paper tremble.
Old Shi arrived even earlier, and sure enough, there were two more jars of pickled vegetables on his donkey's back. He leaned the jars against the wall and craned his neck to look into the shed: "Young master, something's wrong with the people here today."
Si Mo didn't look up: "What's wrong?"
"A few families who didn't get a spot last night arrived this morning, and there were already people reserving rooms for them," Shi Laoliu said in a low voice. "They said there was already a list in the city."
Si Mo paused for a moment while holding the pen.
"Who got the list?"
"A guy surnamed Liang," Shi Laoliu clicked his tongue, "and it seems like he has someone backing him. He's very accurate; he knows exactly how many people are in each family, whether they have elderly relatives or not, and what kind of business they do."
Si Mo put down his pen and looked out at the outside of the line.
Sure enough, a small table had been set up at the street corner. A blue cloth was spread on the table, with a stack of papers on top. A round-faced waiter was standing with his hands on his hips, shouting loudly, "Don't push! Follow the list. Those who have registered go to the left, those who haven't been recorded go to the back."
Several people carrying bundles surrounded him, looking anxious. An old woman was also holding her granddaughter's hand, asking twice, but the shopkeeper said the same thing each time: "Your home isn't inside."
Si Mo closed the ledger, got up and walked over.
When the shop assistant saw him arrive, he quickly tucked the papers into his pocket, a smile plastered on his face: "Mr. Si, we're just trying to help. To avoid any trouble."
"Who asked you to help?" Si Mo asked.
"About the trading company," the clerk patted his chest, "if Manager Liang gets into trouble, there are many long-time residents in the city. We'll prioritize those who know the place well; it's always better to be on the safe side."
Si Mo didn't respond to his words, but simply held out her hand: "List."
The shop assistant's smile faded slightly: "These are the trading company's own accounts."
"If you put this in front of the makeshift tent, it's no longer your own tent." Si Mo didn't take it. "Give it to me."
The surroundings became quieter.
The people in line were all looking this way.
The shop assistant's eyes darted around, but he still handed over half of the paper, his fingers pinching the corner, unwilling to let go completely. Si Mo pulled it out and took the whole stack.
Once the paper was opened, there were more than just names inside.
There is an old house number, the number of people in the family, and small print on the side that says "Entry Allowed", "Entry Deferred", and "No Entry".
The more Si Mo looked, the darker his expression became.
These things haven't been put out in the tents. Some families only arrived last night, and they haven't even unfolded their bedding yet, but the lines have already been drawn on the paper for them.
Chen Fan then came over from the other end of the street, carrying half a half-eaten pancake. He stood next to Si Mo and glanced at it, asking, "Where did you get this?"
"The old archives," Si Mo showed him a page. "Even the obsolete house numbers are there. The merchants couldn't have copied such details."
Chen Fan put the biscuit in his mouth and reached out to dab the ink on the paper.
"It's newly copied. I finished it last night."
Someone nearby understood and immediately shouted, "Using our old ways to divide people into different classes? What gives you the right?!"
[At this point, I hope readers will remember our domain name 12199.99]
"My mother spent the whole night freezing in the car, just because she's not on your piece of paper?"
Seeing that things were not going well, the round-faced waiter quickly backed away, saying, "I'm just a deliveryman, I didn't order this."
Old Shi stepped forward with his arms crossed: "Even when you're running errands, you have to do it properly. I heard you clearly when you said 'it's not in there.'"
Si Mo rolled up the list and turned to leave.
"I'm going to the old archives."
Chen Fan hummed in agreement: "I'll go call Yang Jian."
Wukong was squatting on the half-collapsed gatehouse, eating a peach, when he heard this, he jumped down and said, "I'm going too."
Chen Fan glanced at him: "You can go, but you're not allowed to demolish the house."
"I know." Wukong flicked the peach pit, grinned, and said, "Today we'll proceed according to your public accounting rules."
The old archives were in the west of the city, originally a storeroom for collecting books. The storefront wasn't large, but inside there were rows and rows of wooden shelves. When Si Mo arrived, Steward Liang was already there, with a tall, thin old official standing beside him, his sleeve stained with ink that hadn't been wiped clean.
Upon seeing them enter, Manager Liang bowed and said, "Mr. Chen, there seems to be a misunderstanding here."
Chen Fan ignored him and went to look at the booklets on the shelf first. The bottom shelf was empty for two sections, and there were several newly closed booklets next to it, their covers not yet pressed flat.
Si Mo stepped forward and flipped through the pages, and sure enough, there were signs of recent copying. The ink varied in shade, and on some pages, the stains on the original book had even been traced over.
"Who copied it?" Si Mo asked.
The old official stubbornly insisted, "The old city registers are compiled every year; what's wrong with simply copying one?"
"You can copy it exactly." Chen Fan slammed the admission list on the table. "Who gave you permission to use it to assign rooms to people and block doors for them?"
Manager Liang, sweating profusely, hurriedly said, "The trading company just wants to stabilize the situation first. The newcomers are a mixed bunch; if we don't organize them, things will get even more chaotic later."
Wukong leaned against the door and scoffed, "You're quick at drawing lines. People from your own business, you draw them first. Those you don't know, you draw them last. The poor ones, you just draw them out."
Manager Liang's face flushed red and then turned pale: "Great Sage, please don't wrong me."
"Whether it's a miscarriage of justice or not, let's see what's in the accounts." Chen Fan raised his hand and tapped the table. "Si Mo, read it."
Si Mo unfolded the list and read it aloud one by one in front of everyone.
By the time I got to the third page, a large crowd had already gathered outside.
Some people recognized their old house number. Others, upon hearing the words "Not allowed," cursed angrily. A man carrying a load on a shoulder pole rushed in, pointing at the paper and shouting, "My father used to run a shop by the West Well! You wrote 'unclear origins' for my family?"
The old official's lips were dry; he wanted to argue, but the words caught in his throat.
Yang Jian arrived at that moment.
He didn't bring many people, only two heavenly soldiers. His boots barely touched the threshold as he stepped through the door, not even bringing in much dust. He glanced at the list on the table, then at the old books on the shelf.
"They illegally accessed old files, copied household registers, and used them to create admission lists." He didn't speak loudly, but the room fell silent. "Whoever did it, step forward."
Liang Zhang couldn't hold back any longer and knelt down halfway with a thud: "It was the business's oversight. I accept the punishment."
The old official still tried to bite the bullet: "This old man only knows how to look after the records, I don't know how they're used outside—"
Yang Jian pointed to the newly copied booklet: "The ink on your sleeve is the same as the ink on this page. You ground the ink yourself last night and copied the book yourself. Do you want me to check it again?"
The old official's face turned ashen, and his legs went weak.
More and more people gathered outside the door.
Yang Jian turned around and held up the list so that people outside could see it too.
"Today, we will publicly declare that this list is invalid."
As he finished speaking, his hand trembled slightly, and the paper tore in the middle. It either shattered into dust or neatly split in two, then tore into four pieces, which landed on the broken table by the door.
There was a moment of silence outside, followed by cheers.
Old Shi had the loudest voice: "Good riddance! We should make them into movable tents!"
Yang Jian then said, "The old archives room will be closed starting today. It may not be reopened without prior public notice."
Two heavenly soldiers stepped forward and affixed a seal to the door. The seal wasn't a yellow paper talisman, but rather a white document with black lettering, clearly stating: "File suspended for inspection; unauthorized personnel are not allowed to enter."
Chen Fan looked at the paper and nodded.
now it's right.
Since we used the accounting method before, we must use it again. Stealing from the ledgers and secretly marking lines can't be solved with just a beating. Everyone needs to understand who committed the offense, what the offense was, how it will be punished, and whether it's allowed to repeat itself.
Manager Liang wiped his sweat and asked in a low voice, "Then... how should we punish them?"
Yang Jian glanced at him: "The business will cease operations for three days to cooperate with the accounting. You and the four people involved in the archives will be subject to two levels of forced labor."
Manager Liang was taken aback: "Labor service?"
"North of the mountain pass, there are two sections of the plank road missing," Yang Jian said. "You go and repair them. Carry the timber yourselves, and hammer in the stone nails yourselves. Come back whenever you've repaired them."
Wukong chuckled and tilted his head to ask Chen Fan, "Is this punishment quite fitting?"
Chen Fan smiled and said, "It's more practical than locking him up."
Someone outside chimed in, "They should be made to fix it. Yesterday I was pushing my cart across that gap and almost tumbled off with my cargo."
"They can write their names, copy from books, and I suppose they can count wooden planks too." Old Shi slapped his thigh. "Let them nail them together one by one."
Manager Liang's lips moved for a long time, but in the end he didn't dare to argue anymore.
After Yang Jian finished speaking, he raised his hand and pointed to two names, instructing the heavenly soldiers to write them down on the spot. Si Mo casually pulled out a ledger from his robes, started a new page in the blank space, and wrote a title: The Case of Private Copying of Old Archives.
Chen Fan saw it and asked, "Want to remember the details?"
"Write it down carefully." Si Mo dipped his brush in ink. "Who copied it, who took it and used it, what was the punishment? Write it all down. Make it clear so that no one will pretend to be confused in the future."
After he finished speaking, he put down the first line.
The people outside are still watching.
Some people were already heading back, ready to rejoin the queue at the tents. The old woman who had been turned away that morning, holding her granddaughter's hand, also headed east. The little girl took a few steps, then glanced back at the scraps of paper on the table, as if finally letting out a sigh of relief.
In the afternoon, the line in front of the makeshift tents formed again.
This time, no one set up a small table.
Si Mo sat back down and continued to write down the names of each person in turn. Shi Laoliu placed the two newly brought jars of pickled vegetables on the door panel table, and specially set aside a small piece to pour water for the villagers who came later.
Over at the distant mountain pass, people were already escorting Steward Liang and a few others toward the plank road.
Wukong stood outside the shed for a while, then suddenly reached out, took the page of public notice that Si Mo had written, and turned around to nail it to a pillar.
The paper swayed and bulged in the wind.
The top line of text is very large:
Anyone who copies old files without permission will be eliminated.
Chapter 690 The Two Realms Market
As soon as it was light, the sound of wooden mallets rang out from the entrance of Shijie Street.
It wasn't a fight.
Si Mo brought out an old table, set up a board in front of the shed, and used a mallet to nail the wooden sign to the pillar.
Before the sign was even turned over, a crowd had already gathered around it.
Old Shi arrived first, carrying an empty load on his shoulder. He stood on tiptoe for a while, observing, and finally couldn't help but ask, "Are there any new rules today?"
With a nail still between his teeth, Si Mo mumbled a reply: "It's not 'add,' it's 'fixed.'"
"What do you want to order?"
"Name it, determine the route, and set the accounts."
After he finished speaking, he pressed the nail firmly into place and then tapped it with his hand.
The wooden plaque was turned over, revealing four characters on the front, the ink still fresh.
Two Worlds Market.
The crowd fell silent for a moment.
The oil seller behind him draped his oilcloth over his shoulder, muttered it twice under his breath, and clicked his tongue: "This name is bigger than Stone Street."
"It wasn't even the same street to begin with," Shi Laoliu chimed in. "Yesterday I saw people from the western mountain valley coming to exchange salt; their accents were completely different."
Si Mo didn't respond, but instead applied paste to the second sign and stuck it next to it.
This piece was written on rough paper, and the characters are larger and straighter than those from the previous few days.
The entrance is unclaimed; people can come and go as they please.
The third piece of paper was then hung up.
The accounts are made public and posted every three days.
The fourth one is the most eye-catching.
The old goods tax was abolished, and the cost was changed to road maintenance and apportionment.
This time, the crowd really started arguing.
"You don't want the goods tax anymore?"
"What is road maintenance cost sharing?"
"Who will set up the stall, and how much?"
Several people who used to run small businesses crowded to the front, asking questions all at once, each more eager than the last. Si Mo tucked his pen behind his ear, about to speak, when the curtain at the back of the stall was lifted, and Chen Fan walked out.
He didn't sleep much last night; his eyes were a little dark, and he was still holding that ledger in his hand.
Wukong followed behind, carrying a newly sawn long plank on his shoulder, which he placed at the doorway, serving as a platform.
"Listen carefully before you start arguing." Chen Fan slammed the ledger onto the wooden board. "The secondhand goods tax is gone starting today. Before, whoever came in to set up a stall was charged according to the goods they sold. Salt by the lot, cloth by the lot, oil by the lot. They only cared about the quantity, not whether you were there to do business or to risk your life. That method was no good."
The oil seller nodded first.
He knew best that he had just handed over half a bag of soybeans for two barrels of oil a couple of days ago.
Chen Fan continued, "Now we'll change it. Whoever uses this road will share the cost of maintaining it. Repairing the road when it's damaged, patching up leaky sheds, patrolling the mountain pass at night, and adding ropes to the plank road will all come from this fund. The cost-sharing method won't be based on goods or people, but on monthly payments, so everyone can see it."
"What about those passing by outside?" someone asked.
"If you don't set up a stall, stay in a house, or use a warehouse while passing by, it doesn't count," Chen Fan said. "If you really need to borrow fire or water, the stall will provide it without charging you."
Then someone asked, "Who will collect it?"
Chen Fan pointed to Si Mo, then to the account books on the door panel.
"Record first, then collect. Whoever records it must sign it. Whoever spends the money must write down the purpose. Post it every three days, and even a single mistake can be pointed out. Anyone who wants to check can look it up themselves."
A tall, thin man in the crowd frowned: "You just decide to release it like that, who knows if there might be another copy?"
As soon as he said that, several people around him looked at him.
Wukong was pressing down the wooden plank with a stone when he heard this. He looked up and laughed, "Another one will do. You come and find it; if you find it, that's your skill."
The tall, thin man's lips twitched, but he didn't say anything more.
Chen Fan glanced at him but didn't press for details. He simply turned to a new page in the booklet and pressed down on the corner of the paper: "Write down all the names again today. For those that were collected by stall before, any overpayment will be carried over to next month's allocation. Any underpayment doesn't need to be paid. Anyone with questions, speak now."
Old Shi was the first to raise his hand: "I had two jars of pickles, and the day before yesterday I was charged extra for an empty jar."
Si Mo had already turned to the ledger page, and tapped it with a pen: "I've got it in mind, I'll cross it out for you."
"That's it."
Shi Laoliu was very straightforward. He turned around and shouted to the people behind him, "Did you hear that? They really did slash it."
After that shout, the air in front of the shed felt much better.
Those who had been standing and watching slowly moved forward. Some called out their names, some asked about empty houses, and some even went to look at the old accounts posted yesterday. The more people looked at the accounts, the fewer the murmurs there were. The pages of paper were written in a simple style, detailing who had paid half a bushel of rice, who had paid for a roll of hemp rope, and when they had used the money to repair the wooden bridge at the mountain pass—it was all there.
Before noon, Si Mo posted another new piece of paper.
Road maintenance costs will be shared; let's try it for a month first.
Those who set up stalls will be paid by the stall, those who live in houses will be paid by the house, and those who travel by truck will be paid by the truck. Poor households may be given a grace period, and those who evade payment will be expelled.
This time, no one shouted.
The boy who had brought his bedding to stay earlier squeezed to the front, stared at the few lines of text for a long time, then turned to his mother and asked, "What category do we fall into?"
His mother rubbed her hands together: "Let's stay in the house first. We'll figure out the stall after I've laid out my needlework."
The woman selling fabric scraps nearby overheard this and chimed in, "If you really want to set up a needle and thread stall, I'll move next to you. We can share the stall and save ourselves the trouble of running back and forth."
The boy paused for a moment, then quickly nodded.
This street has grown to the point where it finally looks like a street.
It's not about setting up a few tables and hanging a few pieces of cloth.
It's someone who genuinely intends to live here.
In the afternoon, Chen Fan stopped guarding the makeshift tents. He walked along the newly paved stone path, looking around as he went. The rooms that had been empty a while ago were now filled with things placed at their entrances. Some people were drying herbs, others were drying hemp, and a carpenter was sweeping wood shavings into a pile and lighting a fire to boil water. Smoke billowed from under the eaves, stinging people's eyes.
Wukong followed him to the end of the street, pointed, and said, "I had two of those three old boundary markers at the mountain pass dragged back. Keep one for the ferry crossing, it'll be convenient for tethering cattle and donkeys. The rest, shall we put them at the market entrance?"
Chen Fan stopped and looked back at the way he had come.
The wooden sign for "Two Worlds Market" at the street corner swayed in the wind, its corners not yet smoothed and looking a bit rough from a distance.
"Stand it up," he said. "Change the boundary markers to road signs. Scrape off the old markings and carve the new names."
Wukong grunted in agreement and turned to greet the others.
Chen Fan stood there for a moment, then suddenly felt a void in his chest.
It's not that I feel unwell.
It's like something I've been carrying for a long time; I've finally moved it today.
He didn't tell anyone, and turned to go into the scripture hall.
The library was vacated a while ago; it was originally used as a warehouse, but half of it was cleared out and replaced with a few rows of old shelves. There weren't many books inside, mostly thin books, land deeds, copies, and confessions. The clerk was in charge of the accounts, and Chen Fan himself mostly kept up with the miscellaneous items in the library.
The room is shadier, and once the door is closed, the noise outside is kept far away.
The side cabinet is at the very back; the wooden door is thick, and the lock is newly replaced.
Chen Fan squatted down and pulled an old wooden box from the bottom of the cabinet. The corners of the box were worn shiny, and there was a crack on it, which he had made when he was cracking walnuts with a stone at the foot of Wuzhi Mountain years ago.
There weren't many things in the box.
A few brittle pages of paper, a badly carved wooden talisman, and a route map he had drawn many times himself. The map was marked with circles and scribbles, marking mountains, rivers, and every pass he had made in his early, undeterred years. He had tried every way—where there were strange winds, where there were fault lines, and where it seemed like a way back to where he started.
After trying it for a while, even he himself didn't believe it anymore, but he still couldn't bear to throw it away.
At the very bottom was an old sheet of paper, the handwriting crooked, a record of the dates he kept when he first transmigrated. He kept the record for over thirty days, then stopped. He probably couldn't keep track anymore, or was too lazy to keep track.
He picked up the page and looked at it for a long time.
Faint voices could be heard outside, like someone urging the cart to make way, or like Shi Laoliu laughing, his voice loud enough to be heard even through the door.
Chen Fan reached out and flattened the paper, then slowly put it back.
"Still keeping it?" someone at the door asked.
Wukong was leaning against the door at some point, holding half a rope in his hand.
Chen Fan hummed in agreement: "This is the last time."
Wukong glanced at the box, but didn't come in. He just stood on the threshold and said, "After searching for so many years, are you giving up today?"
"That's enough." Chen Fan folded the route map neatly. "I always thought there was a way back. I haven't found the way, and we've just kept walking further and further away. There's no point in chasing after it anymore."
He spoke calmly, and his hand movements were steady.
Fold the pages of paper neatly, place the wooden talisman on top, close the box, and push it into the secondary cabinet.
"And then?" Wukong asked.
"From now on, keep an eye on the accounts, the roads, and the people." Chen Fan stood up, dusted off his hands, and said, "People from both sides come here, so someone has to follow the rules. Didn't you say that the stakes have been removed? We can't let people use the old lines to go around in circles again?"
After listening, Wukong nodded.
"Alright." He slung the rope over his shoulder. "Lock that cabinet up. If you ever change your mind, I'll throw it in the river for you."
Chen Fan laughed and scolded, "Don't meddle."
He closed the side cabinet, locked it, and instead of keeping the key, handed it to Wukong.
Wukong took it, raising an eyebrow: "For me?"
"It'll save you the most trouble," Chen Fan said. "If I really want to bring up old grievances, I'll have to fight you first, so I can think things through a bit more."
Wukong grinned, and with a flick of his hand, the key disappeared.
The two left the scripture hall one after the other.
The sky was beginning to set in the west, and the market was bustling. A new old iron post had been erected at the street corner, its top flattened, bearing four newly carved characters still covered in sawdust. Several children ran around the post, touching the engravings. Old Shi Liu was scooping pickles at a wooden table by the door, shouting to people as he did so, "Pay up first, then take your goods, don't push!"
Si Mo sat under the shed, his back straight, his pen tip dipped in ink.
A man driving a cart stopped, took off his straw hat, wiped his sweat, and peered out to ask, "Is this the Two Realms Market?"
Si Mo didn't look up, his hands continuing to work: "Yes. State your name."
The man smiled, lifted the tarpaulin covering the cart, revealing a cart full of coarse salt.
"Then please remember my stall number."
Chapter 691 Echoes of the Well of Return
The market was bustling until the afternoon, and the truckload of coarse salt at the street corner still hadn't finished unloading.
Si Mo sat under the shed keeping accounts, changing pen nibs three times. As more people came, the names became mixed up. Some gave their real names, others their old pseudonyms. Si Mo listened once, glanced at the names, and then wrote them down. He remembered them very well; he could easily add to the list of who brought how many jars of pickles, who was escorting how many loads of charcoal.
Shi Laoliu was sweating profusely as he scooped pickles with a wooden spoon, shouting, "Put the bill on first, then take the goods. Don't collapse the door!"
Chen Fan stood outside the shed and watched for a long time.
He originally intended to take a stroll around the warehouse, but after taking only two steps, a tower keeper ran down the mountain path.
The man's gray robe was covered in dirt at the hem. He ran over and first leaned against a pillar. Before he could catch his breath, he shouted to Simo, "Stop writing it down! Stop writing it down! There's a sound coming from the Guiyuan Well."
The people in front of the shed fell silent.
Si Mo, pen nib hovering over the ledger page, looked up at him: "What's that noise?"
The tower keeper swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "At night, it sounds like someone is stamping a seal down the well. It's not the sound of water, nor the sound of stones hitting the well wall. It's a series of muffled thuds. Thud, thud, thud. And it even echoes after it's finished."
Old Shi, who had been happily scooping water, stopped at this question: "Who stamped the well?"
"How would I know?" The tower keeper turned to look at Chen Fan. "I kept watch until the third watch last night. At first, I thought it was the wind drilling into the well. But then the sound got clearer and clearer. When I leaned over the edge of the well to listen, I could hear people talking inside."
Chen Fan asked, "What did you say?"
The tower keeper lowered his voice, as if afraid that people on the street would hear him.
"It says the seal of the Hong Kong Chief Executive is still valid."
As soon as those words were spoken, the expressions of the people around the door and table changed.
Si Mo slowly put down his pen: "The exact words?"
"That's what they said. It rang three times. There was also the sound of a stamp being put on it in between."
Wukong appeared from somewhere beside the iron stake, and upon hearing the last sentence, he reached out and brushed the dirt off the tower guard's collar: "Did you drink last night?"
The tower keeper hurriedly waved his hand: "No. Who would dare to drink alcohol while on night duty at the tower? I even called another person to listen. Old Cao heard it too. He's guarding the well now and doesn't dare to leave."
Wukong glanced at Chen Fan.
Chen Fan didn't speak first, but turned to Si Mo and asked, "Was the Guiyuan Well sealed today?"
"It's not sealed," Si Mo replied immediately. "The water supply is still running as usual. I even drew two buckets from the well this morning; it wasn't murky or fishy."
"Who handled it?"
"Old Cheng from the well house, along with two new helpers."
Chen Fan nodded: "Let's go take a look."
The people queuing in front of the stall, who had been craning their necks to listen, all fell silent as the group prepared to leave, only watching with their eyes. Old Shi put down his wooden spoon first: "Shall I go and take a look?"
"You'll watch the stall," Si Mo said.
Shi Laoliu said "Oh," but still couldn't help glancing in that direction.
The group walked along the new street, past the empty houses in the back row, and further in was the well house of Guiyuan Well. It wasn't far from the market, but it was usually quiet. A half-person-high stone wall stood outside the well house, its corners perpetually damp. Today, even under the blazing sun, the wall remained dark.
Old Cao was indeed guarding the well.
He looked unwell, and when he saw Chen Fan arrive, he stepped aside half a step: "I didn't dare to go any closer this morning. That noise didn't stop until dawn."
The wellhead was covered by a half-wooden board with an iron ring nailed to the edge. Chen Fan walked over, but didn't lift the board immediately; he just stood there and listened.
It was very quiet in the well.
A breeze swept across the well, carrying a slight dampness. It wasn't the smell of water, but the musty odor of old paper that had been soaking for too long, rising gently to the surface.
Wukong squatted down and tapped the edge of the well with his finger.
"Did it come from here last night?"
"Yes," Old Cao said, "It's like being in a very deep place. It's not coming back layer by layer, but more like someone talking against the well wall."
Chen Fan reached out and lifted the half of the wooden board.
As soon as the well was opened, a rush of cool air shot out. Si Mo instinctively took a half step back, but his eyes fixed even more intently. The well water was far from the opening; below, it was dark, with only a glimmer of light within the darkness. It looked flat and still, without the slightest movement.
Wukong leaned down to look, then suddenly smiled and said, "This is really interesting."
Chen Fan asked, "Can we go down?"
"Yes. It's not a formation, it won't bite." After saying that, Wukong braced himself against the edge of the well and floated down. An old iron ladder was nailed to the well wall, and he only touched it twice with his toes before his figure sank into the darkness.
None of the Inoue members made a sound.
Not long after, a soft sound came from down the well.
It wasn't a splash of water.
It was like a piece of wood gently tapping on a stone.
Si Mo felt a tightness in his back and was about to speak when a muffled sound suddenly came from the bottom of the well.
"The seal of the Hong Kong Chief Executive Office remains valid."
The voice wasn't loud, as if it were rising from underwater. Each word was pronounced slowly and deliberately, with the last syllable trailing off, rising along the well wall, sending chills down one's spine.
Old Cao trembled on the spot, his lips turning white: "This is it, this is it."
The next instant, a second sound came from the well.
"The seal of the Hong Kong Chief Executive Office remains valid."
Si Mo stared at the well opening, his hand already on the booklet at his waist, as if he subconsciously wanted to write something down, or as if he was afraid of missing something.
The third sound didn't follow.
A moment later, Wukong flipped up from below, a clump of wet mud in his palm. The first thing he did was to throw the mud onto the stone slab at the entrance of the well house.
The mud was spread out, and half a rotten wooden handle was embedded inside.
A bronze seal is attached to the end of the wooden handle. The seal face down, its edges polished to a shine, clearly an old artifact.
Si Mo bent down and turned the seal over, his face immediately darkening.
The four characters on the seal face are missing a corner, but they are still recognizable.
Lingang General Administration.
Everyone in the well house fell silent.
Old Cao's throat tightened: "Wasn't he already crippled?"
Si Mo didn't respond to that, but instead ran his fingertip along the edge of the seal, wiping away a layer of black mud. He recognized the design. It wasn't a privately made small seal; it was an old-style official seal. When the old port fell that year, many signs were smashed, and even wooden cabinets were chopped up for firewood. In principle, not a single seal like this should have been kept.
Chen Fan stared at the bronze seal, his gaze unwavering: "What else is down in the well?"
"There's a hidden layer in the well wall," Wukong said. "It's not big, like it was added later. There's some rotten paper stuck inside, it crumbles at the slightest touch. There's also ink residue, it gets damp again after drying, sticking to the cracks in the stone."
Si Mo asked, "Can a person go in?"
"No. The seam is too narrow." Wukong raised his hand and gestured in the air. "It's like it was specially made to stuff things in. Someone passed official documents down the well wall and stamped them. After a while, the seal's power remained inside. Last night, the surging of the well's source pushed out this old stuff."
Chen Fan didn't say anything. He first put the wooden plank back over the well and pressed it down with his palm.
Just as the planks were placed firmly, footsteps rushed in from outside.
The clerk who came was from the granary, and he was even more disheveled, with grain husks still stuck to his feet.
"Mr. Chen, there's a shortage of rice in the warehouse!"
Si Mo turned around: "How much less?"
"Thirty bags." The clerk was panting, his face flushed. "They were still there when we checked the warehouse this morning. We counted them again this afternoon, and the row in the west corner was a bit empty. The door locks weren't broken, and the window paper wasn't torn, so it looks like someone was seriously moving them out."
Old Cao blurted out, "They carried thirty bags, who didn't see that?"
"That's the strange thing." The clerk raised his hand, still holding a hemp rope. "There wasn't much rice scattered on the ground. The footprints were messy, like several groups of people had gone in and out. We followed the tracks and found two empty bags over the back ditch, both with this on top of them."
He handed over the rope as he spoke.
A small piece of yellow paper was tucked into the end of the rope; the edges were already damp and curled. Instead of writing, it had a red seal on it.
Si Mo took it, and after just one glance, his face grew even colder.
It's still that same stamp.
Lingang General Administration.
The imprint is old, the color is dark, and there are some rough edges from water seepage. It doesn't look like it was just stamped today, but rather like an old imprint that has been re-colored and has surfaced from the paper itself.
The clerk lowered his voice: "I didn't dare touch any of the bags left in the warehouse. I felt the opening of each bag, and there were thirty empty spaces. The bags next to the empty spaces had red stains on the knots, like someone had stamped them one by one."
Old Shi had somehow followed them here, and had been huddled by the door listening for a long time. Finally, he couldn't help but hiss, "Those damned old men in Old Port, they've learned how to collect rice now?"
No one responded to his statement.
Wukong held the bronze seal in his hand, weighed it in his hand, and pressed down with his knuckles, the seal making a soft sound. He didn't crush it, but just narrowed his eyes: "It's not the prison break trick. The stuff in the well just seeped out by itself through the crack. First it made a sound, then the seal appeared. The granary is short of rice, not because they actually carried it away, but because someone heard the sound and followed the seal to work."
Chen Fan looked at Si Mo: "Who is allowed to touch the warehouse treasury?"
"Three people manage the warehouse. Two people drive the locks. Plus the porters," Si Mo answered quickly. "Among the newcomers, there are also four who frequently run to the warehouse these days."
"Seale the warehouse first," Chen Fan said.
Si Mo nodded, turned and walked away, but after taking two steps he turned back and tucked the old printed paper into the booklet.
Chen Fan then looked at Old Cao and the tower keeper: "Add more people to the well house tonight. Don't get too close. If you hear a sound, don't answer yourself."
Old Cao nodded repeatedly.
The tower keeper asked, "What if it shouts that phrase again?"
Chen Fan looked down at the wet mud on the stone slab, then at the bronze seal, and spoke in a low voice.
"Let it shout whatever it wants. Anyone who tries to use its seal to obtain something should be dragged out first."
After saying that, he walked towards the warehouse.
Wukong stuffed the copper seal into his sleeve and followed behind. Shi Laoliu stood by the door, making way for him, his eyes still fixed on the wet mud. Water seeped into the cracks in the mud little by little, until finally only half a blurry corner of the seal remained, a dark, reddish-brown mark.
Chapter 692 Old Words on the Grain Bag
People crowded the entrance to the warehouse early in the morning.
They're not here to cause trouble; they're all here to collect their grain.
Last night, a guard was added at the well house, and this morning the news spread even faster. Salt sellers, pickle sellers, and herb carriers on the street all circled around to the warehouse door to take a look before setting up their stalls. Old Shi squatted by the threshold, drawing a path on the ground with a twig, shouting as he did so: "New accounts first, old tickets second. Those whose names aren't on the register, go to the shed to write them down first."
Inside the doorway, piles of newly harvested coarse grains were stacked, sacks upon sacks. The air was thick with the smell of grain, hot and damp.
Si Mo sat on a small stool, the account book spread out on his lap, with a wooden tag beside him. Every time a bag was handed out, he would look up and ask a question, not missing a single one: name, address, and how many people were being taken.
Chen Fan stood by the door for a while, and just as he was about to go in, chaos broke out on the other side of the mountain pass.
It wasn't the sound of weapons.
It was the sharp sound of the mule cart wheels grinding against the stone ground when it braked suddenly.
Bai Ya strode down the slope, his shoulders still covered in dirt, followed by two men guarding the pass, pushing a wheelbarrow that was tilted to one side. Five or six burlap sacks were scattered haphazardly on the wheelbarrow, two of which had torn corners, spilling millet that rolled all the way down the wheelbarrow.
Shi Laoliu immediately stood up: "Has the grain arrived?"
Bai Ya's expression was off, and he raised his hand to stop him.
"Don't touch it yet."
After those words were spoken, the people at the door quieted down a bit.
Wukong, who had been sitting under the eaves teasing a gray sparrow with a blade of grass, threw the grass aside and got up to walk over. He glanced at the bag on the cart, then at Baiya: "Where did this come from?"
"They intercepted it at the mountain pass." Baiya caught his breath. "They said it was for Dongpeng, but it went through two intermediaries. They reported the number twice when it passed through the pass. The first time they said three bags, but when it got there it was seven. I had someone dismantle the cart and check it. There was an old note under the cart."
He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Chen Fan.
The handwriting on the paper was blurry, but the ink was fresh. Only four words were written on it: "Hong Kong spouses preferred".
Chen Fan didn't say anything, but handed the paper to Si Mo.
Si Mo glanced at it, then frowned. He closed the ledger, got up and walked to the car. He first felt the knot at the top of the bag, then squatted down and turned over the bottom of one of the bags.
There was an old red stain on the bottom of the burlap sack.
The mark wasn't big; it was slanted over the seam, covering half of the fabric texture. You really couldn't see it unless you looked closely.
Si Mo turned the bag right side out and then looked at the other bags in succession.
The more he looked, the more somber his face became.
Old Shi couldn't help but peek out: "What does it say on it?"
Bai Ya said coldly, "Look for yourself."
Shi Laoliu squinted for a long time before piecing together the fragmented characters, hissing as he muttered, "Hong Kong...partnership...priority?"
The people queuing at the door suddenly buzzed.
"Isn't this a precedent for Hong Kong-partnered couples?"
"Is that the system used for shipping goods from the river mouth warehouse first?"
"How did this thing get here?"
Some people had already started looking at the grain sacks at their feet, as if afraid that there might be a red mark hidden under their feet.
Chen Fan raised his hand, and the sound at the door was muffled.
"Explain yourself first." He looked at Bai Ya, "Who delivered it?"
"The driver said it came from the north slope," Baiya said. "The north slope said it was transferred from the west warehouse, but the west warehouse said they only recognize the permit, not the vehicle. They went around in circles, and not a single word was true. I've got the man locked up."
"Where's the cop?"
"Just this one. The others were half burned; I found them near the tire wheel."
Chen Fan took the half-piece of paper, glanced at it, and saw that the edges were charred and the remaining characters were not fully recognized. He could only make out a few strokes: "first launch," "port," and "following the old practice."
Old practice.
It's the same old story.
These days, anything with the word "old" in it is almost certainly not clean.
Si Mo dragged a grain sack to the light by the door and reached out to wipe the mark. The red color hadn't faded; instead, it appeared even more prominent against the fabric's texture. After wiping it away, he lowered his head to smell his fingertips, then looked up and said, "It's newly made."
Bai Ya was taken aback: "A new seal?"
"It's not the original print." Si Mo shook his head. "It looks like it was made by reverse-printing fragments of an old mold."
Shi Laoliu didn't understand: "What's 'reverse topography'?"
Si Mo held the bag upright and pointed to the corner of the seal: "Look here. The edges of the characters are rough, and the pressure is uneven. When the original seal was applied, the pressure on the four corners should be about the same. This wasn't pressed down; it was first dipped in ink and then rubbed onto the side. It's like using a broken seal mold to stick to the back of a cloth and rub it out."
Wukong grew impatient, reached out and picked up the bag, weighing it in his palm: "So, someone deliberately altered the stamps on the grain bags?"
"That's right," Si Mo said. "Once the old records are updated, the new records will make way."
As soon as these words were spoken, the expressions of the people at the door changed.
The flexible accounting system is a rule that was established just a few days ago. First, the names of each household are recorded, and then payments are made according to the actual number of people. There's no order of precedence, only priorities. The injured receive theirs first, those with children receive theirs first, and newcomers get a hot meal first. The rules aren't fancy, but their advantage is that everyone can see them.
Once the old seal is affixed, the order gets messed up.
Whoever brings the "Hong Kong spouses preferred" bag can push forward.
One bag can hold a lot of people; ten bags can squeeze out half a street's worth of people.
What's being squeezed out isn't the number of rice, it's the rice in the pot.
A woman holding a child outside the door panicked first. Looking down at the child's face, she asked softly, "Are we still giving out gifts today?"
Chen Fan turned to look at her, his tone flat: "Distribute. Distribute according to the current accounts. Record those that haven't been added to the register yet."
The woman then lifted the child up and returned to her position in the line.
Bai Ya dumped out the remaining bags and laid them out in a row. Six bags, six bottoms, all bearing old stamps. The stamps varied in location and depth, but the characters were almost identical, as if made by the same wicked hand.
Si Mo glanced at it again, then suddenly reached out and pinched the seam of one of the bags.
"Here comes the knife."
The man next to him handed him a short knife.
Si Mo gently lifted the hemp thread along the seam at the bottom, and half of it broke off. A few grains of millet fell out first, followed by a small piece of hard material that slid out. It landed on the ground with a thud.
Shi Laoliu bent down to pick it up, turned it over and saw that it was a broken piece of wood mold edge, with dark red ink on it and half of the character "港" (Hong Kong) still attached.
Bai Ya cursed, "Still stuffed in the bag?"
"Afraid of losing your license on the road?" Wukong scoffed. "Stupid as it is."
Si Mo took the broken mold and twirled it in his palm: "It's not the natural color of wood. It was covered with copper sheeting, but it was dismantled in a hurry, leaving only the base. If the old mold is really in the warehouse, this is just a scrap piece that was found."
Chen Fan asked, "Can you tell where it came from?"
Si Mo didn't answer immediately. He pasted the broken mold onto the mark on the bottom of the bag, compared it, and then said, "It's like the seal style from the old warehouse in Guigang. It was discontinued three years ago. The characters are narrow, and the last stroke tapers inward. The new warehouse doesn't use this style anymore."
Bai Ya's face darkened further: "The old warehouse on the other side of the port has long been sealed off."
"It's the door that's being sealed," Chen Fan said, "not the hand."
There was a moment of silence at the doorway.
Inside the warehouse, people were moving grain, sacks dragging on the floor, making a rough, rustling sound. The sound was ordinary, but at that moment it made everyone's heart tighten. Even Old Man Shi was quiet now, clutching the broken mold as if he were squeezing a dead rat.
Chen Fan reached out and took the broken mold.
"White Cliff".
"exist."
"Starting today in Yamaguchi, every bag of grain will be inspected upon resale. First, check the bottom, then the thread. If the stamp or thread doesn't match, the person will be detained. Record the carts and pack animals separately. Who delivered it, who received it, and which route it came in from—each on a separate page."
Bai Ya nodded: "Understood."
"Don't let the driver go," Chen Fan said again. "If you can't get the truth out of him, make him point out all the places we've stopped along the way."
"it is good."
Chen Fan turned to Si Mo: "Add a column to today's accounts."
Si Mo had already laid the ledger out again, pen hovering over the paper: "What should I write?"
"Write down the marks on the bottom of the bags," Chen Fan said. "For every bag of grain that you handle, record whether there is an old stamp on the bottom and what the stamp says. Before taking them out, turn them over in front of everyone."
Old Shi understood first, and shouted at the door, "Did you all hear that! From now on, check the bottom of the grain bag before you collect your grain! If anyone takes it home and still sees the old stamp, return it immediately, don't hide it yourself!"
Some people responded with a sound of agreement, while others nodded in agreement.
The woman holding the child pursed her lips and took half a step forward: "Then let me take a look at my bag too."
"Okay," Si Mo replied quickly.
He picked up his pen and wrote the new column, the characters heavier than usual, the ink pressing into the paper. After finishing, he dragged the six printed bags to a corner and tied them up with a rope.
Wukong leaned against the doorframe, looking at the bags of grain, and suddenly asked, "What if we hadn't intercepted them today?"
No one responded to that.
The answer is pretty much the same in everyone's mind.
If they don't stop them, these bags will go first to the east shed. Once the east shed distributes them, the people on the south slope will have to wait. By afternoon, the porridge in the pot is almost gone, and the queue hasn't dispersed yet. If someone tries to cut in line with an old slip of paper, a fight will immediately break out between those in front and behind. The temporary shed has only been set up for a few days, and this is the worst thing that could happen.
It's not as simple as just grabbing a bite to eat.
Someone is testing the waters with an old seal.
Chen Fan folded the "Hong Kong spouses preferred" crumpled paper twice, stuffed it into his sleeve, and walked out.
Bai Ya followed, asking, "Where to?"
"North slope," Chen Fan said, "Let's first get the loose ends from the resale."
He paused at the door and looked back at Si Mo.
"Hang that broken mold inside the tent."
Si Mo was taken aback.
Chen Fan said, "Make it clear on the side. The old seal is fake. Report it as soon as you see it."
Si Mo nodded, took the wooden plaque, dipped it in ink, and began to write.
Old Shi leaned over to take a look, muttering, "A perfectly good grain sack, and they had to tamper with it from the bottom, what a bastard."
Wukong had already stepped out the door, flicking his sleeve and sweeping away half a foot of dust from the road.
In the warehouse, Si Mo finished writing the last word, threaded the broken mold with hemp rope, and personally hung it on the wooden pillar in front of the shed.
A gust of wind blew, and the broken half of the mold gently bumped against the pillar with a crack.
Chapter 693 The Model Maker in the Abandoned Shipyard
Before dawn, fog had already risen over the well house.
The tower keeper had been on duty all night; his eyelids were dark and his lamp was almost burnt out. When Chen Fan arrived, he was squatting on the threshold, eating a cold pancake. When he saw Chen Fan, he only raised his chin slightly.
"It rang twice more during the night."
Chen Fan paused: "Still that line?"
"Almost there." The tower keeper broke the cake in half, his voice hoarse. "First he shouts 'Yin,' then 'Cang.' It sounds like someone is teaching someone to recite a phrase through a well wall. It's not quite right; the last syllable always drags out by half a beat."
Wukong leaned against the stone pillar outside the well house, his eyes closed, as if he were dozing off.
Hearing this, he finally opened his eyelids a little.
"He didn't learn it on his own while in the well."
The tower keeper nodded: "That's what I think too."
A wooden cover was pressed down on the wellhead, and dampness seeped from the cracks in the cover. The fishy smell of water hadn't dissipated overnight. Chen Fan walked closer and took a look; there were several new scratch marks on the edge of the wooden cover, as if someone had hurriedly pressed them there.
He didn't lift the lid, but only asked, "Where is he?"
"We didn't catch them," the tower keeper said. "With more people outside, no one dares to approach the well. As soon as the noise stopped, everything went quiet. It's like disappearing back into a crack in the rocks."
Chen Fan turned to look at Wukong.
Wukong straightened up by the stone pillar and picked at his ear.
"I heard it last night. It didn't come from the bottom of the well."
"where?"
Wukong tilted his head slightly towards the old port.
"Going with the current. It circled around three times. It deliberately used empty houses, broken walls, and rotten boat planks as echoes. If it were someone else, they would really be led astray by it."
Chen Fan asked, "Can it stay still?"
"Yes. It's easier to find in the daylight."
The group walked down the abandoned old port road without alerting anyone else.
Si Mo followed, carrying the few lines of reply he had copied down the night before. Shi Laoliu followed closely behind, carrying an old basket on his back, saying he needed it to find his way around. Old Cao brought up the rear, carrying a short stick, his steps unsteady, muttering the same thing again: "I'm just watching, I won't cause any trouble."
The old port had been abandoned for many years, and weeds grew rampant on both sides of the road. Several dilapidated sheds remained, just wooden skeletons. The wind blew up from the river, carrying the smell of damp mud and rotten wood. The further in you went, the more broken pottery you saw on the ground, and occasionally you could see iron rings that had sunk halfway down.
Old Shi looked at it and whispered, "This used to be where tax ships stopped. Further in, there's an abandoned shipyard."
Wukong didn't respond, but his steps slowed down.
He tilted his head to the side, as if listening to something very subtle.
Two crows landed on the crooked mast ahead, cawed once, and then fluttered away. The wind rustled through the tattered tarpaulin. Si Mo's ears were ringing, but Wukong suddenly raised his hand, signaling everyone to stop.
"There are people pounding mud ahead."
Everyone held their breath.
Chen Fan only heard the sounds of wind and water. Shi Laoliu was even more bewildered, craning his neck to look ahead. Wukong, however, had already turned into a wooden corridor that was half collapsed.
At the end of the wooden corridor is an abandoned shipyard.
Three sides were crumbling walls, and one side faced water. The roof had mostly collapsed, and morning light shone through the holes, illuminating an old chopping board. On the board lay a copper basin, a fine sieve, a wooden mallet, and an oil lamp that hadn't quite gone out. Beside the lamp were two damp cloths. Behind the chopping board, a thin old man was bent over, using a wooden spoon to fill a copper frame with mud.
His hands were very steady.
Fill in one layer, then press down another. Then use a fine needle to pick out the edges and corners.
Next to the copper frame, half of an old official seal was pressed down.
Si Mo's eyes narrowed slightly.
The edges of that half-seal and the broken mold we took out of the grain sack yesterday match perfectly.
Shi Laoliu made a gurgling sound in his throat, almost shouting out loud, but Lao Cao grabbed his sleeve. Chen Fan raised his hand and pressed it down, signaling him not to move.
The old man didn't notice.
He's too skilled at it.
Even if he only had half an old seal left, he knew where to fill in the clay, where to leave blank spaces, and where to press it down slightly. The copper clay slowly took shape in his hands, and with a wet sheen, it already resembled the surface of the seal.
After observing for a few moments, Chen Fan suddenly understood.
This is not something you can learn easily.
This is someone who has made a living through cooking in the port area for many years.
Wukong stepped inside first, his foot stomping on the broken wood with a cracking sound.
The old man's hand trembled, and the wooden spoon fell into the copper basin.
When he looked up, his face turned deathly pale, but he didn't run away. He just tried to hide the half of the old seal in his sleeve. He hid it halfway in, then seemed to realize it was useless, and his hand froze.
Wukong stood in front of the chopping board and glanced at the bronze frame.
"Reprinted?"
The old man's lips twitched, but he didn't reply.
Chen Fan walked in as well, his gaze falling on the man's hands. The hands were terribly old, with fine cracks between the thumb and forefinger, and copper plaster filling the nail crevices. Half of the index finger on the left hand was missing, as if it had been broken off many years ago.
When Shi Laoliu saw his face clearly, he was stunned.
"Master Deng?"
The old man's eyes twitched.
Shi Laoliu blurted out, "Is it really you? Didn't you return to your hometown ten years ago?"
Old Master Deng opened his mouth, but his throat seemed to be blocked. After a long while, he managed to squeeze out, "Whether I go back to my hometown or not, what does it have to do with you?"
Shi Laoliu took a step forward angrily: "You're here forging seals and you still say it's no big deal? Those old characters on the bottom of the grain sacks, did you put them there?"
Old Craftsman Deng ignored him, staring only at the lump of copper clay beside the chopping board.
"I didn't forge the seal."
Si Mo said coldly, "Isn't this the official seal in your hand?"
"It's an old seal," said Old Craftsman Deng. "A discarded seal. It was destroyed a long time ago."
Chen Fan asked, "Who told you to translate it?"
Old Master Deng kept his mouth shut even tighter.
Wukong reached out and picked up a newly formed clay mold from the cutting board. The clay was still unsettled, and the edges wobbled as if it were about to collapse. Old Craftsman Deng's eyelids twitched violently, and he couldn't help but reach out to protect it, but he stopped abruptly halfway through his outstretched hand.
Wukong glanced at him: "You value this more than your life?"
Old Master Deng's Adam's apple bobbed.
"Destroying it won't do any good."
"Oh?" Chen Fan chimed in, "There are other people who can do it?"
Upon hearing this, Old Master Deng's expression darkened even further.
He remained silent for a long time, then suddenly turned his head to look at the corner of the dock.
There leaned against a broken vat, half-filled with rainwater. The water was black, and a broken wooden ladle floated on it. No one moved, but suddenly a sound came from the vat.
"Press the edge lightly. Don't reveal any old marks."
The sound was muffled, as if it had come out of a well after several twists and turns.
Old Shi's scalp tingled, and he took two steps back: "It's that again!"
Old Cao suddenly raised the short stick in his hand.
Si Mo stared at the jar, his palms sweating profusely.
Wukong chuckled, walked over, and kicked the broken jar over.
With a splash, black water spilled onto the ground. A hollow ceramic vessel rolled out from the bottom of the jar, wrapped in hemp rope that led all the way to the crack in the wall. The opening of the ceramic vessel was very narrow, covered with a thin copper sheet; when a human voice entered, the sound changed.
Old Shi's eyes widened: "This thing can transmit messages?"
Old Craftsman Deng lowered his head and remained silent.
Wukong pulled on the hemp rope, and another half of a bamboo tube emerged from behind the wall. The bamboo tube, buried under a rotten plank, stretched from section to section, leading directly to the water's edge. A small wooden float was attached to the other end, clearly allowing it to transmit sound downstream.
Chen Fan walked over, squatted down, and took a look.
The inner wall of the bamboo joint is polished to a shine; this cannot be achieved in a day or two.
"Is that how the echo from the well house is transmitted?"
Old Master Deng's shoulders slumped down a little.
"almost."
Si Mo pressed further, "Who taught you that?"
"Nobody taught us," Old Master Deng said in a muffled voice. "The harbor used this method to send messages to ships in the early days to prevent fog. Just change the line, change the port, and the message can be sent out."
As he said this, it was as if he knew he couldn't hide it any longer, and his hand slowly fell to his sides.
"My job is only to make the molds, trim the edges, and inspect the clay. Everything else is not my responsibility."
Old Shi almost laughed in anger: "You're using a fake seal, and you still say it doesn't belong to you?"
Old Master Deng suddenly looked up, a hard look flashing in his eyes.
"I'm working on the old official documents. The old ones are obsolete, and the new ones haven't been established yet, but the people in the granary still recognize these old ones. Since I can do this kind of work, they come to me. If I don't do it, someone else will."
Chen Fan looked at him, but didn't press him.
This old man isn't the type to make decisions on the spot.
He was a seasoned pro, knowing which side to soften, which to tighten, and how much flesh to leave when pressing down with an official seal. He'd follow orders as soon as someone gave him instructions. His downfall was that he was steady with both his hands and his mouth.
Wukong pulled the half of the old seal from his sleeve, placed it on the cutting board, and tapped it with his fingertip.
"Who answered from the other side of the water?"
Old Master Deng pursed his lips into a thin line.
Suddenly, another sound came from the edge of the overturned, broken jar. This time it was even fainter, as if someone was peering into the opening of the bamboo tube from a great distance.
"Don't admit it. If you do, you'll be thrown into the river."
As soon as the sound faded, there was a "plop" on the water outside, as if a small boat was turning around abruptly.
Wukong flashed forward, already on the water's edge. When the others rushed out, they only saw a section of the boat's stern brush past behind the reeds. The boat wasn't large, and the boatman, wearing a tattered hat, was bowing low. Wukong reached out and grabbed, only managing to pull back half a bamboo pole. The boat had already slipped into the narrow waterway, concealed by rotten stakes and reeds.
Shi Laoliu cursed and stomped his feet in anger.
Wukong looked down at the bamboo pole, its end wrapped in old cloth. On the old cloth was a blurry red mark, not a warehouse mark, but another kind of small private mark, like a mark someone had made to avoid misidentifying the goods.
Chen Fan took it, glanced at it, and then put it into his sleeve.
When he returned to the chopping board, Old Craftsman Deng looked several years older, his back hunched even more.
"You heard that?" He stared at the black water on the ground. "I'm just a laborer. I never see the whole face of anyone holding the thread. Every few days I move to a different place, a different waterway, and a different message. That sound from the well isn't just imitated by one person."
Si Mo's heart sank.
"How many are left?"
Old Craftsman Deng shook his head.
"I don't know. I really don't know. The people who came to take the mold, deliver the clay, and pass on the message are not the same group. Some of them can pretend to be warehouse workers, some can pretend to be boatmen, and some have even changed their accents. If you arrest me today, someone else will take over the seal tomorrow."
Chen Fan looked at the copper frame on the cutting board, and then at the polished bamboo tubes.
The wind blew down from the broken roof, causing the damp cloth to gently tap the table.
He reached out and pressed down on one side of the newly formed clay mold, causing it to collapse.
Old Master Deng closed his eyes and stopped trying to protect her.
Chen Fan said, "Take the people with you. The chopping board, the copper mortar, and the bamboo tubes—move them all back."
Old Shi was the quickest to respond, rolling up his sleeves and heading forward to move the basin. Old Cao stood guard at the door with a short stick, his eyes fixed on the water, afraid that someone else might emerge from the reeds.
Wukong slung the half-bamboo pole across his shoulder, turned around, and asked Old Craftsman Deng a question.
"Who will that cry from the Well of Return to Origin call for next?"
Old Craftsman Deng stood in the shaky light, his lips moving slightly.
"It's time for the salt to be collected at the dock these next couple of days."
Si Mo almost dropped the booklet in his hand.
Wukong grunted in agreement and stomped on the remaining ceramic urn against the wall. The fragments rolled into the black water with a few muffled thuds.
Old Craftsman Deng was led out by Old Cao, but when they reached the entrance of the dock, they stopped for a moment.
He didn't turn around, but just whispered a sentence.
"If you want to investigate, go find someone who can repair echo wells. I'm not the only one who made molds."
Chapter 694 Peach Root Fever
It was just getting dark, and the lights were still on at the tent.
Si Mo closed today's booklet, pressed the cover as if afraid the words inside would jump out. Shi Laoliu, carrying an empty bucket, returned from the market entrance, his shoes covered in a layer of damp mud. As soon as he entered the courtyard, he shouted, "There's been an uproar at the docks! A fight almost broke out in front of the salt distribution sheds. Luckily, the broken molds were hung up, so no one dared to take the old seals."
Wukong sat on the doorstep, whittling bamboo skewers, without even looking up: "Who started this?"
"A guy in a gray jacket," Old Shi put down the bucket. "He said he heard someone shouting from the well house last night, and it sounded really real. They told him to go and collect two bags this morning. If Si Mo hadn't been so observant, he would have actually pressed his hand into the inkpad."
Si Mo stood by the table, his fingertips still stained with ink, and whispered, "He had an old banknote hidden in his sleeve. There were creases on the edge, like it had been made using a broken mold."
Chen Fan pushed the oil lamp in his hand towards the center of the table.
The light flickered, and the faces of the group turned a yellowish hue.
Where are they?
"They've taken him to the backyard." Old Cao came in from outside, a wet hemp rope still hanging on his shoulder. "I questioned him. He's not a stubborn person; he spilled the beans after a few words. He said someone handed him half an old bill at a tea stall at the dock this morning, telling him to do as he was told. If he succeeded, he'd get a bag of salt; if he failed, he'd throw it in the water."
Wukong tossed the sharpened bamboo skewers onto the table, making a crisp sound.
"Where are the people at the tea stall?"
"They ran away." Old Cao spat. "When I went there, the tea was still warm."
Chen Fan didn't reply, but reached out and flipped over the offering paper of Old Master Deng, pointing to the last line.
A person who can repair echo wells.
These characters were written crookedly, and the ink was blurry, as if even Old Craftsman Deng himself wasn't sure when he said those words. But Chen Fan knew in his heart that the matter of Guiyuan Well was no longer as simple as a copy. Someone was using the sound of the well to reiterate old rules, which was tantamount to digging up dead rules from the ground, dusting them off, and then trying to pin them on everyone's heads.
The room was quiet for a while.
A breeze was blowing outside the courtyard, rustling the peach tree leaves.
This peach tree was originally planted in the corner of the old house. Over the years, its roots had bulged with a mound of earth. A few days ago, after the fragments of the Termination Seal were unearthed, Si Mo, following Chen Fan's instructions, filled the pit back in, only placing a blue brick on top. No one usually touched it.
Shi Laoliu suddenly sniffed and glanced outside.
"Can you smell it?"
Old Cao was taken aback for a moment: "What are you smelling?"
"It smells like burnt wood," Shi Laoliu said, turning his head. "And it's a little sweet and burnt."
Wukong had already gotten up and stepped into the courtyard.
When Chen Fan followed them out, the blue brick under the peach tree was already half-crooked. It wasn't that anyone had moved it; something underneath had pushed it up. Thin wisps of white steam rose from the cracks in the brick, clearly visible in the night.
Si Mo's expression changed, and he hurriedly took the half-broken mold hanging in the tent and took the old seal out of the wooden box.
"Is it hot again?"
Chen Fan squatted down, his hand close to the soil. Before it even touched the ground, he felt a wave of oppressive heat rising up. It wasn't fire, nor was it the heat of the sun; it felt more like a simmering pot of steam that had been building up for a while, slowly but surely.
Old Cao picked up a shovel: "I'll dig it open."
"Wait." Chen Fan raised his hand to stop him.
Wukong bent down and lifted the blue brick aside. The soil was cracked, and a dark red sliver peeked through the cracks. Si Mo stood beside him, his Adam's apple bobbing, and handed over the old seal: "Want to try it first?"
Chen Fan glanced at the seal.
The old wood is blackened, and the seal face and edges are still intact. In the previous incidents, it was like a dying snake, limp and lifeless. Now, as it gets closer to Taogen, a thin layer of sheen has appeared on the edge of the seal, sticky like oil rising from inkpads.
Old Shi felt a chill run down his spine: "This thing even recognizes its own location?"
Wukong took the seal and leaned it against the top of the cracked earth.
The heat from the ground immediately subsided.
The white steam that had been rising dissipated somewhat, and the crack stopped widening. The broken mold in Si Mo's hand trembled slightly, as if someone was tapping inside.
Everyone saw it.
No one in the courtyard spoke for a moment.
Chen Fan stared at the crack, his heart sinking. The fact that it could be suppressed meant that the fragment of the Termination Seal beneath still recognized the old seal. The old authority wasn't completely dead; it was even more intact than they had thought. If they were to stamp the "General Termination" seal again now, they might be able to suppress the echo in the well, and even pin down any old tickets or molds emerging from the outside.
This idea was so practical that even Old Man Shi mentioned it first.
"How about... we rebuild it again?" He scratched behind his ear. "After we finished rebuilding it last time, the market was much quieter. Now this area is acting up again, so let's just smother it while it's still hot, wouldn't that save us trouble?"
Old Cao frowned as well: "We always have to keep an eye on things at Guiyuan Well at night. And there are old tickets appearing at the dock. This can't go on like this."
Si Mo didn't rush to take sides, but instead examined the broken mold from all angles: "If we're really going to rebuild, we need to figure out where to build it. Last time we followed the old trail. Now the old trail is scattered in several places, well houses, docks, warehouses, and the loose ends are showing."
Wukong moved the old chapter half an inch away.
The red vapor from the crack immediately shot upwards.
He pressed it back down, and the red aura immediately shrank.
This back-and-forth movement made Shi Laoliu's back teeth ache: "Stop teasing it, it's creepy."
Wukong ignored him, only looking up at Chen Fan: "What do you think?"
Chen Fan didn't answer, but instead asked Si Mo, "The man in the gray coat said he heard the well sound last night?"
"Yes." Si Mo nodded. "After midnight. Similar to last time."
How far is the dock from the well house?
Old Cao answered immediately: "For an ordinary person, it takes an hour and a half."
"To get the sound there, it has to be transmitted without going back to the well or through the wall." Chen Fan reached out and picked up some hot soil, then rolled it on his fingertip. "There has to be another way."
Old Cao was taken aback: "There's a well too?"
"It might not be a well," Chen Fan brushed away the dirt. "It could be a hidden ditch or an abandoned cellar. As long as it can gather sound, it can be used."
Old Shi couldn't stand it any longer and paced back and forth a couple of times: "What about the fragments underneath? We can't keep letting them stay so hot. What if they explode in the middle of the night?"
"It can't be blown open," Wukong said calmly. "It's looking for the chapter."
Upon hearing this, Si Mo's back tensed up immediately.
Chen Fan understood. It wasn't the fragments moving on their own; it was the old force outside stirring. What was buried beneath the peach root was drawn in, like iron filings meeting a magnet, trying to stick to the seal. If the seal fell, it would be still. If the seal moved away, it would surge.
This silence is too much like bait.
If we press it down again, the final termination might truly be achieved. But with each press, the old things become known more deeply. Today we press down fragments, tomorrow we might press down the entire well of origin.
He stood up and patted the dirt off his knees.
"Don't stamp it yet."
Old Shi Liu grew impatient: "Why aren't you covering it yet?"
"Let's find the source first." Chen Fan looked at Lao Cao. "Tonight, we'll send two groups of people. One group will guard the well house, and the other will go to the back of the old warehouse at the dock to find the underground channel. We'll also search the area around the tea stall again. Make a note of anyone who knows how to repair wells or build echo walls."
Old Cao responded and left.
Si Mo hurriedly asked, "Where is this old seal?"
"Keep it in the courtyard," Chen Fan said. "Stay three feet away from Tao Gen, not too close, not too far. Use a wooden box as a cushion. Record the rise and fall of the heat every half hour."
Si Mo nodded and turned to move the small table.
Old Shi Liu remained standing there, muttering to himself, "Isn't this just leaving it hanging? What if it gets even more agitated?"
Chen Fan glanced at the crack, then at the seal in Wukong's hand.
"They'll only show themselves if they make a scene."
As the night deepened, two more lamps were added to the courtyard.
Si Mo brought over an old sheet of paper and used it to record the heat according to the time of day. Around midnight, the cracks in the soil were the reddest. If the old paper moved forward half an inch, the red line would shrink. If it moved back half an inch, the heat would rise again. The soil around the peach tree roots arched and bulged, as if there was a breath of air breathing from the earth.
Old Shi's legs went numb from squatting, so he simply sat on the ground, staring blankly at the crack: "Now I believe it, these old things are even better at choosing their time than people."
Wukong leaned against the tree, still holding the stamp in his hand.
After reading the few lines of text written by Si Moji, Chen Fan suddenly reached out and moved the wooden box a foot to the east.
Before anyone could react, the heat from the crack shifted, no longer rushing straight towards the surface, but instead tilting towards the wastewater vat in the corner of the courtyard.
Si Mo's eyes lit up: "It doesn't just recognize the seal; it's looking for other paths."
Chen Fan had already turned and walked towards the corner.
That old jar, usually used to catch rainwater, was dry now, with a layer of mud accumulated at the bottom. As the steam shifted, a thin ring of water droplets rose around the rim, as if sweat was seeping out from inside.
Wukong raised his hand and flicked the bamboo stick.
With a "clang," the bottom of the jar echoed hollowly.
Old Cao had just returned from outside when he heard the noise. He said, panting, "I found a blocked-off ditch in the back alley, facing directly towards the old warehouse at the dock. The brickwork has been newly patched, and the mortar hasn't dried yet."
Chen Fan turned back to look at the vat, his eyes darkening.
"Smash it open."
Wukong kicked the jar, splitting it in two. Underneath wasn't soil, but a lid. Steam rose from the crack in the lid, carrying the smell of damp well mud.
Old Shi cursed and hurriedly backed away: "Damn it, there's a path in the yard?"
Chen Fan squatted down and tapped the cover plate twice with his knuckles. The sound was muffled, indicating that it was clearly hollow underneath.
He reached out and took the old seal, but instead of pressing it onto the crack, he paused it just above the cover.
The heat from the gaps in the boards subsided immediately.
Chen Fan raised his eyes, his voice low.
"The source of the well is not in the well house."
After saying that, he put the seal back into his sleeve and reached out to Old Cao: "Bring me the crowbar."