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At the same time, at the Refugee Camp.
A middle-aged man dressed plainly, yet far cleaner than the average refugee, was bent over a rotten wooden table. From the tattered cloth bundle he carried with him, he took out brush, ink, paper, and inkstone, then began writing with great care.
The third day of the second month, thirty-ninth year of Zhaoyang
Great Wasteland
I write my final words here.
My surname is Li, my given name Fugui, and my courtesy name Zhongjie. I was an Imperial Examination graduate of the special examination in the thirteenth year of Emperor Wenchang.
After more than twenty years of wasted time, through several promotions and demotions, I served as the County Magistrate of Qinglin County. Yet storms come without warning. In the end, due to my ineffective resistance against the drought, the people were displaced, the population under my rule dwindled on a massive scale, and I was stripped of office and punished.
Fortunately, the court remembered my past service, and with the aid of my classmates, teachers, and students, I was not exiled to the borderlands, merely demoted to a commoner.
Half a lifetime of honor and disgrace, all from a single mistaken thought. I trusted the words of the chief official of Yu Si, who oversaw the grain stores, and failed to open the granaries in time. As a result, starving corpses lay everywhere throughout the lands under my governance. How tragic, how lamentable—how I hate it!
Having written this much, Li Fugui rose and let out a long breath, unable to express the gloom in his heart.
Only after his emotions had completely settled did he continue