Mo Yunsong

Before Shen Hui could speak, Mo Yunsong rose first.

His pair of withered hands pressed against the edge of the table, his whole body trembling.

Not from fear, but from rage.

His lips quivered for a long while before he suddenly slammed his palm onto the table, jolting the cups and dishes into a clattering mess and splashing soup and wine everywhere.

"Bullshit!"

The Old Daoist pointed at the prefect's nose, his finger shaking violently.

"Those common folk outside the city are chewing bark and eating Guanyin clay—do you know that?"

"Even if you scraped your granary clean, you could not find a single grain of old rice. So where did this tableful of mountain and sea delicacies come from?"

"What was it you said just now? That you pawned your wife's dowry jewelry? Pah!"

He spat fiercely onto the table, spraying the plate of braised pork knuckle with saliva.

"The three thousand taels of silver came from pawning things, then what about these sixteen dishes? Were they pawned too? And that russet silk robe of yours? This residence behind you? All the servants in your household? You really have kept your post as prefect spotless and clean!"

Prefect Zhao opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but Mo Yunsong gave him no chance to speak.

"If this table of food were exchanged for coarse rice, how many children could live one more day? Have you calculated it? Have you?"

The more he spoke, the more agitated he became. He pointed at Prefect Zhao's nose, his finger trembling so badly it could barely aim straight.

"If you truly had no grain, why did you swear that oath yesterday? Why did you say opening the granaries and giving out porridge was your duty? Why did you swear here that you would