The Stupid Goose

Qinghe County governed three towns, and the county yamen stood in the largest of them, Qinghe Town. County Magistrate Shen Zhimo had fathered a son late in life twenty years ago, then lost that son late in life twenty years later. He had long since been worn down in body and spirit, showing faint signs of a lamp running dry of oil.

The one breath keeping him from collapsing into illness was his desire to bring the murderer of his son to justice.

His hair was disheveled as he stared fixedly at Xing Li below the hall for a long while before asking faintly, "A painter?"

"A mad painter," Xing Li said. "Talismans were found on him, along with paper and brushes for painting. Your Honor knows that these wandering painters are among the lowest of the low in the martial world. Quite a few roam the streets and alleys committing all manner of crimes. I went to Gai County and compared the circumstances there. Together with the sword in his possession, that man confessed without reservation."

Painters were not a general term for some category of people, but a profession. The Great Dao was formless, and heaven and earth possessed spirit. Yet people believed that the invisible spirit could be solidified by certain means—through writing or painting.

Writing meant talismans. Most Daoists understood something of the art of talismans, and their patriarch was known as the Saint of Writing—one of the Twin Saints Under Heaven alongside the Sword Saint.

As for painting, it was simply painting. Some people with a smattering of minor Daoist arts used brush, ink, and pigments as a medium to steal a little of the spirit of heaven and earth, sealing it within a painting. It produced effects of one kind or another. But ordinary people did not respect painters as they respected Daoists. In the eyes of knowledgeable people nowadays, those fellows were not much different from swindlers hawking "life-saving golden elixirs" through the streets and alleys, or... perhaps they were merely a little better.

A painter with true cultivation might perhaps create a "divine work"—for instance, the painting of pines and cranes behind Your Honor had been made by a painter of the previous dynasty. Hanging it in the hall truly had a calming, spirit-soothing effect; whether it could extend one's life was hard to say. But by this dynasty, a dynasty already established for over four hundred years, those methods that had only ever circulated among the common folk and the martial world had gradually withered away. After all, painters did not have the protection and inheritance of a Daoist lineage like the Daoists under the Saint of Writing, or a sword sect like the swordsmen under the Sword Saint.

Thus, they had become a muddled mix of fish and dragons. Those with genuine cultivation were rarely seen; most of the rest were simply frauds making money off foolish men and women.

His own son had died at the hands of one of these lowest-of-the-low painters?

Seeing his expression, Xing Li added, "He is young, and he has some cultivation. Yet he committed such an atrocity that heaven and earth could not tolerate it. My lord, please restrain your grief."

Only after a long while did the county magistrate let out a breath. "There is no need to hold court tomorrow."

Xing Li was slightly startled, then immediately understood.

"Yes," he said. "Then tonight, he will break out of prison and flee. My lord... do you wish to watch in person?"

Shen Zhimo's somewhat clouded eyes trembled several times. Slowly, he tucked his hands into his sleeves. "You came with me from Yun Prefecture to Qinghe. Li Heng... Li Heng had been close to you since childhood. I am at ease when you handle matters."

It was precisely the outcome Xing Li had expected. Even if the old man wished to, he likely did not dare look upon the "murderer" who had killed his son. It was not that he feared the "murderer"; he feared that if he saw him, that one breath sustaining him would finally give out.

Xing Li took his leave and had walked several steps when Shen Zhimo suddenly spoke again. "That hunter Xin said it was a monster."

Xing Li turned around and said solemnly, "I believe Old Man Xin was frightened mad and spoke without restraint. What difference is there between a person who eats people and a monster or wild beast?"

After a pause, he took a deep breath. "Li Heng had always called me Brother Xing. This subordinate had also... always regarded him as my own brother. Even without Your Honor saying so, I would risk my life to avenge Li Heng. Fortunately, Heaven has opened its eyes. Today... today..."

His voice caught there. He took another deep breath to suppress his emotions, then apologized, "This subordinate has lost his composure, my lord..."

"Go. Go." Shen Zhimo was already weeping tears of old age as he waved his hand repeatedly. "Do not let him die too easily!"

"Yes."

Only after Xing Li walked out the door did he exhale the turbid breath in his chest. A moment ago, he had seemed overwhelmed by grief, but now that grief had vanished without a trace.

My lord truly had grown old.

As for what that boy had said...

Xing Li believed him.

He had seen that thing.

Strands of light filtered through the roof of the prison cell. This was probably a house that had fallen into disrepair long ago.

Li Yunxin lay on damp straw, wondering what he should do.

He had never thought of himself as a "painter." In truth, before Constable Xing called him an evil painter, he had been rather curious about the profession.

After he awakened—or rather, after he was born—he had lived in a mountain village in Ding Prefecture. The mountains were not green, the waters were not clear, and the land was not fertile. It was an utterly unremarkable village among the countless remote mountain villages of the Great Qing Dynasty.

His parents had both been exceptionally kind and clever. Li Yunxin had once wondered whether they were recluses who had seen through the red dust of the mortal world. When his father began teaching him certain things at the age of four or five, that guess was confirmed.

It turned out this world had magic.

One day, there was no salt left at home, and the county seat was far away. So his father took out a sheet of paper and drew a bowl. Then he dipped his brush in a little salt and made a stroke within the bowl. After that, he lifted the paper and gave it a shake.

Snow-white refined salt came rustling down from the paper.

At the time, his young father had probably wanted to amuse his child. There had been a Moonlit Blossom tree in the courtyard, its hidden fragrance drifting in the air, and the sun was slanting toward the west. But he did not know that his little son was not so simple.

After that, Li Yunxin learned this art. His father told him that those who truly mastered it were called painters.

To paint all things, to paint heaven and earth; from a thousand miles of rivers and mountains down to a mustard seed containing Mount Sumeru, all gathered within this tiny space—such was a painter.

The painters his father spoke of were probably different from the painters ordinary people spoke of. But Li Yunxin did not yet understand that.

The sunlight above his head slowly turned golden, then finally stopped leaking through the cracks. Li Yunxin knew that night had fallen.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor. A bailiff carried a tray to the cell door, glanced at him, opened the door, entered, and set the tray on the ground.

"Eat," the bailiff said viciously. "Consider yourself lucky. Chief Xing thinks you are someone of note, so he did not give you any watery slop."

After saying that, someone called out to him from elsewhere. He glared at Li Yunxin again, shut the door, and left.

Li Yunxin looked at the food. There was actually half a millet bun and half a bowl of thin porridge. It counted as decent fare. At least back in the village, many households did not often get to eat millet buns.

After hesitating briefly, he reached out, picked up the porridge, and took a sip. Then he grabbed the bun and began eating it slowly. Having gone hungry for so long, he knew he had to take it slow, or he would suffer for it.

Only after the food settled in his stomach and his spirits recovered a little did he raise his eyes toward the cell door.

He had noticed the moment that bailiff left—the lock had not been fastened. It seemed the bailiff had forgotten.

Li Yunxin stared at the door with a strange and complicated expression for a long while, realizing that something might be... unusual.

He did not know whether opening the cell door to deliver food was local custom, but he did know that the wooden bars of the cell door stood some distance above the ground. Everything on the tray could have been pushed in through there.

He also knew that the lock on the cell door was covered in rust. If someone painstakingly unlocked and relocked it whenever food was delivered to every prisoner, it should not have looked like this.

In other words, the bailiff had deliberately unlocked the door before coming in, then deliberately forgotten to lock it afterward.

Oh, this sort of thing.

Perhaps a genuine fourteen-year-old boy could not figure out why, but Li Yunxin was no genuine fourteen-year-old boy.

Constable Xing wanted a scapegoat. If he had been in Xing Li's place, he would have done the same—have the prisoner escape, then kill him on the spot. The case would be closed, and no one would have to exhaust themselves trying to catch some actual monster.

Thinking this, he let out a breath of relief. At least from now until he walked out through that door and into the night, no one would probably disturb him.

So...

After Li Yunxin had eaten and drunk his fill, he found a more comfortable spot in the pile of straw and fell asleep.

But the two bailiffs hiding not far away could not be as carefree and comfortable as he was. The two waited for a while, yet heard neither the expected sound of the door being pushed open nor footsteps.

"That brat didn't see it?"

"...He is just a boy, probably."

"Damn it, what a stupid goose."

"Make some noise."

The bailiff in black sighed and shouted at the top of his lungs, "Check the cell doors! We're going drinking in a while!"

"Let's go, let's go. What could possibly go wrong with me around?" the other man said.

After the two finished their performance, they waited a while longer and finally heard a sound.

But it was snoring.

"Damn it... this stupid goose..."