Chapter 4
There was a slum on the outskirts of the capital.
A penniless Daoist lived there.
He hadn’t always been poor. Years of diligent practice had given him a firm grasp of the Way, and he’d reached the mortal stage of Foundation Establishment.
He had once wandered from place to place, making a living by hunting spirits and performing rites. Over the years he’d earned something of a name, and supported himself well enough.
Then, two years ago, the crown prince had warmly invited him to the Eastern Palace. He’d spent some time as an honored guest, and finally performed a service for the prince.
He’d thought that with the future emperor’s patronage, he would rise to glory.
Instead, once the deed was done, he’d nearly been killed to silence him.
Fortunately, his years on the road had taught him a thing or two. When he’d done the crown prince that service, he’d left himself a means of staying alive.
He’d escaped death, but the crown prince hadn’t let him off easily.
He’d ordered the Daoist’s hand and foot tendons severed and confined him to the capital, keeping him under his eye, forbidden to take so much as a step outside the city.
From time to time, he sent people to cause trouble.
Just to remind him that a blade always hung at his neck, so he wouldn’t dare utter a word.
Now the Daoist scraped by in a slum shack, barely clinging to life.
When I found him, he was telling a newborn’s fortune and choosing characters for its name in exchange for a day’s food.
I watched his hand tremble as he held the brush.
When he’d finished, he received half a bag of coarse steamed buns and limped home.
Halfway there, several men who looked like street thugs sprang from a dark corner and tried to steal his buns.
He refused. They shoved him back and forth, then surrounded him and rained punches and kicks on him.
They might have looked like thugs, but their movements were clean and practiced—the martial training of retainers from a wealthy household.
Robbery was a daily occurrence in this slum anyway. And anyone sharp enough to see what was really happening would hardly dare intervene.
Zhong Rui had left him nothing.
Severing his tendons had destroyed the foundation of his cultivation. Whatever power remained was useless to him.
And cast into such grinding misery among the lowest of the low, he would eventually die or go mad.
I stayed hidden and watched quietly until they’d beaten his face bloody. Only then did I raise my voice and howl,
“Murder! Call the authorities!”
At that, passersby finally stopped and began to gather.
The attackers didn’t want the affair to grow too serious. Seeing the crowd and hearing someone call for the authorities, they gave up.
Eventually the crowd dispersed. The Daoist lay curled on the ground, barely conscious.
His cloth bag had long since split, and the two or three buns inside had been trampled to a pulp in the dirt.
I went over and crouched in front of him.
He retained enough awareness to inch his hand toward me and murmur, “Help… help me…”