Chapter 60: Something Terrible Has Happened

In Old Wu's eyes, the tasks that Fang Xu assigned to his subordinates always seemed inexplicable, even bordering on making a mountain out of a molehill. More often, Old Wu simply could not fathom how Fang Xu intended to rejuvenate the entire Quanzhen Monastery with such methods. In Old Wu’s judgment, the odds of success were almost impossibly slim.

Yet, one must not forget what kind of person Fang Xu was. If he were truly a simple man, he could not have predicted and withstood the surprise attacks of the northern tribes. If he lacked real capabilities, how could he have inspired such reverence in General Meng Tian?

What Old Wu did not realize, however, was that Meng Tian’s respect stemmed not from admiration, but from a deep-seated trust. In Meng Tian’s view, if not for the tale Fang Xu had told, he himself might not have reacted in time, despite not knowing how Fang Xu could possibly foresee the timing and patterns of the tribes’ invasions. Nevertheless, since Qin Suwen had chosen to trust Fang Xu, Meng Tian decided he, too, would place his trust there. After all, Meng Tian had always been Qin Suwen’s loyal retainer—why else would she entrust him with command of her troops?

Even so, Meng Tian had dispatched Old Wu and others to Fang Xu ostensibly to protect his safety, but Fang Xu himself knew well enough that Meng Tian was also wary of spies among the northern tribes. If Fang Xu were truly a spy, it would spell disaster for the entire Qin state.

Now, Old Wu regarded the unruffled Fang Xu with an expression of grave concern, utterly at a loss as to what his young master intended.

“So, young master, what are we to do now?” Old Wu asked, curiosity tinging his voice. Fang Xu only shook his head slightly and raised a single finger.

“What we need to do now is simple—just one word: wait,” Fang Xu replied, his finger held aloft as Old Wu, puzzled, instinctively mirrored the gesture in a daze.

Clearly, Old Wu still had no idea what Fang Xu was planning, nor did he know how long this waiting would last. In Old Wu’s view, if Fang Xu truly meant to renovate the entire Quanzhen Monastery, there might not be enough time. The deadline set by Qin Suwen was not generous, and defying an imperial command was unthinkable—punishment for such was beyond imagining.

Yet curiosity gnawed at Old Wu, for there was an air of mystery about Fang Xu that he could not grasp. Their conversation took place in private, unbeknownst to any third party.

Meanwhile, in the village beneath the Quanzhen Monastery, the villagers had risen early to tend their fields. After all, their livelihoods depended on their own labor. As usual, the men went out to farm, while the women remained home to care for the livestock.

But this day was different from those that came before. An unusual rumor was spreading among the villagers—a story that a deity had appeared at the Quanzhen Monastery the previous night. Though the vision was fleeting, many claimed to have witnessed it.

There was much gossip: had the monastery become so dilapidated that the gods had abandoned it? The rumor spread quickly, especially among the women and children, and soon even the local magistrate took notice. The reputation of the Quanzhen Monastery benefited the county yamen as well, and everyone there knew that only Qiu Chuji, a mere novice, was left to tend the temple.

Many wondered aloud if they had only considered what the monastery could provide them, but never thought of what they could offer the monastery in return. Still, these musings only planted a small seed in the villagers’ hearts.

What happened next, in Fang Xu’s mind, would be the nourishment that allowed this seed to bloom.

After the unification of the empire, Qin Suwen had returned the farmlands to the people, requiring only a fixed quota of grain to be paid each year—a policy Fang Xu found reasonable and not unlike those of his own era. With the freedom to govern their own affairs and no longer oppressed, the people’s support for Qin Suwen was secured.

Yet as the villagers tilled the fields beneath Quanzhen Monastery, something wholly unexpected occurred: they unearthed a strange object that filled them with alarm. Never before had they encountered such a thing, and one after another hurried to report it to the county authorities.

When word reached the yamen that something unusual had been dug up in the fields, the magistrate, accompanied by his secretary and a retinue of astonished officials, made his way to the scene.

Upon arriving and seeing the object standing in the field, the magistrate was taken aback. Never had he beheld such a grotesque statue—a monstrous beast, as if it might devour those present at any moment.

Upon its body, unfamiliar characters had been inscribed, and the magistrate instructed his secretary to examine them closely. Though the secretary was visibly nervous, he had no choice but to comply—of all present, only he possessed even a modicum of learning, and thus, he could not ask another to take his place.

So he fixed his gaze upon the beast’s fearsome visage, so intense that he half believed the creature might truly spring to life.

“Sir… sir, what does it say? Can you tell what it is?” the magistrate called out, seeing his secretary staring dumbfounded at the statue.

“Master! Master! This is terrible!” the secretary cried, stumbling and collapsing in the field. At the sight of his distress, the villagers’ fear grew—none had ever seen such a scene, nor witnessed the learned secretary in such a state. A nameless terror began to spread among them, lodging deep within their hearts.