Volume One: The Monk Returns to the Secular World Chapter Sixty: The Disaster Worsens

The next day.

Dozens of horse-drawn carts laden with grain entered the disaster-stricken region.

Elder Hui Ren, clutching a letter penned by the abbot, hurried into the council hall. The Minister of Revenue, Qin Shirong, was absent, but Hui Ren spotted a familiar figure.

This man was tall, with a stubbled jaw and a square, resolute face. His white robes lent him an air of heroic detachment, but it was his eyes—keen as blades, as if able to pierce through any pretense—that left the deepest impression.

Elder Hui Ren stepped forward to greet him. “Master Chen, my humble respects.”

The man was none other than Chen Bufan, head of the Chen Sword Sect.

Chen Bufan nodded with a slight smile, though his steps were hurried. “Master Hui Ren, Lord Qin has mentioned that you’ve been sending supplies here in successive waves… I just saw you bring fifty full carts of grain. That’s no small feat.”

“Master Chen, you flatter us. These donations are from the less remarkable disciples of Golden Mountain Temple; the temple itself could never have afforded so much…” Elder Hui Ren shook his head with a wry smile.

“Oh? Such disciples in Golden Mountain Temple?” Chen Bufan seemed intrigued.

Hui Ren gave a short laugh. “It’s nothing worth mentioning, only a wayward disciple. Best not to dwell on it.” At this, his mind strayed to Chen Bufan’s own eldest son, known in the martial world by the rather infamous moniker “Deathly Dungman” Chen Budiao. The smile on Hui Ren’s face grew stiff, and he hastened to change the subject. “Have you also come to donate grain, Master Chen?”

“Yes. The Chen family is a local power; we can’t allow Golden Mountain Temple to outshine us. We’ve brought fifty carts as well. But…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“But what?” Elder Hui Ren asked, puzzled.

“But these are only stopgap measures.” Just then, someone else stepped into the hall. Chen Bufan’s brows drew together in a deep frown, his face lined with worry. He shook his head and sighed. “There are simply too many people. Now the entire North, and even some central regions, are beginning to face shortages.”

“That grave? What are we to do…” Hui Ren’s heart tightened as he grasped the scale of the disaster. Such widespread famine—how much grain would it take to fill that chasm?

“There is a way.” Chen Bufan drew a densely written sheet from his robe and handed it to Hui Ren. “Take a look, Master Hui Ren.”

Hui Ren examined the paper. It was filled with a detailed tally of the grain hoarded by the region’s great families, each one backed by a powerful martial sect.

The Mi family, Heaven’s Blade Sect: three hundred thousand bushels.

The Fang family, Eight Trigrams Sect: two hundred and fifty thousand.

The Liu family, Shaolin: one hundred and eighty thousand.

… The age-old practice of hoarding in times of crisis, a merchant’s route to fortune. But to see such vast stores in the face of calamity was staggering.

“If they would release this grain, wouldn’t the entire region’s suffering be relieved?” Hui Ren pondered aloud.

“No. It isn’t so simple. They have made donations, but only thirty carts each.” Chen Bufan sighed. “These are the local gentry, supported by the common folk. In times of disaster, they ought to give back.”

Hui Ren’s voice dropped, seething with suppressed anger; the veins on his hand bulged as he gripped the ledger. “These are the people’s benefactors, yet in crisis, they withhold what could save lives.”

“Leave these martial matters to us,” Chen Bufan replied, bowing to the absent minister and making to depart.

“Master Chen, what do you intend to do?” Hui Ren stopped him.

“I will go to them myself, one by one, and ask for their answer.” Chen Bufan’s tone was resolute.

His words shocked Hui Ren. To visit these families and demand donations was tantamount to a public challenge, a grave taboo in the martial world. Whether one donated or not was strictly a private affair—who was Chen Bufan to dictate terms? Was he some martial overlord empowered to command all?

After Chen Bufan departed, Hui Ren waited a while in the hall until the Minister of Revenue, Qin Shirong, burst in, breathless.

“Greetings, my lord,” Hui Ren greeted him at once.

Qin Shirong hurried to help him up. “Master, there’s no need for such formalities. I should be the one bowing to you. Thank you—without the grain you’ve sent these past days, who knows how many more would have starved…”

“Please, my lord, you mustn’t say that,” Hui Ren replied quickly.

Qin Shirong took his seat at the head of the hall. Beside him sat a young woman in scholar’s attire—her hair black and flowing, her features delicate and luminous, her skin pale as porcelain. In women’s dress, she would have been a peerless beauty.

Hui Ren knew this was Qin Shirong’s daughter, Qin Xuanxuan. Rumor had it she insisted on accompanying her father to aid in relief efforts. Qin Shirong doted on her, and so allowed her to come, though he kept her from meddling in official matters. After all, it was not proper in these times for women to be so publicly involved.

Without further preamble, Hui Ren produced the abbot’s letter from his robe and handed it over.

“Excellent! Wonderful!” Qin Shirong exclaimed, thumping the table in delight after reading it. “Splendid news! I didn’t think we could gather so much grain!”

“Father, what’s made you so excited?” Qin Xuanxuan asked in puzzlement.

Qin Shirong handed her the letter. “Read for yourself—glorious tidings! The people of the disaster zone have hope!”

Qin Xuanxuan read the first section, her face lighting with joy. But as her eyes moved further down, her expression grew curious.

“Xuanxuan? What’s wrong? Are you unwell?” Qin Shirong asked, noticing her change.

“Father… this Xiao Yan…”

A hint of doubt flickered in her eyes.

“Xiao Yan? Let me see…” Qin Shirong frowned and took the letter back.

Elder Hui Ren quickly explained. “Lord Qin, Xiao Yan is an elder at Golden Mountain Temple. He’s the one who gathered these donations…”

“Xiao Yan… Is he the only son of Xiao Zhan of Golden Mountain City?” Qin Shirong asked, his expression odd.

“Yes,” Hui Ren confirmed.

“Good! I never thought that boy would be so helpful… Xuanxuan, didn’t I always say Xiao Zhan’s son would be exceptional?” Qin Shirong praised.

“But, Father, he’s a monk!” Qin Xuanxuan protested.

Their exchange left Hui Ren somewhat baffled.

“Does Lord Qin know Xiao Yan?” Hui Ren asked.

“Haha, our families are old friends. In fact, there was once a childhood betrothal planned between them, but after Xiao Yan became a monk, it was not to be.” Qin Shirong shook his head with a rueful smile.

Qin Xuanxuan blushed.

“What a coincidence,” Hui Ren said with a laugh.

At the mention of Xiao Yan, Hui Ren seemed to recall something. He hesitated, then slipped a hand inside his robe, as if weighing a decision.

“Master Hui Ren? Is something the matter?” Qin Shirong asked.

“My lord, I have here a little booklet, containing some proposals for disaster relief. I do not know if any of it will be helpful in controlling the crisis…” Hui Ren hesitated. Having promised Xiao Yan, he decided to hand it over. Still, he kept his wits about him—if the booklet’s ideas were ill-received, he would claim it was something he’d picked up on the road, thus shielding Xiao Yan from blame.

“Oh? May I have a look?” Qin Shirong asked, curious.

He agreed mostly out of courtesy; after all, there were officials whose duty it was to devise relief strategies—what could a common man know of such matters? Still, it was a kind gesture, and he saw no reason to refuse.

He accepted the booklet, amused. But at the sight of the cover, his interest faded. The calligraphy was atrocious—any half-educated scholar could do better.

“Disaster Relief Proposals”…