Chapter 9
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Chapter 9: In the quiet night, a soul lamented within the husk of a body, unknown to the world.
This group of exiles totaled thirty-nine, with Kong Fangqiu’s family of nineteen accounting for nearly half.
The room next to Jiang Wu’s held half the Kong family, led by Kong Fangqiu. Like the adjacent quarters for lowly travelers and convicts, their space contained only worn straw, though with fewer miscellaneous things than next door. Yet with more occupants, it felt no less cramped.
The donkey carts weren’t for display. Though crowded, bedding now covered the floor. Kong Fangqiu even draped a thin blanket over his knees—far more comfortable than those next door sleeping on moldy straw.
Pressed against the wall listened Kong Fangqiu’s youngest sons—one legitimate, one illegitimate, aged seven and nine. Eavesdropping hardly befitted proper boys, but Kong Fangqiu glanced at the sour-smelling black cakes in the corner and silently permitted it.
Yet apart from brief door openings and closings, they heard nothing useful.
When the left fell silent, the boys scampered like monkeys toward new sounds on the right wall.
Kong Fangqiu lifted his eyelids. He recalled the right room held the former Marquis Xuan Ning’s family—the Crown Prince’s maternal uncle.
Yong’an Bo’s sizable farewell parcels surely hadn’t escaped those vultures.
Captives must accept their fate. Kong Fangqiu knew the donkey carts’ contents would draw suspicion, making superiors doubt his claimed honesty. But the exile journey was long. Traveling empty-handed would doom even him—let alone the women and children—to perish before reaching the northern lands. A broken, ailing family would gain little rejoining the Han family.
Moreover…
Without silver paving the way, his means to reconnect with the Han family might never safely arrive.
\"A-Lian, darken the girls’ faces again,\" Kong Fangqiu frowned at his daughters’ lightened complexions.
\"Father…\" Kong Yan’er dodged her mother’s mud-smeared hand. \"No one sees me at night. Let my face rest…\"
Kong Fangqiu’s gaze hardened without a word.
Kong Yan’er obeyed, muttering about wicked people offering rotten food. The three lesser-born girls, not daring to trouble their mother, smeared dirt on their own faces.
Yes, truly wicked.
Bringing donkey carts meant sharing wealth with witnesses. Yet Kong Fangqiu never imagined mere guards would be so voracious. His in-laws had bribed for cart use and paid Xu Lv and Tan Wang extra. Still, the carts’ prepared rice, cured meat, and dried vegetables were confiscated—allegedly to \"ensure accountability through official rations.\"
Fine words—yet plainly just to sell their own provisions.
A plain bun cost one silver tael! With nineteen mouths, two buns daily meant thirty-eight taels—exceeding his two-month salary. How dare they charge so!
And that was just buns. Reaching Linzhou could take three months. Over three thousand taels for buns alone?
Did they assume he’d held back his wealth?
Kong Fangqiu expected to pay bribes en route, but this wasn’t bleeding him dry—it was carving him up! Did he seem a fool?
Yet wisdom offered no escape.
Hearing the bun’s price earlier, Kong Fangqiu had grabbed a sour black cake and bitten defiantly, resolved to reach the north on such fare rather than be swindled. Prison gruel, coarse bread, rancid road rations—he’d endured them all. Surely he could…
Barely a bite later, his body rebelled before his mind could protest. Being a fool suddenly seemed tolerable.
The children, who’d scorned even smelling the cakes, now mimicked their father’s trial. Soon the room echoed with endless gagging and curses.
Whether in prison or on the road, those sour moldy cakes made everything else seem insignificant.
In the end, they bought the provisions.
But not all were white-flour buns. Only Kong Fangqiu, his wife, their legitimate daughter Kong Yan’er, and the two youngest sons received white flour. The others got mixed-grain.
The two vendors trailing the guards were quite professional, not only persuasive but even offering samples.
White-flour buns cost one tael each, while mixed-grain ones were two for a tael. The daily expense dropped from thirty-eight taels to twenty-four, making the ten-tael jerky strips and five-tael jars of pickles seem… almost reasonable.
Of course, Kong Fangqiu understood the distinction between white and mixed-grain flour. Due to storage constraints, the next day’s ration would only provide three days’ worth of ready buns and flour for seven more—though that’s another story.
Kong Fangqiu knew well: yielding to this first expense meant endless demands would follow.
At this post station, they could stock ten days’ dry rations. The official sour black cakes were barely edible on the first day—who could imagine their state after days on the road?
Kong Fangqiu finally spent three hundred taels on ten days’ worth of buns for the family, plus four jerky strips and four small jars of pickles.
Fuming, he nearly staggered as he pulled banknotes from his hem. It felt like robbery disguised as a transaction.
Payment made, yet no food came—today’s meal remained those black cakes. Only the four sample buns offered respite, barely a bite each for ten people.
Truly, a tiger at bay is harassed by dogs.
That single bite had long since faded, but fresh hunger stoked Kong Fangqiu’s fury.
*Just endure,* he thought. Once they reached Linzhou and joined the Han army, these Northern guards—and the Deposed Crown Prince who ruined him—would pay dearly.
The side rooms’ battered doors creaked open and shut until dusk, when a yawning attendant refilled water, escorted them for relief, took final headcounts, snuffed the door-candle, and locked them in.
Tonight’s room with a door felt safer than Taoyuan Post Station’s stable.
Chu Xiulan sent her son—whose shackles allowed slightly more movement—to fetch broken bowls from the junk pile. After locking the door, she rigged makeshift alarms near the entrance: anything disturbing them would clatter loudly.
Darkness swallowed the room.
Exhaustion descended like a mountain.
Even Jiang Wu, anxious about Du Yinsui, and Qin Chongli, determined to keep watch, soon succumbed to sleep.
As breathing steadied around her, Du Yinsui knew midnight approached.
Her trial was coming.
Jin Kingdom’s vile poison struck at the hour of zi each night without antidote—two hours of agony. Three consecutive nights meant death.
Honestly, Du Yinsui didn’t grasp the purpose. The original host’s memories hinted it was a reminder: *Get the antidote before time runs out.*
Only Jin Kingdom would weaponize poison with a built-in alarm clock…
The toxin had flared on the host’s last prison night, then at Taoyuan Post Station. Tonight would be the third.
Pain struck without warning.
Needles pricked her veins, then seized her bones—a sudden, soul-shattering rending.
*Fine.* She seethed. *Jin Kingdom—remembered.*
Waves of torment blurred life and death. Du Yinsui’s spirit twisted, yet oddly, this felt milder than the host’s memories.
*Thanks for the \"soul refinement,\" Jin Kingdom. And to the apocalypse—for this tough body.*
Memory and reality differed vastly. To endure, she let her mind drift far away…
She recalled the bran-stripped crumbs forced down her throat earlier. *Should’ve licked the bowl clean,* she thought bitterly.
Within her motionless body, a silent scream echoed.
As pain fractured her thoughts, rustling pierced the stillness.
Someone nearby had risen.
And was creeping toward her.