Three

Chapter Three: The Arrival of the Prefect

The old monk ultimately gained nothing and slowly released Duan Mingyu’s tightly gripped right hand. A faint sigh filled the air: “To see through the secrets of heaven yet find no hope in this life!”

Had the old man discerned something? Duan Mingyu felt deeply anxious, as if a beauty stripped bare was surrounded by a crowd of men. She seemed to see herself bound tightly, wearing a pointed hat bearing the word “Heretic,” while a group fervently immersed her in a pig cage.

Just as the old monk was preparing to leave, restless in spirit, he glanced back at the unconscious Duan Mingyu, his eyes revealing a trace of profound pity. “Though I have not fathomed the heavenly secrets, fate has bound us this once. The Buddha said, ‘Saving a life surpasses building a seven-story pagoda.’ Very well, today I shall aid you in escaping death!”

With that, the old monk pressed his palm against Duan Mingyu’s back. Suddenly, mist rose between them, and sweat beaded on the monk’s forehead. Meanwhile, Duan Mingyu’s breathing slowly steadied, and her complexion grew more vibrant. Watching her regain vitality, the monk felt a deeper reflection on life and death. He had spent his life pursuing the Way, seeking heavenly secrets, only to end up adrift in sorrow, unable to turn his fortunes—both pitiful and lamentable.

Duan Mingyu felt a warm comfort spreading through her body, a pleasant sensation. She even began to sense a faint control over her limbs. “A little more... I’m drawing it in... drawing it in...” she murmured.

At this moment, the old monk felt his internal energy surge forth from his dantian. Though Duan Mingyu’s wounds were no longer serious, she still absorbed the monk’s hard-earned energy like a bottomless pit.

Five years’ worth of cultivation.

Ten years’ worth.

Fifteen years’ worth...

Up to thirty years’ worth.

Duan Mingyu’s body finally seemed saturated and ceased absorbing.

It was a staggering amount; for an ordinary person, thirty years of painstaking cultivation was a lifetime’s achievement, yet Duan Mingyu had acquired it unknowingly and effortlessly.

The old monk sighed deeply. “Life follows fate. In time, my own cultivation will fade away with me, dust returning to dust. Today, I grant you a fortune—thirty years’ worth of internal power. I will recover naturally after some years of seclusion. This place shall be your rebirth ground. Great fortune awaits you; soon, someone will come to rescue you. I do not expect you to save all beings in the future, but I implore you not to misuse my legacy for evil. Should you stray, I shall surely punish the wicked without mercy.”

With those words, his long white beard fluttered as he turned and was already a hundred paces away, leaving only his earnest words echoing in Duan Mingyu’s mind.

***

Alas, she still could not control her body—a great regret for Duan Mingyu. Yet, she was heartened that, after the monk’s infusion of power, her control slowly improved. Though she did not know when she would move, it was far better than the initial abyss of unconsciousness—a glimmer of hope for rebirth.

When people awoke from sleep and opened their doors, each bore a pale face, vacant eyes, and mouths agape wide enough to fit two eggs. This expression was called surprise—more precisely, terror. Last night, the Duan family home had been perfectly fine. How then had it become a ruin by morning?

Curiosity stirred the crowd, which gathered before the ruins, yet no one dared venture closer.

Someone finally spoke: “Quickly report to Prefect Cheng Zhiyuan. This matter is indeed strange.”

At last, someone in authority was alerted.

“Make way! Prefect Cheng has arrived! Clear a path!” led the chief constable Xing Datou, a figure whom all feared and avoided.

His arrival instantly chilled the crowd’s atmosphere. At his shout, the people hastily parted to form a path.

Cheng Zhiyuan strode forward, clad in his white crane official robe. At thirty-eight, he was upright and renowned for integrity, well-versed in court affairs.

Cheng and Duan Mingyu had been friends for many years. He could not fathom that the Duan who had last night exchanged verses with him would now suffer such a calamity. Hastily, he left the county office, his official hat worn askew.

“Investigate, thoroughly investigate this matter! I will not allow my old friend Duan to die so mysteriously! Chief Constable Xing!”

“Reporting, sir!”

“You have three days to uncover the cause of Duan’s death. Also, find a suitable place to provide him a proper burial.”

“Yes, sir!” Xing Datou sweated beneath the pressure of Cheng’s authority. Though the matter was suspicious, burying Duan Mingyu was easy enough. The problem was the baffling nature of his death—where to begin the investigation?

Duan Mingyu felt utterly frustrated. “Old Cheng, look closely—I’m not really dead yet! Damn it, is this injustice or what?” She even cursed every female relative of Cheng in her mind.

“Old friend, go in peace,” Cheng lamented mournfully.

Duan Mingyu truly was at death’s door. What could she do? People respected proper burial rites. Old Cheng’s good intentions had backfired. Her damaged body moved too slowly. If she could only move a finger, she might yet escape an untimely grave and avoid becoming a mere honored occupant of the underworld.

“Hey, you two, carry the scholar to the mass grave and bury him there,” Xing Datou ordered after Cheng left, his words duplicitous.

The once illustrious top scholar had fallen so low as to be buried in a common pit.

Cheng Zhiyuan departed, surrounded by his constables, while the onlookers dispersed. Two constables carried the unconscious Duan Mingyu toward the outskirts, to the mass burial ground.

***

Dawn was just breaking. The two constables, exhausted, halted their march.

“Hey guys, why don’t we just dig a hole right here and bury this scholar?” one muttered slyly.

“That won’t do. He’s the top scholar—a friend of the Prefect. We’d be responsible if anything went wrong.”

“What’s the harm? This scholar has no family, no official rank. It’s just us, the heavens, and the earth who know.”

Duan Mingyu cursed inwardly, “You two treacherous sycophants—do you want me dead? Move this broken body already!”

The constables shivered but continued their scheming.

“This plan works. If the Prefect asks, we’ll just point to a random grave. I bet he won’t figure out the truth.”

“Alright, it’s settled.”

They began digging. Duan Mingyu’s frustration swelled—the unluckiest transmigrator in history, the most ill-fated top scholar.

She struggled to control her body while the constables hurried to finish the grave. A silent contest of speed unfolded—constables racing to finish before dawn, Duan striving to move before they finished.

“Finally done. Carrying him to the mass grave would have exhausted us.”

“Quiet, you! You were the most eager when working on that woman yesterday,” one constable teased the other.

Oblivious, they chatted on, while Duan Mingyu barely moved her lips.