When a family accumulates poverty, suffering follows. When a nation accumulates poverty, weakness follows. When families suffer and the nation grows weak, how are the people to survive?

In times of peace, civilization flourishes; in times of chaos, savagery rises. Fortunately, this vast Central Plains empire had been thriving for several hundred years, and even now — when it had come to resemble an enormous empty husk — there were few outside powers willing to provoke it. Yet disaster does not always enter from without; internal strife is just as destructive, and people still need to eat.

Many people had never quite thought it through: they assumed that all wrongdoing is equally villainous. Those who turn criminal for money might be considered minor villains — minor villains harm individuals. But those who turn criminal just to put food in their mouths are the true great villains — it is the great villains who bring chaos to the world.

Not long ago, Yongqing County had been overrun by a band of marauders. The county offices were burned to the ground, and what little grain remained in the government granaries was licked clean as if by some enormous beast’s tongue — not a single scrap left behind. It wasn’t just the granaries that were emptied; it was as if even the topsoil had been scraped away.

Yongqing County fell under Youzhou, and Youzhou nominally fell under Jizhou. Among the empire’s thirteen provinces, Jizhou was the most lawless.

Inside the emptied granary, a young Daoist acolyte with fine, clear features had wandered around for quite a while before sighing faintly: “Cleaner than my face.”

He then remembered that his face probably wasn’t all that clean either, and muttered to himself: “Cleaner than my backside… backside cleaner than my face. What kind of world is this.”

Before the county was overrun, the town’s wealthy residents had received advance warning and fled with their carriages and means of escape — and so had largely survived unscathed. But most ordinary townspeople had nowhere to run. The devastation wrought by bandits far exceeded even natural disasters; untold numbers of families had been destroyed, their members either killed or absorbed into the marauding horde. This was how the bandit armies swelled — like a snowball rolling larger and larger.

This acolyte, who appeared to be around ten years old, rubbed his stomach. He had been starving for nearly two days. Two days earlier, they had encountered a prosperous household migrating to Jizhou with their entire family. Spotting the master and his young disciple, they had invited them over to read fortunes. The acolyte’s master, charging five copper coins per reading, had cast the hexagram and declared that this family possessed great destiny — especially the young master of the household, who was fated for spectacular success — and that they need only travel continuously in a northwest direction, where they would surely encounter benefactors.

The family patriarch was delighted, and gave a generous payment for the reading. Unfortunately, money couldn’t buy food on the road, which was somewhat of a problem; there were no food vendors to be found along the way. They had at least managed to obtain a few flatbreads from the family before parting.

On the subject of money — this pair of master and disciple probably shouldn’t have been short of it. At least, the young acolyte thought so. His master was a well-known Daoist in all seven counties of Youzhou, the kind of figure even marauders wouldn’t dare to harm. The old Daoist’s courtesy name was Changmei. For most of his life he had wandered among the seven counties, not quite what you’d call a great philanthropist but genuinely inclined to help others, which had earned him a sterling reputation and widespread respect.

The boy sometimes found it amusing: a man as tight-fisted as his master, miserly to the bone, could still earn such reverence. People truly were complicated. In this chaotic era, money was worth less than grain — yet his master clung to money as though it were more precious than life itself.

The boy stepped out of the granary and found his master struggling to drag corpse after corpse into an open area. He had already moved several dozen, though the town was littered with bodies — at least a thousand in total. The old Daoist, already weakened by hunger, had exhausted himself after moving a few dozen and could manage no more.

He leaned against a wall to rest for a while, eyes scanning the surroundings for something useful. There wasn’t a single iron implement left in the town — not a hoe or sickle, not even an iron pot or kettle. Marauders stripped all metal objects to forge weapons and armor.

With no other option, the old Daoist picked up a roof tile and began digging in the open ground. The young acolyte ran over, grabbed a tile of his own, and dug alongside him. The two of them, stomachs hollowed out with hunger, pressed on.

“Master, there are too many. We can’t bury them all.”

“We don’t need to bury them all.”

“But Master, if we don’t bury them all, isn’t that unfair? In that case, wouldn’t it be better not to bury any at all?”

“Foolish child. To use all the strength you have to do what you believe is right — that’s a clear conscience. We can bury these few dozen people; that’s our limit. Our conscience is clear. To work oneself to death in the name of doing good is itself a kind of wrongdoing.”

The old and young Daoist dug in shifts — resting, digging, resting again — and in this halting manner spent nearly two full hours before the pit was ready. The two of them collapsed against the edge of the hole, too exhausted even to breathe properly, as though they might fall asleep the moment they closed their eyes.

After resting a while, the old Daoist noticed his disciple sitting with eyes shut. He labored to raise one hand and reached into his robe, producing a piece of flatbread so dry and hard it could have been a stone. He broke it, keeping a smaller portion for himself — then broke that smaller portion in half again, took a tiny nibble from one piece, and puffed out his cheeks as if he were chewing a mouthful, then nudged the boy with his shoulder. “Yours.”

The young acolyte looked at the larger half. “Master, where did you get food?”

“Three days ago, when I asked that family for food — I told you I’d gotten four flatbreads, two each. You finished yours in one sitting. But I’d actually asked for five, and secretly kept one.”

The boy made a small, disgruntled sound. “You even deceived me!”

He accepted the bread, looked at the tiny piece remaining in his master’s hand. “Master, yours is too little.”

The old Daoist chuckled. “I’ve been eating for a while already — called you only when I was nearly full.”

The boy sighed. “Deceiving me again.”

He tucked the bread into his robe. “I’m going to relieve myself first.”

A moment later he returned, the bread nearly half gone and clenched between his teeth: “Master, Master! I saw people on the main street — looks like a few scholars, carrying packs, walking very quickly, they’re almost heading this way.”

The old Daoist gave an acknowledging sound. “The triennial examinations — these students are probably hurrying toward Daxing City.”

Daxing City was the imperial capital, thousands of li distant. Getting there on foot would take an unknown amount of time, and much would depend on fortune — if luck ran out and they encountered bandits, mere survival would be uncertain. Yet these impoverished students had no other choice but to stake everything on this one chance. Succeed, and they would draw a government salary for the rest of their lives. Fail… and they would simply try again three years hence. There were those who kept attempting well into white-haired old age, and they were not rare.

The old Daoist finished that little piece of bread, drank several long gulps of water, felt some warmth and strength returning to his belly, and began dragging bodies into the pit. At this moment the scholars passed by, their faces ashen — they had seen the town’s devastation, and fear was in their very bones.

“Daoist master.”

One of the scholars asked curiously: “There are still so many bodies outside. Why haven’t you buried them all?”

The old Daoist glanced back at him without bothering to respond.

Another scholar gave a derisive snort: “He’s just putting on a show. Probably one of those types who seeks a false reputation — bury a few bodies, then go around boasting about it, expecting people’s gratitude. What a world.”

The other two heard this and their expressions too darkened with disdain. One muttered under his breath: “And he wonders why bad karma will catch up with him.”

The young acolyte felt his temper flare. He almost fired back a few sharp words, then decided it wasn’t worth the energy. He furrowed his brow, then sighed. “What a pity.”

Changmei the Daoist echoed the sigh: “What a pity.”

The first scholar couldn’t help himself: “A pity about what?”

The old Daoist said nothing. The young acolyte shook his head. “A pity — four of you setting out together for the examinations, yet only one will…”

He glanced at his master. “Master, my cultivation is still insufficient — have I read this wrong?”

The old Daoist shook his head. “You’ve read it correctly. Indeed, only one.”

At once all four men tensed. One of them strode toward the old Daoist: “You trickster of a Daoist, what nonsense are you spouting?!”

“My courtesy name is Changmei. I never speak nonsense.”

The old Daoist looked the man calmly in the eye as he spoke. At the sound of the name Changmei, the man’s eyes immediately lit up: “So you are Changmei Zhenren! We have truly given offense just now. Zhenren — what is the meaning of your words?”

The old Daoist shook his head and said nothing.

The scholar gritted his teeth, removed his coin pouch, and counted out several copper coins. “I won’t have you say it for nothing.”

The old Daoist’s eyes brightened at the sight of the coins. Though those few copper pieces wouldn’t buy a single sesame flatbread, he received them immediately, weighed them in his palm, tucked them away, and spoke:

“If I have read correctly, your four are evenly matched in learning. What is more, you have spent much time studying together and consulting one another, so it is not merely your learning that is similar — your thinking and approach have grown alike as well. By ability alone, all four of you are capable of passing the examinations. The difficulty is that you come from the same place. When the authorities review the answer papers, it is an unwritten rule that they cannot select four candidates from the same region — so only the best among you will be chosen.”

The four men’s expressions darkened at this. One stepped quickly toward the old Daoist: “Zhenren, is there a way to resolve this?”

The old Daoist glanced at the man’s hands. The scholar immediately understood, and produced a few more copper coins, which the old Daoist accepted before continuing:

“Simple enough. You need only demonstrate that the four of you did not come from the same place.”

The four of them pressed closer. One spoke: “Zhenren, our registered origins are all on record — issued by the Youzhou Academy, bearing an official seal. How can we possibly prove we come from four different places? And then there are the travel documents!”

“Ah, indeed — that is difficult.”

The old Daoist fell silent for a moment, then heaved a sigh: “All four of you are talents suited for governing the nation. If all four could enter government service, it would be a true blessing for the people. I… well, I am already very old and have little fear of heavenly retribution. I’ll stake my life to help you.”

He opened his pack and began carefully laying out its contents one by one.

“I can forge your academic credentials and travel documents — convincing enough to pass for the real thing. The official seal will be indistinguishable from genuine. This truly courts divine punishment. Were it not for the sake of all people under heaven, I would never take such a grave risk. I have long seen through worldly desires and seek no long life, only peace of mind. One set — five taels of silver.”

The moment those last words left his mouth, the young acolyte nearly lost his composure entirely.

One of the men said: “We… how could we have five taels of silver to spare? Even if we did, we’d have nothing left to make it all the way to Daxing City.”

The young acolyte tugged at the man’s sleeve. “Negotiate. Try bargaining — my master has a kind heart, very easy to bargain with.”

The man’s face brightened: “Zhenren — could you perhaps lower the price?”

“But this incurs divine retribution, you understand,” the old Daoist said, pained.

Another of the scholars ventured: “But Zhenren is helping us for the sake of the people and all under heaven. Since it is a work of benevolence, surely the merit will offset the retribution.”

He said it with little conviction — in times of chaos, people clung to heaven and the divine all the more fiercely.

But the old Daoist’s eyes lit up: “That’s not without logic. Very well — a discount, then… one tael per person. Consider it the cost of materials.”

The four men brightened immediately. Each produced one tael of silver and offered it over. The old Daoist’s expression was a picture of pious dignity: “I do not soil my hands with silver and gold. These funds will also go toward aiding the world and relieving suffering. Hand them to my disciple.”

The young acolyte collected the silver. The old Daoist at once set to work producing the forged academic certificates and travel documents — with a speed that defied belief. He used the four men’s original covers but swapped the inner pages, then produced four separate seals from his pack and stamped each forged document in turn: *thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack.* Each man received his copy, examined it closely, and truly could not tell false from genuine.

The old Daoist offered a few more words of caution — under no circumstances were they to breathe a word of this — after which the four men departed with endless expressions of gratitude.

The young acolyte was curious: “Master, how did you know their learning was evenly matched, and their thinking all alike?”

“This world.”

The old Daoist took the four taels of silver back and tucked them into his own robe, then went on burying bodies, speaking as he worked: “Men of letters look down on one another. People they consider beneath them are kept at arm’s length; people they consider above them can’t be cultivated into friendships either. So these four men must have been kindred spirits who enjoy one another’s flattery — how else would they have ended up traveling together? People are just like that: they look down on those below them, yet can never break into the circle above…”

The young acolyte pressed: “Master, can any of them actually pass the examination?”

“Pass my foot.”

The old Daoist gave a dismissive snort: “As obtuse as they are, and with no money? Pass the examinations?”

The boy snickered. “Then you charged too little. Should’ve asked for two taels each.”

The old Daoist shook his head. “They didn’t have much money. Taking one tael each was the right amount — they were in the wrong, so I took that much. Taking more would have put me in the wrong.”

He looked at the young acolyte: “Li Diudiu’er, remember this — everything in moderation.”

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