Chapter 116: Are You Blind?

“My intention is to send Cai Cong to study, whether at the Imperial Academy or the Four Directions Academy, so that he can attend like an ordinary student, allowing the teachings of poetry, history, rites, and music to cleanse the bitterness from his heart.”

Changsun spoke earnestly. Neither Huanshan Academy nor Chongwen Hall was suitable for Cai Cong—they were too close to the court, and he couldn’t escape the endless turmoil.

“I think the same,” the emperor agreed. “He’s been moving too fast, his mind can’t keep pace. He needs time to settle.”

“Then send him to study? I think the Imperial Academy is better. What do you think, Your Majesty?”

“Better to send him to the Four Gates School! The Imperial Academy is filled with noble offspring; it’s too risky.”

At home, Cai Cong never imagined that with just a few words between the two of them, they had decided to send him off to an academy.

Now, leaning on a crutch, he was practicing walking. They said it took a hundred days to heal from tendon and bone injuries, but children recovered far faster than adults. After just a month, he could walk slowly on his own.

The rain that everyone was tired of was finally stopping. Cai Cong had made up his mind to keep to himself and spend the New Year quietly.

Though Sister Cai did not speak of it, she must have been deeply worried about everything that had happened this year. He resolved to stay by her side.

Perhaps Heaven had grown weary of the tragedies below. On a simple, unremarkable morning, the sun emerged from golden mist, lazily, as if it had risen too early and was still dozing.

An old man, face etched with sorrow, stepped out of his thatched hut. He looked at the glaring sun, then at the stiff corpse inside, and at the vast blue sky, he said mournfully, “They say you have eyes—am I the blind one? Why have I never seen your eyes?”

Then he could no longer hold back. Bitter tears, mingled with the hardships of life, flowed freely down his aged face. When they touched his lips, they were neither salty nor sweet, but bitter beyond swallowing.

Meng Baolai stood by the river, gazing at the blue sky with joy. “Truly, Heaven favors us. On such a joyous day, the sky clears. Wonderful! Truly, the heavens have seen our plight!”

He then commanded those by the river, “Retrieve everything from the water. Burn the dead livestock on the spot. Bury the victims down by the hill. Pig-Tail, you miserable wretch, what are you doing? Stop touching those corpses! Get them onto the cart, then go soak yourself in the salt pool.”

Suddenly, he saw a young soldier groping a rotten corpse, touching it repeatedly. Furious, he nearly leapt up.

Two days ago, he had spotted a dead tiger drifting in the river, eagerly pulled it ashore, skinned it, and boasted of his luck. While others envied him, Cai Cong had ordered the tiger carcass to be impaled outside the village and soaked in salt water for half an hour. The tiger skin was then burned to ashes. Only then did Meng Baolai understand the origin of the plague.

Though Cai family village was not flooded, the tides left the river filled with debris, the bodies of livestock and humans alike. The clear water had turned murky, with dark foam floating on the surface—a grim omen.

“Heh, Chief Commander, we were just thinking, Captain Xu is getting married tomorrow. We thought to make a little money, maybe send a gift,” Pig-Tail grinned slyly. Though he no longer dared touch the corpses, he had no intention of soaking in the salt pool.

“Better keep that rotten thought to yourself, or I’ll gut you alive. Don’t let Xu Jie hear you talk like that—using money from the dead as a wedding gift? That’s just bad luck! Get yourself into the salt pool at once. If you catch the plague, I won’t show you any mercy. I’ll have your father set fire to burn you, you worthless creature.”

Meng Baolai’s face darkened with menace. Leading soldiers wasn’t just about unity; strict discipline was essential. At his words, Pig-Tail no longer dared play dumb and ran to a nearby salt pond, plunging in.

“You wretch. I warned you nicely, but you wouldn’t listen. Now you’ll learn pain,” Meng Baolai muttered.

This river stretched far. When the rain ceased days ago, to swiftly clear the floating debris, Cai Cong had sent word downstream to other villages that all floating matter must be removed.

The other villagers were reluctant. To them, if the river was dirty, they simply wouldn’t drink from it—they had wells. But Cai Cong was adamant, sending overseers to ensure the river was cleared and that workers soaked in salt water afterward.

This sparked a wave of resentment. Some women and children from neighboring villages secretly stole salt from the pools while their men were at the river.

When the workers returned, they were stunned: the salt ponds were emptied, not only the salt but the water too.

Those sent by Cai Cong could only smile wryly, giving the men of those villages a thumbs-up for their wives’ cunning. It wasn’t the river’s pollution causing the plague, but the noble families’ refusal to see the river dirtied, as it offended their eyes.

The matter was reported to Cai Cong, who dismissed it. The dead were bound to die. They set up a large net ten miles downstream to block the filthy matter from returning upstream. Whether the plague spread downstream was left to fate.

Watching the river gradually clear, Meng Baolai grew more cheerful. After days of effort, only a little remained. Once cleaned, no one would see floating corpses or repulsive rats scurrying and nibbling at the dead.

Down the hillside, a large, deep pit was dug. The bodies pulled from the river were dumped in. Cai Cong was no ferryman; he would not wait for anyone to claim these unidentifiable corpses.

Nearby, a group of monks chanted the Rebirth Sutra, performing rites to ease the souls of these unclaimed spirits. The old master and Sister Cai had paid for this, believing these tragic deaths demanded such rites. Without them, the dead would find no peace, and the villagers would be unsettled.

Cai Cong left them to their work. The monks of Cien Temple, devoted to the Buddha, accepted no bargaining. Hearing they were to consecrate the river’s lost souls, they brought their ritual instruments and came without hesitation.

In contrast, the monks from Baima Temple had become corrupt. Ten of them came but demanded a hundred taels upfront. Only after receiving the silver did their faces soften, mouths full of “Buddha’s mercy,” as they followed along with smiles.

The pit, ten meters square and over five meters deep, was filled with bodies. Once covered with earth, it nearly leveled with the hillside, forming a new mound.

A stone tablet stood before the mound, clearly inscribed with the identity of those buried. After leading the ceremony, the old master declared with a strong voice, “To all the departed souls of the river, the Cai family has done their utmost. May you find peace. Any vengeful spirits who harm our villagers shall be struck down by Heaven’s thunder.”

Listening to the old master’s blend of pleading and warning, Cai Cong felt no foolishness nor ridicule. These were simple folk, filled with reverence and the most basic, sincere worldview.

“Great-uncle, is that all?” Cai Cong asked with a smile as the old master approached.

“That’s about it. From now on, we’ll hold a memorial each year and offer sacrifices, so their spirits don’t hunger and cause mischief.”

The old master nodded, watching the monks packing up. With disdain, he muttered, “Those bald devils have no true heart for the Buddha. Compared to the masters from Cien Temple, they fall far short.”