New Policies in Sichuan

Chapter 3 The Soup Dishes Outside the City Gate

After several rounds of drinks, the singing and dancing were in full swing.

The Hanyuan Hall was ablaze with jewels, dancers swung their flowing sleeves as if they were free, and the sounds of string and wind instruments filled the air. Even the way the officials raised their cups exuded a well-trained sense of celebration. If Meng Xuanzhe hadn't been carrying that urgent report in his sleeve, he would have almost suspected that what he had just witnessed—"rising rice prices, gatherings of refugees, and border troops running out of pay"—was a hallucination caused by the aftereffects of time travel.

Unfortunately, no.

The letter was still in his sleeve, its sharp edges like a thorn stuck in his heart.

He sat at the table, listening to an official from the Ministry of Rites earnestly praising, "Once the Crown Prince is established, the world will naturally be at peace," and his eyes almost twitched from listening.

Will the world be at peace?

You use the word "self" very cleverly.

It's as if the world is a potted green ivy; as long as you place it by the window, it will grow upwards on its own. Or it's as if the people are weeds in a rice paddy; as long as you pretend not to see them, they will grow into grain on their own tomorrow.

Meng Xuanzhe held his wine cup, his expression solemn, but in his heart he had already written annotations for the entire hall's eulogy of peace and prosperity:

The ultimate crisis management strategy: Don't focus on crisis management, first ensure the celebration is a success.

After another round of toasts, he finally stood up.

"Father," he bowed to the throne, "I am feeling a bit tipsy and would like to go out for some fresh air to avoid being impolite."

Meng Chang glanced at him.

The emperor of Later Shu was clearly in a good mood today. Although he felt that his son had been a bit too sharp tonight, he was not prepared to embarrass him at this time. He simply smiled and said, "Go on, but don't stay out in the night wind for too long, or you'll get a headache."

"Your subject obeys the decree."

Meng Xuanzhe stepped down from his seat and turned to leave the hall.

Gao Chengli followed, like a wisp of white smoke that couldn't be shaken off, staying neither too close nor too far, his smile a model of professional conduct in the inner court: "Your Highness, it's late outside, let this servant help you sober up."

Meng Xuanzhe glanced at him, thinking to himself, "You're not here to help me sober up, you're just afraid I'll be too sober."

"what ever."

He uttered two words and headed straight out of the hall.

The wind outside the hall was much cooler than inside. As it blew, the smell of alcohol dissipated, and the lamplight seemed less gentle.

Behind Hanyuan Hall is a long corridor leading to the Moon Gate, which marks the boundary between the Inner Court and the Outer Court. Along the way, palace lanterns twinkle like stars, eaves soar high, and the faint sounds of palace music can be heard in the distance. Looking at the scene before one's eyes, one would surely exclaim, "A prosperous and elegant era!"

But the further Meng Xuanzhe walked, the stronger the unease in his heart became.

It was too quiet.

It's not the kind of tranquil quiet, but the kind of quiet that's been deliberately maintained, where even trouble isn't allowed to make a sound.

The palace being too quiet often indicates that things outside the palace are not so quiet.

He understood this principle from his previous life at the grassroots level: on the day the leaders came to investigate, the dogs at the village entrance didn't bark. They probably weren't born polite, but were leashed beforehand.

He stopped abruptly when he reached the moon gate.

The eunuchs and imperial guards at the gate bowed in unison.

Gao Chengli said in a low voice, "Your Highness, the outer palace road is just ahead. If you are only here to drink wine, I will accompany you for a walk. Further out, the night wind is strong, and it may spoil the festive atmosphere."

Meng Xuanzhe turned to look at him: "Can joy be blown away by the wind?"

Gao Chengli chuckled awkwardly, "That's not what I meant. I was afraid—"

"Are you afraid I'll see something I shouldn't?"

Gao Chengli's smile froze, and he knelt down with a thud: "Your Highness! This servant would rather die than do such a thing!"

Looking at his bright white face, Meng Xuanzhe suddenly found it amusing.

Feudal dynasties are really interesting.

Before you've even said anything harsh, the person has already knelt down; but if you really want to get things done, the person kneeling and the person standing will often work together to make things difficult for you.

He was too lazy to engage in banter with Gao Chengli, and said indifferently, "Fetch a more ordinary outer robe, and have two tight-lipped and quick-footed guards accompany me. I'll go check out the city gate."

Gao Chengli looked up, his expression as if he had been struck by lightning.

"The city gate?"

"What?" Meng Xuanzhe retorted, "Isn't that place under the jurisdiction of Great Shu tonight?"

"No, Your Highness..." Gao Chengli's voice was almost shrill with anxiety, "Tonight is the investiture ceremony. You are the Crown Prince, how can you leave the palace so easily? There are too many people and too many eyes outside, what if there is a collision—"

Meng Xuanzhe thought to himself, "Three years later, the Song army will be able to rush into Shu, and now you're starting to worry about 'too many people and too many eyes'?"

"Precisely because of tonight's investiture ceremony, I should attend." He stopped laughing, his voice flat. "If I dare not even step out of the city gates today, what right do I have to call myself the Crown Prince tomorrow?"

Gao Chengli opened his mouth, but couldn't find the words to reply for a moment.

Meng Xuanzhe didn't wait for him to answer, and turned to the imperial guards at the gate, saying, "Go and prepare robes."

The imperial guard instinctively looked at Gao Chengli.

Gao Chengli's face twitched, but he ultimately dared not utter a single word of "no" in front of the Crown Prince, and could only say dryly, "Hurry up and go!"

A moment later, a plain-colored outer robe was brought over, and two robust guards were summoned. Meng Xuanzhe put on the robe, leaving only an ordinary jade pendant at his waist, and his hair ornament was also slightly changed. At first glance, although he still couldn't hide his pampered air, at least he no longer looked like a walking silver vault with "I'm worth a lot of money" written on his forehead.

Gao Chengli followed along as if he were sending away a plague god, muttering to himself as they walked: "Your Highness, if you really want to know what's going on outside, just have the Chengdu Prefecture send a detailed report tomorrow. Why go in person? Surely the officials of the prefectures and counties wouldn't dare to deceive His Majesty or the Crown Prince..."

Meng Xuanzhe continued walking: "Whether they dare to lie or not, I'll find out by taking a look."

Gao Chengli: "..."

That's very unethical.

Because it implicitly assumes one thing: what's on paper is unreliable.

Gao Chengli was clearly very unwilling to admit that his "reporting good news and not bad news" system, which he had relied on for years, seemed to be less effective with the new crown prince.

The group left the palace, turned onto the outer palace road, and passed through two more gates. The night suddenly became heavy.

The palace and the outside world are like two different worlds.

Inside is a lamp, outside is the wind.

Inside was music, outside were voices.

Further on, the streets gradually became more lively. There were fewer pedestrians than during the day, but not sparse either. The food stalls were still up, the firelight in the flatbread ovens flickering. A drunkard outside the tavern was still swaying and boasting that he could carry two knives in one hand when he was young. Lanterns hung on the pavilions in the distance, and there were painted boats on the river, with the faint sound of singing girls drifting over.

Chengdu is Chengdu, after all.

Even with some famine and urgent reports that made the situation tense, Chengdu still maintained an outward appearance of prosperity and wealth.

Gao Chengli, as if grasping at a straw, immediately smiled obsequiously and said, "Your Highness, you see, the city is peaceful and the people are as usual. It's clear that those urgent reports were mostly exaggerated by the subordinates. Local officials always like to exaggerate three parts of a matter to make it seem like they have a hard time getting things done—"

Meng Xuanzhe raised his hand to stop him.

Which way are you looking?

Gao Chengli was taken aback for a moment: "N-naturally, we should look at the city..."

"That's not what I'm looking at."

Meng Xuanzhe raised his eyes and looked into the distance.

That's the direction of the city gate.

The further you go, the less light there is on the street, and the more diverse the crowds become. The noise from the taverns and teahouses gradually fades away, replaced by a different kind of sound—children crying, wheels rolling, arguments, and people muttering curses against officials and fate.

Like a pot of soup that was originally quite calm, but the fire underneath has quietly grown stronger, yet the soup hasn't had a chance to overflow.

The smile on Gao Chengli's face, which seemed to say "Your Highness, you see, nothing's wrong," slowly crumbled.

He finally heard it too.

Someone is crying.

Not far, but certainly not close either. The crying wasn't from someone's child falling down, nor from a neighbor couple arguing in the middle of the night; it was forced out from the bottom of the throat, thin and hoarse, with a drawn-out sound that only comes from desperation.

Meng Xuanzhe's heart sank, but he quickened his pace.

As the city gate drew nearer, the air was filled with the smells of rice bran, sweat, and tattered clothes that hadn't been washed in a long time. Turning another alley, the scene before us suddenly came into view.

Several temporary soup kitchens were set up next to the city gate.

It was called a soup kitchen, but it was more like a few large pots set up on the ground, surrounded by a dilapidated wooden fence. The pots were steaming hot, and the crowd around them was huge—there were elderly people, women, people holding children, and people in tattered clothes who were clearly from military families. Several constables stood at the front trying to maintain order, shouting themselves hoarse, but the scene was still chaotic.

It's a mess.

It wasn't the kind of large-scale chaos involving violence and arson, but rather a more disturbing, smaller-scale chaos—

Everyone was barely holding onto the last vestiges of the rules, but everyone was huddled around them, knowing that if they went hungry or waited any longer, these rules would crumble.

"One by one! One by one!" the bailiff shouted, brandishing a wooden stick, his voice trembling with fear. "If you keep pushing, there won't be any left!"

Upon hearing this, the crowd not only did not retreat, but instead pushed forward even further.

Very simple.

Because what they understood was a different meaning: if you don't hurry up and squeeze in, there really won't be any left.

A very thin child was pushed to the ground and burst into tears. His mother rushed over to hug him, and was almost knocked over by the people behind her in the process. On the other side, an old man was stretching out his bowl, but couldn't get it to the front for a long time. He was so anxious that he jumped up and down, and then suddenly everything went black and he sat down on the ground.

Meng Xuanzhe frowned.

In his past life, he had seen long queues and people scrambling for supplies at village entrances, but those were mostly short-term occurrences following extreme weather or sudden disasters. What he was seeing now didn't seem like a temporary disorder; it was more like an already fragile supply system that had been pushed so hard that the poorest and weakest people were all squeezed to the brink of collapse.

And what about inside the city?

They're still living a life of singing and dancing.

The contrast is as absurd as trying to fit two completely different books into one cover.

Just then, an even more heated argument broke out next to the soup kitchen.

"Please, sir, give me just half a bowl, just half a bowl will do. My girl hasn't eaten anything all day—"

The speaker was a woman in her thirties, with disheveled hair and faded clothes, holding a thin little girl in her arms. The girl's head drooped, too weak to even cry, her eyes half-open and half-closed.

One of the constables waved his hand impatiently: "Didn't we already distribute them? The next batch isn't cooked yet, get to the back of the line!"

The woman almost knelt on the ground, handing the bowl forward: "The last bowl was for my mother-in-law, she's dying, and the children really didn't eat—"

The constable glanced at her, then at the child in her arms, and suddenly lowered his voice, forcing a smile: "It's not that we can't make an exception. If you're really in a hurry, don't just cry."

As he spoke, he rubbed two of his fingers together.

Meng Xuanzhe was all too familiar with that move.

Regardless of time or era, the meaning is consistent, easy to understand, and trustworthy for all ages.

Someone nearby muttered under their breath, "Here we go again..."

The woman turned pale and hurriedly rummaged in her bosom. After searching for a long time, she only managed to pull out two copper coins with almost worn-down edges.

The constable's face darkened, and he shoved her hand back: "Are you trying to fob me off like a beggar? Get in line!"

The woman was shoved and nearly dropped the child in her arms. She stood there stunned for a moment, tears streaming down her face. She turned to a middle-aged man in a silk robe beside her and said in a hoarse voice, "Master Zhang, you...you said it was possible..."

The middle-aged man stroked his beard, his eyes lingering on the little girl in her arms. He said slowly, "I only did this because I felt sorry for you. If you really can bear to part with her, I'll take her home and at least give her some food. Whether she becomes a maid or is raised, it's better than her starving to death. Two bushels of rice, that's the most I can give you."

All around was quiet.

Even the originally chaotic crowd seemed to be frozen in place by those words.

Meng Xuanzhe stood still, his fingers slowly clenching.

Two bushels of rice.

One life, plus a lifetime.

It's really cheap.

An old woman nearby sobbed softly, "What a tragedy..."

The woman's face looked as if it had been torn apart, half despair and half shame. She looked down at her daughter in her arms, and the little girl weakly snuggled closer to her, mumbling a "Mother" through her lips.

The woman collapsed instantly.

She held her child, knelt on the ground, and cried uncontrollably, but hesitated to utter the words "not for sale."

Because she knew that if she didn't sell, she might really starve to death that night.

If we sell it, at least we can survive.

How cruel!

In chaotic times, when people are devoured, it's often not a matter of swallowing you whole.

It will first ask you: Which way do you choose to die?

Gao Chengli, watching from behind, frowned and whispered, "These refugees are the most troublesome. Your Highness, please don't go forward to avoid causing a disturbance—"

Meng Xuanzhe ignored him.

He had already started walking forward.

The two guards were startled and immediately gave chase. Gao Chengli cried out "Ouch!" and quickly lifted his robe to catch up.

The bailiff was still acting arrogantly, reaching out to nudge the child in the woman's arms: "Are you going to sell it or not? If not, get out of the way, you're blocking the way for the others to get their porridge—"

As soon as he reached out, his hand was grabbed by another hand.

The constable was taken aback. He looked up and saw a strange young man standing in front of him. Although his robes were plain, the material was definitely not something an ordinary person could afford, and his features exuded an air of nobility. What was most unsettling was that the young man's gaze was calm, yet so calm that it sent a chill down the spine.

"Just now," Meng Xuanzhe said calmly, "you asked her to buy porridge?"

The constable instinctively tried to pull his hand away, but couldn't. A fierce look immediately appeared on his face: "Who are you? This is official business, what right do you have to ask me questions—"

Before he could finish speaking, the guard beside him took a half step forward, the hilt of his sword faintly visible beneath his sleeve.

The constable's expression changed.

Gao Chengli rushed over, his voice low and urgent, "Your Highness...Young Master! Why do you have to do it yourself? You can leave such a small matter to your subordinates—"

"A small matter?"

Meng Xuanzhe glanced at him.

That cold look made Gao Chengli's heart skip a beat.

The crowd of onlookers gradually quieted down. Everyone had been waiting to see the woman sell her daughter, but suddenly a well-dressed young man barged in, accompanied by men who were clearly not ordinary servants. For a moment, no one dared to utter a sound.

The middle-aged Zhang, the wealthy man, was the first to react. He quickly cupped his hands in greeting, smiling amiably, "Young master, it's a misunderstanding, all a misunderstanding. I was just doing a good deed; I saw that this woman and her daughter were pitiful—"

"Doing good deeds?" Meng Xuanzhe turned to look at him. "Two bushels of rice to buy a living person, Master Zhang's kindness is so great that even a weight would find it too hard to hold."

Someone in the crowd couldn't help but chuckle, then quickly covered their mouth.

Master Zhang's face turned pale instantly.

That's a really hurtful thing to say.

It was as if his kind face had been stripped bare in public.

But before he could react, someone next to him suddenly knelt down with a thud.

It was an old woman with gray hair, her clothes patched, clutching an old wooden plaque tightly in her hand, sobbing uncontrollably: "Honorable sir! Honorable sir, please help this old woman! My son, who was guarding Lizhou, has been dead for three years, and I haven't received a single penny of the promised compensation. Even these past few days, when we went to collect porridge, they said we weren't registered and we had to pay extra... My little grandson is so sick he can't even get out of bed..."

As she spoke, she held the wooden sign forward.

Meng Xuanzhe looked down and his heart sank.

That wasn't an ordinary wooden sign; it was a border army soldier's registration tag.

The edges and corners are all rounded, clearly indicating that it has been touched many times.

A person died three years ago, but his family is still living by touching this sign.

The sign is there, but the compensation hasn't arrived, and they're charging extra for the porridge.

This is no longer a matter of corvée labor.

This is a complete leak from the border troops, to military registration, to pensions, to soup kitchens—the whole chain is leaking.

No.

It's not a leak.

Someone is scooping it up with a spoon.

Meng Xuanzhe's Adam's apple bobbed, and he suddenly felt that the "abundant national resources" and "peaceful and prosperous people" he had just heard in Hanyuan Hall were like slaps in the face.

At this moment, the constable finally came to his senses. Seeing that the scene had been disrupted, he steeled himself and said in a fierce but weak voice, "What are you all doing crowding around! The porridge distribution at the official shed has its own rules! Are you trying to rebel by making such a fuss?"

As he spoke, he even tried to kick the kneeling old woman.

Meng Xuanzhe's eyes turned cold.

The next instant, he released the constable's wrist and slapped him across the face.

Snapped.

Extremely loud.

The crowd fell completely silent.

The bailiff was slapped so hard he turned his head to the side, completely stunned, and half of his face quickly swelled up.

Meng Xuanzhe shook his hand, thinking to himself that this body was indeed well-preserved; even smoking a bastard made his palms feel a little numb.

But it's worth it.

The constable, covering his face, finally realized what had happened and stammered, "You...you dare hit an official!"

"So what if I hit you?" Meng Xuanzhe looked at him, his voice not loud, but every word clear and distinct. "When the government provided porridge, you demanded money; when the widows of military households received porridge, you added more; before the starving people were even dead, you forced them to sell their daughters. You, dressed in an official's robe, actually think you're human?"

As the last sentence was uttered, a barely suppressed commotion arose among the surrounding crowd.

It wasn't chaos, but the cathartic relief of finally seeing someone speak out for you after holding it in for so long.

Gao Chengli's face turned green.

All he wanted to do was bury his head in the ground and pray to all the gods and Buddhas that His Highness the Crown Prince wouldn't say anything even more frightening tonight.

Unfortunately, the gods and Buddhas are probably busy with other things tonight.

Because Meng Xuanzhe had already squatted down and helped the old woman up.

"Tell me your son's name, which battalion he served in, when he died in battle, and who handled his compensation, one by one."

The old woman was stunned.

She probably never imagined in her life that such an outrageously expensive young man would squat down and speak to her at eye level.

For a moment, she even forgot to cry. Her lips trembled as she stammered, "Replying to Your Excellency, my son's name is Zhou Sanwang. In the twenty-second year of Guangzheng... he was shot by an arrow while guarding the transport route in Lizhou... The county said they reported it, but we haven't seen any money..."

Meng Xuanzhe nodded, then looked at the woman holding her daughter: "And you? Where do you live? Why do you have to pay extra for the porridge?"

The woman hugged her child tightly, her voice weak: "I am originally from Xinjin. Our fields were flooded, and my husband's family was in debt, so I fled to the outskirts of the city with my mother-in-law... Yesterday, I came to collect porridge, but the officer said that a single person would only get one bowl, and those with elderly parents and young children would need to pay 'fire loss money'..."

Fireworks cost money.

Meng Xuanzhe almost laughed out of anger.

These bastards have truly mastered the art of "plucking feathers from a passing goose" by distributing porridge at soup kitchens and still managing to collect the losses.

In his past life, he had seen arbitrary charges, cleverly disguised fees, and the practice of requiring the purchase of specific document folders before obtaining a certificate. But collecting "firewood" in front of the soup kitchen was still a novel experience for him.

well.

Humans are indeed exceptionally gifted when it comes to inventing paid services.

He stood up and scanned the soup kitchen, the constables, and the crowd around him.

The elderly, women, sick children, wounded soldiers, military dependents, and refugees.

Every face is thin, and every pair of eyes is fixed on the pot.

That's not greed, that's hunger.

When you're so hungry that you feel your eyes well up with tears at the sight of steam.

Meng Xuanzhe suddenly realized that he had no way out.

He originally wanted to take a look first, think it over, and make a more thorough plan.

But plans can never keep up with people starving to death.

There are some things that, once you see them, you can't pretend you didn't see them.

Just then, Gao Chengli finally couldn't hold back any longer. He took a step closer, his voice trembling and high-pitched: "Your Highness...you really can't get involved with them anymore! These are all lowly commoners, laborers, military households, and exiles. They're filthy and chaotic. Your status is so noble; how can you get entangled with them? What if word gets out—"

Meng Xuanzhe slowly turned his head.

The wind blew in from outside the city gate, carrying the smell of porridge, dust, and the stench of poverty on people, all of which clung to the hem of his clothes.

He looked at Gao Chengli and suddenly realized that the old eunuch had said something right.

His status was indeed distinguished.

So noble that the ceremonial rites of the Eastern Palace could be embellished overnight; so noble that even amidst a hall full of congratulatory petitions, urgent reports could be buried at the very bottom; so noble that these people tacitly agreed that he should only sit under the lamplight, avoiding the ashes by the pot and the cries of the poor.

But if true nobility means standing far away, watching others sell their daughters, military families run out of food, and old women kneel on the ground, while complaining that their tears spoil one's own joy—

That price is far too high, making it seem like a bargain.

He looked at Gao Chengli, his voice not loud, but it cleaved through the night near the city gate like a knife:

"If none of them survive—"

"What makes me, the Crown Prince, so noble?"

The wind died down.

Gao Chengli's face turned deathly pale, his lips trembled, and he couldn't utter a single word.

Meng Xuanzhe had already turned around, his gaze falling on the pots of porridge.

Steam billowed from the pot, while people outside were restless.

He raised his hand and said only two words to the guards behind him:

"Sealing off the shed."