Chapter 971 - The Daoist's Crisis
"You're simply making up prices as you go—" The red-clad girl voiced her objection again.
Min Zhanlian sneered: "What, does your sect have no rules of rank and precedence at all?"
The remark cut deep and provoked outrage. Resentment showed in the middle-aged man's eyes. But the red-clad girl was no ordinary subordinate—she was a Guardian Envoy dispatched from the Shandong main altar. Though young and lower in position than him, she wasn't someone he could casually scold.
"This humble seat agrees to these terms." He nodded.
"And daily meals," Min Zhanlian added. "There's practically nothing fit for human consumption in this region—you'll also have to provide. Vegetables, meat, wine, and tea."
"Agreed." The middle-aged man signaled, and someone brought over a voucher booklet.
"This is a voucher for the Wang Family Inn on County Street in the city. A courtyard has been prepared for you. All food and expenses go on the voucher."
"Efficient work." Min Zhanlian expressed satisfaction. "If I need to contact you, how do I reach you?"
"Draw a symbol behind the Wang Family Inn, and someone will meet you." The middle-aged man said. "You won't see this humble seat again. Future contacts will be through this Envoy here."
That afternoon, Min Zhanlian's team arrived in full at the Wang Family Inn. When they showed the voucher, the attendant welcomed them in without a word, hurrying to serve tea and water. Once tea was ready, as if on command, all the staff simultaneously withdrew from the courtyard.
But Min Zhanlian's people didn't bother washing up or changing clothes. They first inspected every room and corner for anything suspicious. Before long, the middle-aged man with the local accent returned.
"It's not a black inn," he said quietly. "Definitely an established place."
"Hmm."
"I just went around back—the proprietor's family are also believers."
Min Zhanlian nodded. "As I expected."
The middle-aged man he had brought was a native of southern Shandong, intimately familiar with local conditions. Min Zhanlian had specifically hired him after accepting this job. The man had mixed in underworld circles for years and possessed extensive jianghu experience.
After he withdrew, the oldest rider—whom Min Zhanlian respectfully called "Uncle He"—came to report that everything was settled. Warning signals had been set at doors, windows, and eaves. Uncle He was Min Zhanlian's steward, specifically responsible for the team's food, lodging, and travel. Given the heavy responsibility, he counted among Min Zhanlian's most trusted confidants.
"Those not on duty should rest in shifts starting now. Send the scouts out to gather information!" Min Zhanlian instructed. "We need to get a good look at what kind of deity this Master Dao truly is."
The scouts were three unremarkable-looking individuals—two men and one woman. All were the type who left no impression at a glance. They excelled at disguise and transformation, capable of passing in any social circle.
"Yes," Uncle He acknowledged, then said quietly: "I wonder if the food and drink here can be trusted?"
"Should be no problem." Min Zhanlian kept his voice low. "There's no grudge between us. They've paid money to hire us for a killing—why would they harm us first?"
"Still better to be careful," Uncle He insisted. "These White Lotus Sect remnants are said to practice sorcery. We should guard against them drugging us or casting spells."
Min Zhanlian chuckled. "Uncle He, you worry too much. It's true they can perform some tricks, but no great undertaking in history has ever succeeded through magic. Never mind Xu Hongru, who failed just ten years ago—consider Zhang Jue, whose powers made even the Han court prostrate in admiration. When he launched his rebellion, millions of Yellow Turbans rose like the wind, yet he still lost. The more you fear their mischief, the more power you give it. 'Treat the strange as ordinary, and the strange defeats itself.'"
Just as he was speaking, someone reported: A visitor had come to call.
"Show them in." Min Zhanlian nodded. No doubt this was an envoy from the sect bearing fresh information.
The visitor was indeed a sect envoy—the red-clad girl from earlier.
But now, to avoid drawing attention, she had changed into a black cloak.
"What news does the young lady bring?"
"The man you're dealing with goes to the gruel station every day to give medicine and treat patients." Without pleasantries or titles, the girl spoke coldly and directly. "The Altar Chief wants you to kill him in the most bizarre manner possible."
"When it comes to bizarre methods, we ordinary mortals probably lack that level of skill." Min Zhanlian smiled. "Surely your sect's various arcane arts would be more suitable."
"Isn't that what you called 'trickery'?" The girl showed her teeth in a smile. "'Can't accomplish anything great.'"
Min Zhanlian instantly went on guard—those words had been spoken barely a cup of tea ago. His men had set up secret lookouts all around the front and back; there were no hidden chambers or tunnels here. It was absolutely impossible for anyone to have concealed themselves and eavesdropped—yet this woman had somehow heard!
"This matter is difficult..."
"Hmph. You just want money, don't you?" The girl sneered. "The Ma estate master of Qingcheng Mountain—his entire family died suicidally, 'possessed by evil spirits'—wasn't that your work? Add fifty taels, and he must die spectacularly—'divine retribution.'"
Zhang Yingchen still didn't know someone wanted to "divinely execute" him. Though suspicious figures had been watching and trailing him, he felt he hadn't done anything to provoke anyone. Whoever they were, they shouldn't go so far as to actually kill him.
He had considered the possibility that some local secret society might want him dead out of competitive impulse—this was always possible.
The secret societies in Shandong were complex and numerous. The major ones included the Wenxiang Sect and the Luo Sect; as for various offshoots and secret organizations, the varieties were countless. The Wenxiang Sect was famous and the most powerful. Xu Hongru of the White Lotus Sect had been a disciple of Wang Sen, the Wenxiang Sect leader from Jizhou in Zhili. The White Lotus Sect had operated in Shandong for over twenty years, boasting more than two million followers—deeply rooted with enormous influence. Though their Tianqi Year Two uprising had failed and the White Lotus Sect had suffered devastating blows in Shandong, the remnants retained their strength, continuing to hide and bide their time. In Chongzhen Year Two, they had attacked Laiyang. That same year, the remnant leader Zhu Bingnan had also assaulted the government in Suizhou, Henan. As for the Luo Sect, it was indigenous—its founder, Luo Qing, was a Shandong native. It wielded considerable influence among the canal transport troops, and its offshoots were legion.
From his readings of historical materials, Zhang Yingchen knew that among the larger sects active in Shandong during the late Ming—the Luo Sect, Wenxiang Sect, Hongyang Sect, Huangtian Sect, and Yiqizaoxiang Sect—the Hongyang Sect promoted prophecies of the Red Sheep Tribulation, claimed descent from the Luo Sect, and preferred to cultivate upper-class connections. The Yiqizaoxiang Sect resembled a more shamanized form of Daoism and had always proclaimed non-participation in rebellions. It was the Huangtian Sect, founded by Tiger-Eye Meditation Master Li Bin during the Jiajing reign, that maintained close connections to Li Chuang in the late Ming. During their missionary activities, they had widely spread the "Eighteen Son" prophecy on Li Chuang's behalf.
"Who might want me dead?" This question had preoccupied Zhang Yingchen of late. He currently had more information—and more timely updates—on the Luo Sect, as there were some former Luo Sect believers in the Shandong Catholic Church. Apparently they had somehow confused Catholic veneration of the Virgin Mary with Wusheng Laomu worship. Through them, Lu Wenyuan could obtain much information to convey to him.
But this hadn't improved his situation in the slightest. Three beggars kept watch at the front and back gates of the Daoist temple every day. Whenever he went out, he could feel someone following him. No matter where he went, he encountered men and women, old and young, secretly trailing and observing him. Several nights he had been awakened by extremely faint footsteps on the roof.
Zhang Yingchen was deeply alarmed—clearly his status in the enemy's estimation had risen considerably. Very likely, an operation targeting him was being planned.
He didn't know what his opponents intended. If they wanted his life, they could take it at any time. Their restraint clearly betrayed an intention to force him to leave.
Zhang Yingchen ultimately lacked the resolve to martyr himself at any moment. While desperately hoping his requested bodyguards would arrive soon, he also had to seriously consider leaving this place.
But his missionary personnel hadn't arrived yet. If he simply departed, all the painstaking effort he had invested in treating and saving people these past days would be completely wasted—he couldn't bear it.
One day, having just returned from the gruel station, he saw a sedan chair stopped at the Daoist temple gate. Mingqing and several men dressed as servants were waiting for him.
It turned out there was a large estate called Dadianzhang north of the city, where a gentry member named Zhuang Qian resided. He had formerly been an official in the capital and had just retired to his hometown. The county magistrate and local gentry had recently paid him visits, hoping he would assist with disaster relief. But unexpectedly, shortly after returning home, Master Zhuang had contracted the seasonal epidemic and was bedridden. His family had heard of Zhang Yingchen's renowned medical skills and sent for him.
Hearing that gentry were summoning him, Zhang Yingchen's spirits rose. Treating patients at a gentry household meant at least a few days of good food and drink. The days of living in a broken temple, eating black flatbreads, and drinking bitter water could finally ease up somewhat. Besides, staying in the gentry's fortified compound would also prove safer than here. He gathered his medicines, took his disciples, and went.
Arriving at the Zhuang household in Dadianzhang and examining the patient, he found that Master Zhuang had merely suffered from summer heat combined with careless eating, causing incessant diarrhea. He was showing signs of dehydration and had gradually become unable to keep down food or water.
For Zhang Yingchen, this presented no serious difficulty—he had seen many such cases recently and had developed a complete, effective treatment protocol. With his "miracle medicine," the cure rate was practically one hundred percent.
Thus Zhang Yingchen once again found himself enjoying "VIP" treatment. Though he had grown accustomed to patients' reverence and preferential consideration, in this place, reverence from the wealthy proved far more practical than reverence from starving refugees. Zhang Yingchen found this estate much better than the broken Daoist temple: only three or four li from the city, convenient for going to the gruel station and the surrounding area for treatment and preaching. Dadianzhang was also a fortified compound—strangers couldn't simply wander in. At the very least, his chances of having his head severed while sleeping were much reduced. He then produced various additional "symptoms" that alarmed Master Zhuang and his family—in short, Master Zhuang's illness required long-term treatment, or it would easily recur. Thus the Daoist Master naturally settled into residence at Master Zhuang's invitation and the family's earnest entreaties. However, he kept the broken temple rented, just in case.
(End of Chapter)