Chapter Nineteen: Interrogating the Criminal

When Jin Changwu spoke these words with calm composure, he was also observing Song Mu’s expression. This young man before him had, in just a few days, completely overturned his previous impression—one could even say he was nothing short of astonishing. At such a tender age, he composed the “Prospering Culture Poem,” bringing the obscure little county of Shiyang into the pages of the National Literary Journal. That was an accomplishment in governance that demanded attention.

Yet scarcely had he begun to pay this attention when danger struck—the youth encountered peril in the city, three different groups converged in a single night, all with murderous intent. For someone so young and unassuming to provoke such turmoil, Jin Changwu found himself reevaluating Song Mu yet again.

Beyond all this, Jin Changwu deeply hoped that Shiyang County might once more produce a scholar of national renown. Such an achievement would be a boon not only for himself but for the realm as well. After all, though Shiyang lay along the Gan River in the Jiangnan West Circuit, it was otherwise nondescript in the great land of Shenzhou. The county had but three literary families, two of which had only risen in the past century; its scholarly tradition was exceedingly frail. If not for the thirteen scholars the Song family had produced, the county would be looked down upon even more by its neighbors.

Jin Changwu was not without his own ambitions—he longed to witness another miracle spring from the Song family. Yet he feared such a miracle might vanish as swiftly as it appeared. How would this seventeen-year-old youth face adversity? If he could respond with composure, Jin Changwu would surely value him even more.

This was the very question Jin Changwu had just discussed with Ouyang Hong—they intended to gauge Song Mu’s temperament.

At that moment, Song Mu lowered his head in thought for a moment, then looked up at Jin Changwu and spoke.

“Sir, may I go see the man who was apprehended?”

His request caught both Jin Changwu and Ouyang Hong off guard—Song Mu wished to go into the jail himself to see that man?

“I do not expect to learn the truth of the matter from his lips,” Song Mu said calmly. “I simply want to know what kind of man would set his sights on me.”

This affair was far too complicated, well beyond his power to resolve. The magistrate’s words today were more a warning than an invitation to make outlandish demands.

Song Mu had no intention of probing further, but he did want to look upon the would-be killer he had not seen on that fateful night. Was it truly the Song family’s ancient books that drew them all?

“Very well, I will grant your request,” Jin Changwu replied without hesitation. Exchanging a glance with Ouyang Hong, he called out toward the door.

“To the dungeon!”

A bailiff answered and led the way, and Jin Changwu beckoned Song Mu to follow.

“The dungeon where the man is held is right here. Come with me,” Jin Changwu said.

Song Mu was surprised by the ready agreement, but seeing Jin Changwu’s gesture, he nodded and followed. He had never seen the county’s prison before, but according to Jin Changwu, it was located right here?

Descending to the first floor, Song Mu watched as a bailiff unlocked a door at the side of the building. A dim, downward passage appeared before him.

Jin Changwu led the way, explaining as they went.

“This is unlike the main jail of the county office. Here, we confine only the most wicked, those most susceptible to demonic influence. They are easily consumed by madness—only the presence of a great scholar’s writings can keep their minds clear.”

Song Mu nodded inwardly, while Ouyang Hong, bringing up the rear, added a few words.

“Before the founding of the Literary Dynasty, demonic incursions were even worse than those of the demon clans. There were times when an entire city would fall into madness in an instant, slaughtering all in sight.”

“Evil-doers are especially prone to madness, but the First Ancestor was merciful. He decreed that they be imprisoned beneath scholars’ writings, with scholars reciting the classics daily to calm their minds and restore clarity.”

“If they could be reformed, they might yet return to the world of ordinary men.”

Ouyang Hong’s words made Song Mu glance at him sidelong. In this world, the pedagogues were responsible not only for education but also for the purification of those tainted by madness. No wonder he encountered Ouyang Hong here today, nor that Jin Changwu had chosen this place for their meeting.

The passage wound ever downward—by the time they reached the bottom, Song Mu reckoned they had descended several dozen meters. A few oil lamps flickered at the low, narrow entrance to the dungeon, where several soldiers clad in silver-white armor rose at once, bowing to Jin Changwu and Ouyang Hong.

Song Mu took their measure: their hands were broad, their bodies sturdy, but most intriguingly, their armor was inscribed with text—perhaps lines of poetry or prose.

“Greetings, Magistrate; greetings, Master Pedagogue.”

An officer dressed as a jailer stepped forward to salute. Jin Changwu nodded.

“Where is the man apprehended yesterday?”

“In the T-shaped cell, sir. Do you wish to interrogate him?”

“Bring him out,” Jin Changwu ordered, then entered a small room to the side and sat.

Song Mu followed him in. The cramped, low-ceilinged chamber was dim, lit by a few oil lamps on the walls. Across from the door, a barred section opened into a smaller room.

Song Mu and Ouyang Hong sat on a bench. Soon, they heard a metallic clatter; two guards escorted a figure into the inner cell.

Song Mu narrowed his eyes. In the flickering gloom, he could not make out the man’s features, but he could see it was a middle-aged man.

“Lu Jue, raise your head!”

Jin Changwu’s voice was stern as he sat with the air of a scholar-official, his presence exerting a powerful pressure. The man in the small cell quivered, then slowly raised his head.

It was a face shrouded in darkness—hooked nose, prominent cheekbones, deep-set eyes—all contorted by fear.

“This is Lu Jue, a licentiate from the seventeenth year of the Chongwen era, a native of Dingzhou. He failed the provincial exam in the twentieth year, then, in a fit of rage, killed a fellow townsman at an inn and became a wanted man. Only now, seven years later, has he been captured.”

A military officer, holding a ledger, reported that the current year was the twenty-seventh of the Chongwen era; Lu Jue had been on the run for seven years before landing here.

Jin Changwu nodded and turned to Song Mu.

“Song Mu, this is the man.”

At that, Song Mu’s gaze met Lu Jue’s in the dimness.

Song Mu rose, his eyes piercing through the gloom, unwavering.

Lu Jue’s expression froze. He stared at Song Mu; suddenly his eyes flickered, and his lips moved as if mumbling something.

Song Mu stepped forward, stopping at the edge of the bars to look at him.

“You know who I am, don’t you?” Song Mu asked directly.

There was a long silence. At last, a high, thin voice came from the man’s mouth.

“No, I do not. I’ve told you many times—I was merely passing through, just caught in the crossfire.”

Song Mu studied him, catching the cunning glint in his eyes.

“But you did intend to harm me, didn’t you? And you know what I carry.”

“It was nothing but a sudden impulse. Is it so strange for a desperate man on the run?”

Song Mu’s expression remained calm as he pressed further.

“But you weren’t simply after my belongings, were you? Your first thought was to kill me, wasn’t it?”

“Absurd! Are all the sons of literary families so paranoid? I told you, I was merely passing through.”

Lu Jue stuck stubbornly to his story. Jin Changwu and Ouyang Hong said nothing. Song Mu lowered his eyes, casting Lu Jue a sidelong glance before dropping his gaze again.

“But your toes are telling me you’re lying.”