Chapter Three: Blood Feud

Qi Jun frowned slightly. He had only just begun to unravel the origins of his existence in this world; he hoped trouble wasn’t coming his way again. In his previous life, his physique and skills allowed him to take on several armed men barehanded without difficulty, but now, inhabiting the frail body of a scholar—wounded, no less—he would be hard pressed to handle any conflict.

Beside him, Aunt Zhao seemed equally bewildered by the sudden commotion outside the door. She frowned, paused for a few seconds, then her expression cleared as if she understood, and she hurriedly stood to greet whoever was at the door.

Seeing her reaction, Qi Jun surmised this was not some thorny affair and breathed a sigh of relief, letting himself lie back down. After listening to Aunt Zhao’s lengthy explanation, he was already feeling fatigued.

“Jun, the clan elder has brought the villagers to visit you!” Aunt Zhao called out loudly.

No sooner had Qi Jun settled himself than an elderly man, hair white as snow, was helped into the room. The space was small; the elder raised his hand and those who followed—men, women, old and young—halted at the threshold. They whispered among themselves, craning their necks to peer inside.

Aunt Zhao’s address made it clear to Qi Jun that the old man was a figure of great respect in the village. Not daring to be discourteous, Qi Jun mustered the strength to rise and pay his respects.

The elder quickly gestured for Qi Jun not to stand on ceremony. The man supporting him looked around, found a wooden stump, and placed it beside the elder, who sat down without complaint.

“Junior Qi Jun greets the clan elder,” Qi Jun said, struggling to clasp his hands in salute.

The elder pressed Qi Jun’s hands down, gripping them tightly, and sighed heavily. “No need for formality, no need! Though we are not of the same clan, I have always regarded you as a model among the villagers. Mister Sun has already given you medicine; you seem much improved now. The whole village should remember your father’s kindness!”

His voice trembled with emotion, and after just a few words, he raised a hand to wipe away tears. The man beside him patted his back to comfort him.

Qi Jun searched his memory, but only found scattered fragments. The scene left him uncertain how to respond.

The man glanced at the elder, then at Qi Jun, his expression tinged with sympathy. He sighed and spoke: “Mister Qi suffered calamity to save the people of East Ridge Village. I, Liu Kui, thank you on behalf of all the villagers. Please accept this bow!”

With that, Liu Kui solemnly clasped his hands and bowed deeply to Qi Jun.

Qi Jun was even more bewildered and hastened to urge Liu Kui up. “Brother Liu, please rise. Might you tell me the details?”

Liu Kui looked at Qi Jun, then at the elder. Seeing the elder nod, he stood and sighed again. “This year, Heaven withheld its grace; not a single grain was harvested in any household. Seeing the villagers tormented by drought and hunger, your father sold ancestral property and gave all he had, leading several village men to seek grain for relief, but…”

At this, Liu Kui clenched his fists, his eyes reddened, chest heaving. He could not go on.

“Please, continue!” Qi Jun pressed, eager to learn the whole story.

Liu Kui steadied himself, his tone laced with anger. “But, on the way back to the village, passing through Panlong Ridge, those murderous bandits intercepted the grain wagons!”

Qi Jun’s heart jolted. This cut off the village’s lifeline!

“My father—what happened to him?”

Having been reborn into this body, Qi Jun instinctively identified with it.

“Your father refused to hand over the grain to those villains, and his words enraged them. They… beat him to death…” Liu Kui wiped away tears, his voice thick with hatred. “The others were also badly beaten, but managed to help each other back to the village and report what happened. When I led the clansmen to the scene, your father was hanging by the roadside, covered in blood…”

Qi Jun’s eyes blazed; his fists clenched tight. He felt a fire burning fiercely in his chest.

Not only was his father murdered by bandits in this life, but his spirit as a soldier from his past life revolted against such atrocities—he could not bear to see innocent people abused and slaughtered.

Qi Jun closed his eyes, and memories gradually grew clearer in his mind. He saw the imposing stone lions at the county yamen gate, the bailiffs standing upright at either side, and the drum for the wronged.

He grabbed the drumstick and struck the drum with all his might.

“Dong! Dong! Dong!”

“That’s enough, stop banging! The drum isn’t for just anyone to beat,” a bailiff sneered as he stepped forward to stop him. “What grievance do you have?”

He tossed aside the drumstick, knelt before the bailiff, clutched his clothes, and cried hoarsely: “I have been wronged! Please, master, uphold justice! My parents were killed by the bandits of Panlong Ridge!”

“Is this true? Wait here, I’ll report to the magistrate!” The bailiff, seeing it was a capital case, dared not delay. He left another bailiff to watch Qi Jun, then went inside to inform the county magistrate.

Soon, a summons came from the inner hall, and the bailiff led him inside.

The hall was dominated by a plaque bearing the words “The Bright Mirror Hangs High.” Two rows of bailiffs stood solemnly, holding batons. Behind the desk sat a corpulent official, looking bored.

“Bang!” The official grabbed the gavel and slammed it down.

“Court in session!” Perhaps roused from a nap, the magistrate yawned and called out with irritation.

“Majesty…!” The bailiffs, following orders, struck the floor with their batons, chanting in unison. In ancient times, common folk had little idea of court procedure and would often shout and beg, crying for justice, which disrupted the magistrate’s work.

To establish the dignity of the court and settle the crowd, bailiffs would strike the floor and shout “Majesty,” intimidating the people into silence so the magistrate could proceed.

“Who stands below? What grievance do you bring?” The magistrate took a clay teapot from his adviser, sipped, and asked.

“Reporting to your honor, I am a resident of East Ridge Village. My parents, seeking relief for the drought-stricken villagers, were killed by the bandits of Panlong Ridge. I beseech your honor to investigate and seek justice for me and for all the villagers of East Ridge!”

As scholars were few and respected, the court allowed them to address officials without using terms like “humble commoner” or “lowly citizen.”

Having poured out all his anger and sorrow, he knocked his head three times before the magistrate and waited, prostrate, for a response.

The magistrate looked at the scholar kneeling on the floor, swallowed another mouthful of strong tea, and gently set the teapot on the desk. “Bring the petition!”

He hesitated, for upon hearing of his parents’ murder, he had been consumed with grief and rage, rushing straight from the village to the county office to strike the drum and plead his case, without preparing a written petition.

“I have none, but I can state my case orally…”

“And the court fee?” The magistrate waved impatiently, not allowing him to explain.

To seek justice from an official, one must pay a fee. Though the imperial court did not require this, county offices set up such barriers to discourage trivial cases and profit from the process—a common local practice.

“This…” He had spent his life studying at home, ignorant of the ways of the county office, and his family had spent all their money on relief and ransom. There was nothing left to pay the fee.

The bailiff, knowing this, had not stopped him out of pity, but the magistrate now demanded it openly.

“Bang!” Seeing Qi Jun’s confusion, the magistrate guessed the truth and angrily slammed the gavel. “No petition, no court fee—are you deliberately disturbing this office? Drag him out!”

Panic seized him. The bandits were powerful, and if the county ignored the case, how could he avenge his parents?

“Your honor! I am wronged! Please, investigate and grant justice for my father and mother!” Though frail, he pushed aside the bailiffs trying to drag him out, and knelt two steps closer.

“Impudent rogue! How dare you disrupt the court!” The magistrate, surprised by the scholar’s boldness, snapped. “You claim the bandits of Panlong Ridge killed your parents—do you have proof? How can you show you’re not falsely accusing them? I think you’re trying to use the county office for your personal vengeance!”

“Sir! All the county’s people know those bandits are villains, their crimes heinous. How could I make a false accusation?”

He knelt another step forward, but the bailiffs pinned him to the ground.

“You insolent wretch! How dare you challenge the court. Do you think I won’t punish you just because you’re a scholar?” The magistrate, his face dark, grew even more furious. He tossed out a command token: “Give him twenty strokes! Beat him hard!”