The woman’s surname was Hao—daughter of a small medicinal herb merchant. Earlier that year, her father had been cheated by an acquaintance, losing both money and goods while racking up debts. When the creditors came smashing through their home, the merchant died on the spot from shock and rage.
To repay the debts, she had no choice but to sell herself into servitude. Only last month did she learn that the creditor and her current master had conspired together—to seize her family’s property and force her into slavery or concubinage.
She kept silent, gathering evidence, then fled under cover of night to beat the drum of grievance.
Traditionally, a slave could not accuse their master; their lives were entirely at their master’s discretion. Though new laws had relaxed this somewhat, the conditions for a slave to accuse a master remained severe.
She wept heart-wrenchingly before the Capital Magistrate’s office, every word a cry of injustice, moving the onlookers to tears.
Such cases were not rare. When the yamen runners asked the Capital Magistrate whether to drag her to the back halls for questioning and disperse the crowd, the Magistrate—already under orders—let her remain out front to weep, allowing the matter to ferment further.
The people were not only moved by her plight—they felt a chill of fear, a grief for the fox that mourns the hare’s death.
Though merchants ranked lowest among the four classes—scholars, farmers, artisans, merchants—they were still better off than ordinary folk, with spare money and land. If even the Hao family could fall so low, powerless to fight back, then what chance did penniless commoners have?
Coupled with the recent news of Prefect Chen, who had worked over a thousand servants to death for profit—if they themselves were ever framed and reduced to registered servitude, and encountered an official like Chen Huaibin, their fate would be sealed. The thought sent a chill through their hearts.
Even if justice prevailed in the end, what good was that if the person was already dead?
Some troublemakers discussed Hao’s case in the streets. Normally, the Golden Guard would have arrested and detained them for a few days—but this time, they turned a blind eye.
Soon, the matter spread like wildfire through the streets, and within half a month, it was known throughout the entire kingdom. Even neighboring Song caught wind of it.
The Song emperor pondered for a moment, then clapped his hands in delight—this was too good an opportunity to pass up. It felt deeply satisfying, and he wasn’t about to let it go.
The Meng River originated in the northwest, flowed through Tan, then cut across Song in its lower reaches before emptying into the sea to the southeast. After being diverted by the Jialing Dam, the river still carried a considerable flow into Song.
Song deliberately opened its sluice gates, letting the water surge through, waiting for the rainy season to arrive—when the waters would swell, flood nearby cities, and then they could pin the blame on Tan, fanning the flames.
The common people were always easily misled, swayed by the slightest rumor. He was confident he could make Yu Lingxin lose the hearts of his people.
In truth, Tan’s commoners were only muttering among themselves. If you pressed them for a solution, they couldn’t give one.
To see justice done for Hao, to punish a treacherous minister like Chen Huaibin—that was already a great mercy. What more could they do about their fears?
Hadn’t it always been this way? They could only pray such evil wouldn’t befall them.
The court officials, however, felt a creeping unease, their temples throbbing.
Controlling the mouths of the people is harder than damming a river. With such widespread talk, someone was certainly fanning the flames—even the court couldn’t contain it. Who else in the realm could it be?
They couldn’t help but think of the Empress’s long-standing push to abolish registered servitude.
No, no—even Li Ji, Wei Xiao, and the others, who usually supported every imperial decree, instinctively thought: “Absolutely not!”
The people had short memories—streets were always flooded with fresh gossip. If they just trotted out the most famous courtesan from the Music Bureau and spread tales of her romantic entanglements with some young lord or lady, within days everyone would forget about Hao and Chen Huaibin.
Abolishing servitude was improper, time-consuming, laborious, and offered no clear benefit. It would only make controlling the populace harder.
By custom, beneath the emperor stood nobles and officials, and beneath them the wealthy households—who, having benefited from the system, were most loyal to the throne.
The commoners, however, were like ants—numerous and difficult to manage. Some were given land to farm, told to keep their heads down and not cause trouble. Others—the unemployed, landless, rootless drifters—were the hardest to control. If they sold themselves into servitude, they naturally fell under the jurisdiction of the wealthy and powerful. The servitude system only benefited imperial rule; abolishing it risked unnecessary upheaval.
Over three years, even a pig could see how this court operated.
The Empress would propose an idea; the Emperor would applaud it—no matter how fantastical.
The Emperor would propose an idea; the Empress would decide whether to intervene. If the idea was too terrible, the officials would kneel before the Empress—their tears flowing—and that would be more effective than kneeling before Yu Lingxin until their knees and foreheads were bloody.
Pure nonsense.
They were firmly resolved: on this matter, they would not let the imperial couple run wild.
The idea was one thing; reality was another.
The Empress had taken up a vegetarian diet. The Empress had removed her hairpins and knelt in prolonged supplication. The Empress, moved by the people’s hardships, had led the female officials of the palace to petition for the abolition of registered servitude…
The ministers hadn’t expected the imperial couple to pull this stunt to shut them up.
In any case, Jiang Nong, dressed in plain white, stationed herself outside the study at Xuan Shi Hall. Yu Lingxin called her in, and the study doors closed—no one could peer inside.
All they could hear was Jiang Nong dropping to her knees with a thud, her voice choked with emotion.
“Minister Li, do you think Her Majesty is really kneeling in there?” one official asked sagely.
Li Zhishan sneered and said, with a hint of irreverence: “Do I think so? I think His Majesty would kneel before the Empress before she’d kneel—I’d wager two gold pieces on it.”
If Yu Lingxin could really bear to let his precious Empress kneel, Li Zhishan would write his own name backwards.
At this point, he truly missed his old comrade Lü Chengcheng—at least when the tyrant and the wicked empress were ruining the country, Lü would still stand up and shout, “Unacceptable!”
He’d burn some incense for him tomorrow.
Shen Chunlou, standing nearby, quietly extended ten fingers. Li Zhishan glanced at him. Shen smiled brightly: “I’ll bet ten gold pieces, then.”
Li Zhishan shot him a look—always smiling, always laughing. Everyone knew Shen had been in the Empress’s pocket ever since the land tax reforms in Fujing.
The ministers’ wager fell through, because no one bet that Jiang Nong was actually kneeling inside.
The couple was playing good cop, bad cop with them—and they’d even given a heads-up beforehand. The officials could only stare helplessly.
“Your Majesty, your concubine cannot sleep at night, thinking of how many people in this realm are suffering in misery.”
Yu Lingxin rested his chin on his hand, beaming as he watched Jiang Nong project her voice outward. He found it exceptionally, particularly, especially adorable.
The idea was hers. Even if Yu Lingxin thought it unnecessary to give these ministers any face—anyone who disagreed could just be thrown in prison—since Jiang Nong wanted to do it this way, he was happy to play along.
Jiang Nong was a procedural justice type—everything had to be reasonable and based on proper grounds. Yu Lingxin was an outcome justice type.
He mouthed silently to Jiang Nong: “More.”
More what?
Jiang Nong was confused, but Yu Lingxin had already pulled her onto his lap by the waist.
He breathed against her ear: “More emotion.”
“Ah, right.” Jiang Nong had absolute faith in Yu Lingxin’s acting skills. Whatever he said, she followed. She cleared her throat twice and declared with dramatic cadence: “Your concubine believes that the system of registered servitude should be abolished, to bestow blessings upon all the people—oh, Your Majesty~”
Yu Lingxin shook with silent laughter, but still played along: “I believe this matter requires further deliberation.”
“Your concubine is willing to shave her hair and enter cultivation, praying for the people until Your Majesty agrees.”
“I said I would consider it. Don’t be so willful.”
“Your concubine’s earnest heart is dismissed as willfulness—it seems only death can prove my sincerity.” With that, she struck her chest with heroic resolve.
This time, Yu Lingxin laughed so hard tears came out—and unsurprisingly, Jiang Nong punched him to make him stop. He pulled himself together and played along: “No! Don’t be rash, Empress! Ah! Fine—I agree!”
The ministers outside wore numb expressions.
Oh, how sweet. How utterly predictable. Should they applaud?
As expected, this impassioned performance—embellished and polished—spread beyond the palace. The common people wept at the news, never imagining the Empress possessed such great love, willing to stake her life for them. And for the first time, they dared to hope: the way to prevent themselves from ending up like Qi Prefecture’s servants or Hao’s fate was to abolish servitude altogether.
Aided by certain unseen hands, people began kneeling before the palace gates of their own accord. From the city walls, the crowds below looked like a sea of people.
The ministers knew it was over. The Empress was always good at stirring hearts—now she’d roused the masses.
At this point, anyone who tried to block the reform risked being accused of trying to force the Empress to her death—or at the very least, being pelted with rotten cabbage by the people.
Just wait—this kingdom was destined to be ruined by that couple.
The vast fortune squeezed from Chen Huaibin’s faction hadn’t even warmed their hands before it flowed right back out—supplemented by additional funds from the treasury.
The state bought back each registered servant at a rate of one thousand copper coins per person, restoring their status to that of free commoners. Servitude was changed from sale to employment. For those whose relatives had committed crimes and been punished by servitude, separate rulings were made.
The moment the new registration law was issued, the entire kingdom celebrated. Amid the joy, there was weeping everywhere.
Those who had been bought and sold as slaves—generation after generation, never escaping their lowly status—were mostly people who’d sold themselves because they couldn’t afford to eat. Now, the court had bought their freedom—they were free citizens again.
As for the endless stream of impoverished commoners, the court established a Relief and Support Office, implementing work-for-relief programs that provided food and drink, as well as land for those who had to sell themselves to bury their parents.
With all this, the treasury began to feel the strain. It held out until the three-year tax exemption period ended, then temporarily reinstated the poll tax.
Song, carrying out its original plan, opened its sluices and flooded two counties—over a hundred dead, and countless displaced.
Seizing the initiative, Song blamed Tan: the newly built dam, they claimed, cared only for its own kingdom’s safety and disregarded the downstream people of Song, leaving them unable to handle the upstream flow—causing this tragedy.
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