Chapter 37: The Realm of Family, The Pitiful Ones

Before the words were finished, the cane in his hand swung down in a wide arc, striking fiercely. Cai Tian’s eyes widened; as blood spattered, his mind went utterly blank. He collapsed face-first to the ground, sending those around into a panic.

The old clan chief, trembling, sat down on the ground and cradled Cai Tian’s blood-soaked body, humming an old lullaby he had sung years ago to coax him to sleep. Tears streamed unchecked down his face. He loved this only grandson dearly, but he loved the family even more.

No one spoke. The punishment had been too severe, and in the dwindling days left to him, the old man would live every moment tormented by agony.

At last, Cai Tian moved no more. The clan chief laid him down, unmindful of the blood, and gently patted his chest as if he were merely asleep.

“I know you’re not like other children. You are wiser than most in this world. These people may be unremarkable, but I still hope you can lead them and bring prosperity to our clan.”

Age brings shrewdness, and the old chief knew every soul in this village. Look at those Cai Cong had entrusted with important tasks—weren’t they all the most upright among the villagers? He simply did not want Cai Cong to break away, for if that happened, the Cai family would be lost forever, condemned to struggle in hardship for generations.

“Grand-uncle, I promise you. But you must promise me as well: that you’ll stay and watch your children and grandchildren, and see the Cai family become a household of renown in the great Tang.”

“Heh… Don’t worry about this old man seeking death. Unless I see the Cai family flourish, I would never be willing to die.” The old chief spoke lightly, but the sorrow in his eyes could not be stilled.

Tears welled in the old man’s eyes as he made his way toward his home. His silhouette was desolate—he wished to show favoritism, but could not. In that moment, he was no longer the unquestioned head of the clan, but merely a helpless old man.

Cai Tian was buried at the edge of the ancestral graves on the mountain, wrapped in a tattered mat in the dead of night, without even a tombstone. This was the chief’s command. He even declared that any others who betrayed the clan would be buried at the edge, forbidden to be honored or worshipped—those who betrayed the family would be scorned and trampled by their descendants.

Everyone fell silent. The old man had acted with ruthless decisiveness. When Cai Gang tended to him, he saw the chief weeping even in his sleep. Yet, he would not allow the feasting to stop; he would not let slip any chance to bring honor to the family.

In the village, feasts were laid out, and the old chief, loving to boast, would drag Cai Cong out for display once more. Helpless, Cai Cong could only board the carriage and head to Chang’an—fitting, as it was time to see the tavern Zhang Liang had gifted him.

As the greatest city of the age, Chang’an possessed a remarkable capacity for self-renewal. Once the issues of refugees and food had been resolved, its prosperity shone again.

The Junyue Inn was vast, three stories high with a large rear courtyard. Its doors were locked, and the previous staff long gone. Zhang Liang had not been generous enough to gift the people along with the inn, nor would Cai Cong have dared accept them.

“Master, this is a hefty gift! This street is the busiest in the East Market. An inn like this would cost several thousand strings of cash, and even if you have the money, it’s not always for sale!” Meng Baolai said enviously. With such a property, one could eat for a lifetime without lifting a finger.

“Heh, this is nothing. Give me some time, and even this street won’t seem like much. Now, tell me—where are those old soldiers you mentioned? And those women too ashamed to go home—where are they?”

Cai Cong was unruffled; a single inn was nothing to excite him. He cared more for the fate of those retired soldiers and the women who dared not return.

“They’re all pitiful souls. Where in Chang’an could they possibly find a place to call home?” Meng Baolai sighed—what could be done, when the world treated its people so harshly?

“It’ll get better. As long as we have a little time to recover, the Tang will command the allegiance of all realms and receive tribute from the four corners of the earth. Take me to them! The age of prosperity isn’t here yet, but people still need a way to survive.”

He did not wish to dwell on sorrow, only to help those in need.

The horses’ hooves clopped lightly as they passed from the East Market to the West, exited the Golden Light Gate, and journeyed over ten more miles to a cluster of dilapidated thatched huts.

“At this hour, they’re probably all in the fields tending vegetables. They’re all disabled, their families lost to war, and with nowhere else to go, the government assigned them this place. Given their conditions, it’s a miracle they can grow vegetables at all—farming the land is out of the question.”

Meng Baolai gave a bitter laugh—these days, a human life was worth less than a dog’s. The huts’ doors hung open, so shabby even beggars wouldn’t bother with them.

“And the women?”

“They make do with these men. Good families wouldn’t take them, only these crippled fellows would have them. But even now, it’s hard. No one dares touch them at the moment, but in another couple of years, when people forget, who knows—some might be seized and sold for money.”

Meng Baolai’s voice grew heavy. He too was a veteran—how could he smile at such things? He only spoke the truth: what could a group of powerless, crippled men do to protect delicate women?

Cai Cong said nothing. As he passed through the village, he saw a group bent over, watering and fertilizing the vegetable plots. Rough hemp clothing, men with sleeves hanging loose or leaning on crutches, women with numb expressions, as if they had forgotten how to smile.

Such a group—some as young as eighteen or nineteen—would likely live out their days just so.

When Cai Cong, escorted by the Right Martial Guard, appeared, the old soldiers shielded the women behind them, holding hoes and carrying poles across their chests. Their eyes were calm, as if they had long expected this day.

“I…”

Faced with such suffering, Cai Cong could not find the words. Instead, Meng Baolai blurted out, “Is this how you greet your saviors—brandishing hoes and poles? I risked my life following the young master to rescue you from Xieli, and this is the thanks I get?”

“It was the Imperial Preceptor who saved us,” replied a one-armed man quietly, gripping his pole in his right hand as if it were a spear.

“That tale might fool Xieli, but you believe it too? Remember, it was I who guarded the carriage and spoke with Xieli at the riverbank—it was all the young master’s design. Besides, since when has our Tang ever had an Imperial Preceptor?”

Meng Baolai spoke loudly, but the carriage had left early that day and these people had never seen it. Still, they did not argue, only asked calmly, “What do you want from us?”

“I… Young master, you should speak. I don’t know how you plan to handle this,” Meng Baolai said with a grin.

“We risked starting a war to save you—not so you could suffer and be shunned. A few days ago I struck a nobleman’s servant for the sake of the refugees and was imprisoned by the emperor, only just released. I won’t make empty promises—I just want to give you honest work, a place to eat and sleep, and a chance to live with dignity.”

“Why should we trust you?” The one-armed man’s suspicion remained undiminished, his grip tightening on the pole.

“Hey, you bumpkin, what do you have that’s worth deceiving you for?” Meng Baolai snapped, his tone harsh.

“Hmph! Everyone knows it’s the women you’re after.” The one-armed man scoffed. Behind him, the women’s faces turned desolate—how long could these simple men protect them?

“Baolai, be quiet,” Cai Cong said in exasperation. He turned to the suffering folk with gentle sincerity. “If I wanted to seize anyone, you couldn’t stop me. The twenty men with me are the best of the Right Martial Guard—you’d be helpless.

If we were villains, you’d already be lost. I’ve opened an inn. If any of the ladies are willing, they can come work as cooks—I’ll teach you. The men can be waiters, or if any can handle accounts, act as stewards or clerks. You’ll have food and board, plus a monthly wage. What do you think?”

“Couldn’t you at least make your lies plausible? There are nearly two hundred of us—what inn could need so many?”

“A single inn, of course not. My plan is to open four inns across Chang’an. Forty or so people per inn isn’t too many. The rest can handle procurement—the daily supplies for the inns are a huge expense, requiring dedicated buyers.”

Cai Cong spoke earnestly. Some among them began to waver—if he meant to seize them, there was no need for all these words.

“To cling to life in disgrace is shame enough—how could we parade through the streets and bring dishonor to our ancestors? Young master, I thank you for your kindness, but I must refuse.”

A woman spoke softly, and Cai Cong felt his anger flare.

“If you were wanton by nature, I’d have nothing to do with you. But you were forced—those beasts had no humanity. How can anyone blame you? You should live well, and live proudly, so all may see that there is still justice in this world. When the Tang tramples the Turks and avenges our wrongs, don’t you want to see what becomes of those animals? If you stay cowering here, you may never get the chance.”