The Ming Dynasty Sequence : Chapter 703: Fan Wujiu

Chapter 703: Fan Wujiu

“Time: The third day of the twelfth month in the fourteenth year of the Jiaqi era. Location: Chengdu Prefecture, Shu region. Recorder: Xiaqi Bai Gui of the Jinyiwei, Wō district, Zhongshan Castle.”

“The person I am to meet today is my former superior, the Zongqi of the Jinyiwei in Zhongshan Castle, Wō district, Fan Wujiu.”

In a mediocre tavern, Bai Gui sat in a corner, muttering to himself before a record tablet in recording mode.

His absurd, strange behavior drew no notice from the other patrons—after all, in this age, odd people are plentiful.

“Fifteen minutes remain until my appointed meeting with Zongqi Fan; while he has not yet arrived, I will first explain the background of this record.”

“Nearly five months have passed since the outbreak of the ‘Dragon Tiger Collapse’ event, symbolizing the decline of the New Sect Dao Order from prosperity to decay. In this time, the entire Great Ming Empire has undergone earth‑shaking changes.”

“At the top of the sequence, the new cabinet led by Imperial Prince Zhu Pingxu, formed at the end of June this year—coincidentally the moment the last Celestial Master Zhang fell—issued a ‘Proclamation Against Zhang’ via the Yellow Millet Dream. It enumerates the ten unforgivable sins of the New Donglin Party, rebuking them for betraying imperial favor above and the people’s hopes below, forming cliques, and disrupting court order.”

“Numerous Confucian‑sequence aristocrats publicly declared their support and denounced the former New Donglin leader Zhang Fengyue for deceiving the sovereign, forming factions for private gain, truly a thief of the state, while willingly accepting any punishment the court might mete out. Thus, the New Donglin Party, which had dominated the imperial court for nearly two hundred years, became history.”

“In early July, the Jiaqi emperor issued an edict declaring that the empire faced an unprecedented crisis, summoning all Ming people to share the national hardship, guard their homes, and, taking the military sequence as core, rebuild the Ming army that had been abolished for years. Soldiers and civilians would unite to suppress the Honghu rebellion and restore imperial glory.”

Bai Gui’s voice trailed off, a bitter smile touching his lips: “A game of thief crying thief, played out openly—truly absurd satire, rare in ancient and modern times.”

“Moreover, rumor has it that the palace in northern Zhili is now merely an empty shell; the entire Zhu Ming imperial house and its core ministers, sheltered by the Yellow Millet Will, have vanished without trace. Though the dragon banner still flies, in reality it bears nothing.”

“As for Zhang Fengyue, stripped of his premiership and branded a national traitor, he now operates openly as the headmaster of the New Donglin Academy in the southern capital Jinling, sparing no effort to expose the conspiracy between the imperial house and the Honghu, urging the world not to shed blood in vain for a so‑called father‑lord, but to rise up for their own survival.”

“Strangely, although the two sides are at daggers drawn, hurling insults without cease—with Zhang the headmaster in the light and the imperial house in the dark—no force loyal to the imperial house has dared to enter the Nan Zhili region to carry out a so‑called ‘punishment of rebels.’”

“After the death of the last Celestial Master of Dragon Tiger Mountain, Zhang Jiji, and the slaughter of his entire sect, the leaderless New Sect Dao Order could not arrest its decline and fell apart. Surviving Daoist members gathered their followers, established temples in various places, and set up their own gates.”

“Having lost the ‘Yellow Millet Cave Heaven’ shortcut for cultivation, the New Sect Dao Order is prone to deviation; some have begun to imitate the former Buddhist Sequence, seizing followers’ bodies to build internal Daoist realms, killing to nourish the Dao, and falling into demonic cultivation.”

“The Han Buddhist Sequence has also withdrawn entirely from the empire’s heartland, heading to the borders to pilgrimage, seeking refuge under the Ten‑Direction Bodhisattva Yuan Mingfei, only to be cruelly refused. Not only the Han transmission, but even the remnants of the foreign Buddhist Sequence that lingered in the borderlands have been utterly expelled.”

“In despair, many Buddhist Sequences chose to flee beyond the empire’s borders; a few opted for ascetic wandering through desolate mountains and waters, hoping to cleanse their sins and one day be readmitted into the Buddha‑land of the Ten‑Direction Bodhisattvas.”

“Nevertheless, the three teachings that once led the Ming sequence have each withdrawn. Now, among the followers, a new triad of names is spreading: the Vertical‑Horizontal, Yin‑Yang, and Military Sequences. However, the Yin‑Yang Sequence might more accurately be called the Yellow Millet Ghost Host.”

Bai Gui’s mouth grew dry; he seized the Ming wine‑sword on the table and drained a cup.

The pungent, fiery liquid hit his throat, instantly reviving his spirits, and he continued facing the image.

“Below the sequence, it is a sea of fire and water. The Honghu spread confusion everywhere, incessantly stirring unrest, raising banners that claim to plead for the people, yet their blades point at ordinary folk. They kill, and the Ming troops tasked with suppression also kill—though only they themselves know whether the Honghu falling before their guns are real or false.”

“The offices charged with maintaining order in each prefecture are mere shells; the former foundations, once regarded as inviolable by all powers, have likewise turned to ash. Refugees litter the land, gangs proliferate, black‑market trade flourishes, and the business of flesh and prosthetics booms.”

“Yet none of this is what ordinary people fear most; they dread the ‘Yellow Millet Ghost Chaos.’”

Bai Gui’s tone grew heavy: “Today the Yellow Millet Dream teems with demonic phantoms; entering it is like swallowing poison. One moment you lie entwined with a dream lover, the next that lover may become a viscera‑rending evil spirit, devouring your consciousness before slipping into your real body and transforming you into a new follower of the Vertical‑Horizontal Sequence.”

“Even so perilous, countless still rush headlong into the Yellow Millet Dream, unafraid that the next possession might be their own. Even the once‑despised low‑quality dreams have become hot commodities, harder currency than guns and ammunition—perhaps this will be the spark for the rise of the Miscellaneous Sequence.”

Bai Gui gave a self‑mocking laugh and added: “Perhaps to escape the present chaos, or perhaps lured by the sequence itself, the prevalence of ‘Yellow Millet’ now even exceeds that before the turmoil. Though some detest it so deeply they have excised their cerebral apertures, within the whole Great Ming Empire they are but a drop in the ocean.”

“Society has collapsed to this point; hearts have been lost, words fail. How, then, can the ‘Penetrating Heaven and Earth’ I once felt burning in my blood be realized?”

Bai Gui’s eyes in the image were a blank haze, as if he himself did not know where his path now led.

“Where is Bai Gui? Master Fan, I have come.”

Just then, a hearty laugh boomed from outside the tavern.

Bai Gui snapped to attention, about to reply, when several figures darted out of the darkness within the tavern!

“Are you Fan Wujiu?”

“Yeah.”

Bang!

Gunfire erupted, mingling with the sharp ring of blades being drawn.

“A bunch of Zhu lackeys dare to ambush you, Master Fan? You’re courting death!”

Bai Gui’s thick brows shot up; his form shot out of the image in an instant.

Explosions and gunfire crackled back and forth; blood and wine sprayed everywhere, silhouettes flashed across the frame, striking with dull thuds.

The sudden melee did not last long; after a moment, the tavern fell silent again.

“Bai Gui, what are you doing?”

The image shuddered violently, then a blood‑stained, rugged face pushed in.

Fan Wujiu wiped the blood from his face against the record tablet as he asked curiously.

Puchi!

Bai Gui drove his blade into the twitching corpse beneath his feet, wiped his hands clean on his robes, then took the tablet from Fan Wujiu’s hand.

“I come from the Miscellaneous Sequence, something you, Zongqi, should still recall.”

Before Bai Gui could finish, Fan Wujiu waved him off.

He picked up a still‑intact chair from the rubble and, amidst the flood of blood on the ground, sat down with unrestrained ease.

“I am no longer a Zongqi now; our old Jinyiwei is long gone. If you don’t mind, just call me Brother Fan.”

Bai Gui acknowledged, lifted the tablet, and smiled: “Don’t worry, Brother Fan, I won’t laugh—my old dream was to build a Yellow Millet Dream set against a ‘All Under Heaven Divided by Martial Arts’ backdrop, but now I find the present turmoil far more exciting, so I wish to use our lot as a template and gather some material.”

“Do as you please.”

Fan Wujiu said indifferently, head bent, sweeping the floor as if searching for any remaining liquor.

Having received permission, Bai Gui hurriedly brought over a table, secured the tablet, adjusted the image, and made sure it stayed locked on Fan Wujiu.

“Is all this trouble really necessary? Couldn’t you just change your eyes to mechanical ones?”

Bai Gui busied himself while answering: “I have already I‑

Fan Wujiu blinked away every prosthetic on my body, including the spirit apertures.”

Fan Wujiu blinked in surprise: “Why? Are you wary of Zhan Shun?”

“No, I simply feel a true Miscellaneous Sequence needs none of those things.”

Bai Gui sat opposite Fan Wujiu, gazing at the hole blasted in the wall behind him, then suddenly recalled something and asked eagerly: “Brother Fan, shall we change our venue for this chat? Otherwise those fellows might attack again.”

“No matter; those Honghu rabble usually flee after a single miss. After taking care of these few, we should have a few quiet days.”

Fan Wujiu seemed long accustomed to such raids, utterly unfazed.

Bai Gui lowered his voice: “Such frequent raids—these Honghu are truly bold as brass! Don’t they fear the Hundred‑House… Lord Jun coming after them?”

“Such petty skirmishes are launched by low‑rank lackeys whose only aim is to warn Lord Jun through me; they dare not truly strike. Moreover, the Zhu clan now hides so deep that Lord Jun has strength nowhere to apply—he cannot take a head, and slaughtering countless underlings avails nothing.”

Bai Gui worried: “If it’s this dangerous, Brother Fan, you ought never to have left the Ink Academy.”

“The Zhu may act like turtles, but I cannot learn that. Those smiths are dull; I cannot share a pot with them, and I dislike living under others’ roofs.”

Just then, a clamor of footsteps and shouts rose from outside the door; the sound indicated a sizable crowd.

Fan Wujiu raised his hand to signal Bai Gui not to panic, turned toward the door, and shouted: “Stop your fussing, I’m not dead yet.”

The noise died abruptly; a sturdy man entered respectfully.

“Chief, are you alright?”

Fan Wujiu lifted his chin: “I’m fine, no need for alarm—send the brothers outside back to their posts.”

“Yes.”

Exactly.

Fan Wujiu called out to the man about to leave, “Pull out all the Honghu covert markers you’ve gathered these days, give them a taste of their own medicine, otherwise they’ll think we’re scared of them.”

Understood, I’ll take care of it right away.

After the man left, the shock on the madame’s face had not yet faded.

“Brother Fan, he—”

“You recognized him?”

Fan Wujiu lifted his chin, a self‑satisfied grin spreading across his face: “Exactly, just like our Brother Jun, he’s another lone‑wolf martialist. Truth be told, if I didn’t have Jun as my backer, someone like him wouldn’t willingly serve under a mere military register of mine. But it doesn’t matter—after all, we’ve already commanded lone‑wolf martial registers before, right?”

“And what about you now?”

“Hunshui Pao Ge.”

Fan Wujiu spoke bluntly: “I remember I told you to come hang with me, but you kid turned me down.”

“I’m still suited to wandering; if it weren’t for making a living, I probably wouldn’t have become a Jinyiwei.”

“So you’re just dropping by to see me this time?”

Fan Wujiu narrowed his eyes, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.

The madame gave an embarrassed chuckle, unsure how to reply, when Fan Wujiu suddenly burst out laughing.

“Alright, I won’t tease you anymore. We’re brothers who’ve fought the wokou together; I don’t know why you’re being so reserved. Everyone has their own aspirations—I couldn’t possibly make things difficult for you.”

Fan Wujiu toned down his bandit air, adopting a serious tone: “Ask whatever you want, go ahead.”

The madame gathered her thoughts and spoke in a low voice: “Brother Fan, why did you return to Shu and rebuild the Hunshui Pao Ge?”

“Simple—because besides killing, I don’t know what else I could do.”

Fan Wujiu replied crisply: “And you know world affairs these days—today it’s the Honghu rebels, tomorrow it could be the imperial army. Right now they’re ordinary folk; turn around and they might become rebel bandits. I can’t stand by, so I might as well step forward and stir up trouble for the Zhu family. It may not amount to much, but at least it eases my conscience.”

“Don’t be modest, Brother Fan—you’re now a rudder‑holder; you must have a secure seat in Chengdu Prefecture, right?”

“I’d like to be modest, but do you think I’m that kind of person?”

Fan Wujiu spread his hands: “The imperial heartland now is even more chaotic than the former convict zones. Just in this city, openly there are the Confucian aristocracy, the military‑legal registers forming the garrison troops, and in the shadows lurk the Honghu, demon cultivators, Yellow Millet ghosts, and the blood‑robed Confucian register of the New Donglin Academy.”

“Even those registers that were once rare have proliferated; gangs like our Hunshui Pao Ge are even more numerous. You hit me, I hit you—it’s lively.”

Fan Wujiu clicked his tongue, sighing: “If it weren’t for my solid backing and the support of the Mo Institute, I might not even be able to hold my ground.”

“And what about ordinary people who haven’t entered any register?”

“They scrape by in the cracks, living worse than the convicts of old.”

Fan Wujiu spoke succinctly, yet after saying that he fell into a prolonged silence.

“The Honghu spread hatred, the academy bewitches thoughts. Temples sell souls, ghosts devour hearts in dreams. Even if one could escape all that, they’d still face the iron whip of the law and the obstruction of mechanical enforcers.”

Fan Wujiu said slowly: “Even if someone managed to dodge every danger and temptation by sheer luck, someday a blood‑robed Confucian register might appear before them, thrusting swords and spears into their hands, urging them to avenge kin who died unjustly and to fight desperately for their own survival—who could refuse?”

“But the Hunshui Pao Ge I heard about on the road wouldn’t do that.”

“When I was taking refuge in the Mo Institute, I often heard Zhao Qingxia mutter: ‘Above the registers one becomes Buddha and forefather; below them all are ants.’”

Fan Wujiu shook his head: “I don’t like being anyone’s ancestor; now the gods don’t grant a path, so I can only charge forward with a blade. Jun does it that way, so I should too.”

The madame whispered: “Brother Fan, if you ever manage to blaze a trail, what would you still want to do?”

“What would you want to do?”

Fan Wujiu suddenly rose to his feet, and the few Pao Ge guards stationed outside shouted in unison: “Captain!”

“That’s what I want to do—not much, yet a lot; not greedy, yet greedy. Just let those around me stop kneeling, and that’s enough.”

Without wine to see him off, Fan Wujiu seemed a bit dispirited.

Having reached the tavern’s door, he suddenly stopped, turning to look at the pensive madame.

“Madame.”

“Present!”

Almost instinctively, the madame sprang to her feet, standing ramrod straight.

“I haven’t forgotten your register, nor your true name.”

Fan Wujiu grinned: “Miscellaneous Register Lin Kinsjiang—don’t you dare die.”

“And you too, don’t die.”