Chapter Thirty-Six: The Prefect Arrives

Ten taels of silver—this was by no means a small sum. In this era, a hundred copper coins could sustain someone for a month, a chicken cost only three or four coins, and a single tael of silver could keep an ordinary person well fed and clothed for a year. Ten taels was nearly enough for decades of living expenses. Yet Master Zhang had casually handed over ten taels to Feng Yuan, an act of extravagant generosity.

Though to Feng Yuan today ten taels of silver was nothing to fuss over, it was nonetheless a substantial amount by any measure. He was but a frail scholar; what help could he possibly offer Master Zhang to warrant such a generous reward? This was no simple favor, that much was clear.

Feng Yuan did not take the money—he only glanced at it before turning to Master Zhang and asking, “Master Zhang, your generosity is overwhelming. May I ask what it is you require of me?”

Master Zhang, observing Feng Yuan’s reaction, was a little surprised. After all, Feng Yuan was known as a poor scholar; ten taels should have been a fortune to him. Yet he remained so calm, nothing like a man in need.

With a laugh, Master Zhang replied, “There’s no need to be uneasy, Scholar Feng. The favor I ask is quite simple: I wish to commission you to write a novel for me, but I want it published under my name and sold as mine. If you agree, I’ll pay you twenty taels of silver each month as your fee. Any profits from the book’s sales will be yours alone—I won’t take a single coin!”

Feng Yuan immediately understood—Master Zhang wanted him to be a ghostwriter. Yet, Master Zhang not only wanted him to write the novel, he promised to pay well and even relinquish all profits, asking only for his name on the cover. What could be the purpose? Could it be a charitable act, seeing Feng Yuan’s poverty? That seemed unlikely. No merchant acts without profit; there must be a deeper motive behind Master Zhang’s offer.

Feng Yuan looked steadily at him. “Master Zhang, this seems a losing proposition for you. Why do you wish to do this?”

Master Zhang laughed heartily. “It may seem a loss to you, but it is not so for me. In this world, men pursue nothing but fame and fortune. I have earned enough wealth; what I lack is renown. My heart is set on making a name for myself, but I lack the talent for official examinations and public acclaim. So I seek another path: to leave behind a legend, a novel loved by all, an enduring story. Lacking the ability myself, I hope you, Scholar Feng, will help me fulfill this wish.”

“So Master Zhang seeks fame?” Feng Yuan regarded him in surprise.

“Exactly so!”

“But there are many ways to become famous. If you took twenty taels and used it for good deeds, you’d become well known even faster,” Feng Yuan suggested.

“I am well aware,” Master Zhang replied, “but I have no desire for the reputation of a benefactor. What I seek is fame for brilliance and talent. That is why I’ve come to you, Scholar Feng.”

Feng Yuan did not believe a word of it. The novel he was writing was hardly a work of genius; it was merely popular fiction, easily recognized as such by any scholar. Clearly, Master Zhang had other motives.

“Master Zhang, I fear I cannot assist you with this matter,” Feng Yuan said, declining the offer.

“Why not? Do you feel the payment is insufficient?” Master Zhang asked in confusion.

“It’s not that,” Feng Yuan replied. “It’s simply that my abilities are limited. Writing just this one book has already been a torment; to write another is more than I can bear. If I force myself and the work turns out poorly, I would be accepting your money for nothing, which I cannot do.” With that, Feng Yuan stood, bowed, and said, “Master Zhang, I must take my leave.”

He turned and left. Master Zhang, seeing this, grew anxious and hurried to block his path. “Scholar Feng, wait—what if I add another ten taels?”

“I’m sorry, Master Zhang, but money is not the issue. I am simply unable to help. I hope you understand,” Feng Yuan said with a bitter smile, stepping around Master Zhang and making his way outside.

There was no way Feng Yuan would agree to be a ghostwriter. In his previous life, he had always despised those famous authors who, partway through their stories, began relying on hired hands—the result was always incoherent, a betrayal of their readers’ time and money, a veritable crime. He loathed the profession of ghostwriting.

Moreover, wealth no longer mattered to him; he already had enough to live comfortably. Why endure such hardship? The world was vast, and he wanted to see it for himself, not confine himself to a single corner for life. Having arrived in this unfamiliar world, Feng Yuan longed to travel the country.

“That scholar is far too ungrateful. Shall I send some men to bring him back and give him a good beating? That’ll make him obedient,” Qiao Si said to Master Zhang, his eyes full of menace.

“Absolutely not,” Master Zhang shook his head. “Scholars are proud by nature; force will do no good.”

“Then what should we do? Offer more money?” Qiao Si asked.

“I doubt that would work either. Did you see how indifferent he was to money? His clothes are all silks and satin—he doesn’t seem to lack for funds. We’ll need to find another way,” Master Zhang said.

Qiao Si frowned thoughtfully. “By the way, Master, there’s something I should mention. Earlier, when I went to fetch Scholar Feng, he was living in Young Prince Wang’s old residence—the one said to be haunted. Many who have stayed there encountered misfortune, but he’s unharmed. Could it be he’s one of our kind, which is why nothing happened to him? If so, his refusal makes sense—he must already know the secret of the book.”

“He truly lives in Young Prince Wang’s old house?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

Master Zhang furrowed his brow and shook his head. “Impossible. If he were one of our kind, I would have seen through him at once.”

“Then why is he unharmed in that house?” Qiao Si asked, puzzled.

Master Zhang pondered for a moment. “I sensed a faint, almost imperceptible aura about him earlier. If that aura is genuine, then it makes sense he could live in the prince’s old house without incident.”

“What kind of aura?”

“The aura of our kind.”

“Our kind? Master, do you mean someone has beaten us to it?”

“Not necessarily. The novel he’s writing is published under his own name. If someone else had gotten there first, it wouldn’t bear his name,” Master Zhang replied.

“Even so, if he were of our kind, there’s no way he’d pass up such a golden opportunity,” Qiao Si protested, baffled.

“Indeed. That’s why we must investigate further. Tomorrow, I’ll go myself to see what’s really going on.”

…

Meanwhile, Feng Yuan, having left the Zhang residence, hired a donkey cart at the roadside and made his way home, arriving just before noon.

As he reached his gate, he sensed something amiss—there were government soldiers standing outside, men from the magistrate’s office. Hu Xiao was anxiously pacing at the door, but when she saw Feng Yuan returning, she rushed over in a panic.

“Sir, you’re finally back! The prefect himself has come looking for you!” Hu Xiao exclaimed.

“The prefect? For me? What’s going on?” Feng Yuan was completely at a loss. He’d only met the prefect once, during the scholar’s examination; they had no acquaintance. Why would the prefect come looking for him?

Could it be that the bodies of Feng Fugui and the others had been discovered, and they were here to arrest him?