Chapter Twelve: The Weasel!

In the late morning, Li Zhao was practicing calligraphy in his study. Unlike ordinary people who used a single brush, Li Zhao wielded one in each hand. With swift, decisive strokes, two lines of large characters appeared on the blank paper. On the right, he wrote: “Life is but a dream; yet a dream is not a dream. What is life if not a dream within a dream?” These words, from the classic Zhuangzi, flowed elegantly, exuding a certain ethereal grace. On the left, he penned: “Swift as the wind, silent as the forest, fierce as fire, immovable as a mountain, unknowable as the shadows, sudden as thunder.” This was a famous maxim from Sun Tzu’s “The Art of War: Military Contest.” The calligraphy here was powerful and bold, tinged with the energy of battle and death.

Had one not seen it with their own eyes, it would be hard to believe these two starkly different calligraphic styles came from the same hand. Yet this was one of Li Zhao’s talents: the ability to focus his mind on two things at once, working both hands independently.

These two scripts reflected his character: half angel, half demon. The former was ever grateful for kindness, the latter never forgot a grudge.

After finishing his calligraphy, he considered practicing his martial arts forms, but was interrupted by a commotion from the front courtyard. It seemed many guests had arrived. He sent Bai Mo to inquire and soon discovered the cause: today was the forty-second birthday of the “White-Eyed Wolf,” Li De, who was holding a grand banquet in the front courtyard, inviting many guests to celebrate.

Yet Li De seemed to have forgotten something, inviting friends, relatives, and neighbors—but neglecting the “nephew” who lived in the ancestral hall. Or perhaps, it was deliberate.

“Bai Mo, come with me to the front courtyard!”

“But... they didn’t invite us. Why should we go?”

“Heh, to collect what’s owed, and vent some anger!”

Li Zhao was a man of many virtues, but he held grudges. He had not forgotten how Aunt Qing had been bullied before, and had simply been waiting for the right moment to take revenge. Today, the opportunity had come.

A life for a life, a debt repaid—these are eternal truths.

Thus, Li Zhao set out with Bai Mo to demand the living expenses owed to him over the years, and to teach the “Weasel” a harsh lesson. But before they’d gone far, he suddenly darted back.

He wasn’t losing his nerve—he simply wasn’t prepared.

“Bai Mo, go fetch your dirtiest, most tattered clothes.”

“Master, what do you need ragged clothes for?”

“No questions. You’ll understand soon enough.”

“Yes, sir!”

Soon, Bai Mo returned with a set of patched clothes—what he usually wore to chop wood in the mountains. Though worn, they were spotless; Aunt Qing was a diligent woman and kept everything in the house immaculate. Finding something dirty was quite a challenge.

Li Zhao changed into the clothes, which fit surprisingly well. As for the problem of “not dirty enough,” a few rolls in the chicken coop solved that. He let his hair down, smeared soot on his face, and transformed from a wan, impoverished young noble into a scruffy street urchin. In this guise, he could easily pass as a third-bag disciple in the Beggars’ Sect.

Examining himself in the mirror, Li Zhao nodded in satisfaction, and led Bai Mo out once more, heading for the front courtyard.

There, red carpets lined the ground and lanterns hung everywhere, making the scene more festive than New Year’s. Servants and maids bustled about, carrying delicacies into the main hall. When Li Zhao appeared, they were surprised, but no one dared stop him. After all, he was the true master of this residence—who could bar him from his own home? Thus, he and Bai Mo entered unimpeded, though they didn’t make themselves immediately known, instead hiding in a corner to observe.

The courtyard was already set for a banquet, with the villagers of Qianlong Hill—men, women, children, and elders—all present.

Li De was hosting a meal for the villagers on his birthday. Perhaps his character wasn’t entirely rotten?

But there was a catch: today’s banquet was not free. Everyone, regardless of age or gender, was required to pay two hundred coins as a tribute. Even those who couldn’t attend had to send the money.

Li Zhao glanced at the food on the tables: stewed tofu, dressed tofu, smashed tofu, tofu soup, wild vegetable and tofu stew—not a single piece of meat could be found. In truth, Li De was using his birthday as a pretext to extort money from the villagers.

In the grand hall, dozens of guests—local notables from miles around—were seated. Their fare was far more lavish: chicken, duck, fish, and aged wine, all in abundance.

Li De, dressed in bright red festive robes, sat at the head table with Madam Zheng at his side, receiving toasts and laughing heartily, already somewhat drunk. Beside them stood their twin sons, Li Chong and Li Fei, both eighteen years old. It was these two who had once pushed young Li Zhao into a well and thrown stones in after him—a testament to their viciousness.

Oddly enough, though Li De was of average build and appearance, both sons were fat, heavyset lads, each tipping the scales at over two hundred and fifty pounds, bearing little resemblance to their father.

Why did the sons not resemble the father? Considering Madam Zheng’s “free-spirited and sociable” reputation, the answer seemed clear.

Also present was a scrawny, sharp-featured middle-aged man scurrying about, pouring wine for the guests—Steward Hou Si, the second in command of the household.

But where was the chief steward, known as the “Weasel”? Inquiry revealed he was in the west wing, tallying the accounts.

“Master, are you sure about this? Maybe we should just go back,” Bai Mo whispered.

“What is there to fear? Stick to the plan and nothing can go wrong. Don’t you want to avenge Aunt Qing?”

“Of course I do! Just last night I dreamt of beating up the Weasel!”

“Then come with me!”

Li Zhao, without alerting those in the grand hall, whispered his plan to Bai Mo, then circled around the hall and down a side path to the west wing.

Leaving Bai Mo to stand guard outside, Li Zhao entered. Sure enough, the Weasel was inside, busily recording the purchases for the banquet:

“Three fat sheep, cost 1,200 coins—marked as 2,400 coins in the ledger.”

“Fifty river fish, cost 500 coins—written as 1,000 coins.”

Every item was inflated, some doubled, some tripled, especially the “lucky money” for children, which was increased tenfold—since such expenses left no trace.

Indeed, the Weasel was cooking the books for his “sister and brother-in-law.” Though they treated him well and had made him chief steward, he kept his family ties and finances strictly apart, just as tradition dictated.

The Weasel calculated: after this banquet, he would pocket at least forty or fifty strings of cash—enough to buy a house and open two shops in the county town. Then he’d never have to serve Madam Zheng again—just the thought of her fleshy figure disgusted him.

Just then, a ragged urchin burst in. “Where did this little beggar come from? Get out!” the Weasel snapped.

“Blind fool, look closer—do you know who I am?”

The Weasel squinted, finally recognizing Li Zhao. He was surprised—Li Zhao never left the ancestral hall and was timid as a mouse. How did he dare come here to demand money? Had his fall into the well left him addled? If so, that might not be a bad thing.

“Young Master Zhao, of course you’re owed your monthly allowance, but times are hard. Crops have failed, the distillery hasn’t made profits, and we’ve lost a lot. Everyone here is tightening their belts—there’s simply no money to give you,” the Weasel replied, flipping through ledgers to support his claims, conveniently ignoring the feasting outside.

Li Zhao glanced at the accounts and frowned—not because he didn’t understand, but because the bookkeeping was so crude: simple credits and debits, full of holes. If he were responsible, he could have embezzled much more and left nothing for anyone to find.

The Weasel, mistaking him for a foolish child, was secretly delighted.

“That said, if we never pay your allowance, your lives will be tough. But if we do, the accounts are empty. A dilemma! However, I have a solution—let me explain.”

“You see, I’m nearly thirty and still unmarried. As the saying goes, nothing is more unfilial than having no heir. For the sake of posterity, I intend to take a wife. Now, the young lady Qing in your courtyard is of age but unwed—rather pitiful, don’t you think? Why not let her marry me? Worry not, young master—once we’re family, all your needs will be provided for. I’ll treat Qing with every luxury—silks and fine food—what could be better?”

As he spoke of Aunt Qing, the Weasel swallowed hungrily. Her figure, her looks, her gentle elegance—she far surpassed the courtesans of Li Chun Hall. To win her would be the achievement of a lifetime!

“Oh? You want to marry Aunt Qing? That’s not impossible. But she once told me she only likes tall, handsome, and debonair men,” Li Zhao replied, feigning confusion, though his fists clenched tightly behind his back.

“Hah! Ask anyone in town—who doesn’t know of my romantic exploits? I’m no braggart, but there’s not a brothel in Wu’an I haven’t visited!” The Weasel stood up, puffing his chest, utterly shameless.

“Yes, you’re certainly debonair. But you’re missing one thing,” Li Zhao said.

“Missing something? What’s that?”

“The very root of a man!”

Before the words had faded, Li Zhao struck like lightning—dislocating the Weasel’s jaw and, with a swift kick, landing squarely between the man’s legs...