Chapter Fifty-One: Court Trial!

Clang!—Clang!

As the golden rooster heralded the dawn and daylight flooded the sky, a piercing crash echoed through the prison as the cell gate swung open. Seven or eight jailers strode inside.

At their head was a man in his thirties, corpulent and bald, his face set in a mask of cruelty—the notorious warden of this place, Chen the King of Hell.

“Who was on night watch last night?” he demanded.

“Humble servant Ma San, sir, I was on duty,” replied one.

“Oh? Did you hear anything unusual?”

“I did, sir. There was a hellish wailing all night, only quieting down at the third watch.”

“Hmm!” Chen nodded with satisfaction—it seemed the Shi brothers had carried out his instructions. Yet he soon shook his head, anxiously wondering if the Shi brothers had gone too far, leaving incriminating marks on the corpse. Those three scoundrels were always a source of worry.

He quickened his pace to the innermost cell and peered in with his bloated, watery eyes—only to be struck dumb by the sight before him. Li Zhao reclined on the hay, eyes half-closed in rest, while all three Shi brothers attended him: one kneading his shoulders, one massaging his legs, the last offering tea and water, serving him with a filial devotion that surpassed their own fathers.

What was this? The Shi brothers were famously ruthless, responsible for at least scores of prisoners’ deaths. Why had they not slain Li Zhao in the dead of night as ordered? Not only had they disobeyed, but were now fawning about him like three lapdogs—had they lost their minds?

Chen the King of Hell could not fathom it, nor could he question them openly. He shot them a venomous glare, determined to deal with them later—if they dared to defy his commands, he would have their hides.

But there was a bigger problem: his godfather had ordered him to see to Li Zhao’s end in the cell, and now he had failed. How could he explain this away? Should he do it himself? A flicker of murderous intent passed through his eyes, but he quickly dismissed the thought.

First, there was no time. Second, in broad daylight, with so many witnesses in the jail, if he acted personally, news would inevitably leak, and if the affair was investigated, he would be in dire straits.

The laws of the Great Tang were clear: to slay an official was treason—one of the Ten Heinous Crimes, punishable by extermination of three generations.

Though Li Zhao was not an official, he was of imperial descent; killing him was tantamount to killing an official. To wipe out one’s entire family for this one life was not worth it!

Besides, his godfather’s plot was a chain of traps—if Li Zhao escaped this peril by luck, he would not escape the next.

“Men, bring Young Master Zhao out—the magistrate is about to hold court.”

“Yes, sir!”

Several jailers opened the cell, escorted Li Zhao out, and marched him straight to the main hall of the county yamen.

...

“Brat, you made this old man worry for nothing… Ah-choo!”

On the roof above the prison, a figure straightened and rubbed his reddened nose before vanishing from sight. It was none other than Pei Min.

This sword saint, cold in manner but warm of heart, had feared for Li Zhao’s safety in the cell, and so had slipped into the city at night and kept watch on the rooftop till dawn, secretly guarding him.

The outcome? The boy was as sly as a fox and fierce as a wolf; not only unharmed, he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely! Meanwhile, the great sword saint Pei had spent the night shivering in the cold, nearly catching a chill—what folly indeed!

...

Meanwhile, Li Zhao, under escort, entered the grand hall of the county yamen.

The hall was vast, its wooden beams carved and painted with birds and flowers in lifelike postures. In front, two massive wooden pillars, thick enough for two men to encircle, bore a couplet: “To deceive others is to deceive Heaven itself—deceive not yourself; to betray the people is to betray the nation—how can one bear such guilt!”

Above the dais hung a golden plaque: “The Mirror of Justice Hangs High!”

...

Seated beneath the plaque was a man of thirty-seven or thirty-eight, dignified and scholarly, in a black official’s cap and light green robe embroidered with flying birds—the magistrate of Wuan County, Cao Ruoxian.

He was a degree-holder, posted to Wuan a year ago after passing the Ministry of Personnel’s selection.

On either side stood the registrar, the chief constable, the revenue advisor, the criminal law advisor, and two long lines of constables in red-and-black hats, wielding water-and-fire batons.

Virtually every official of the county yamen was present, save one—the deputy magistrate Zheng, the old fox. Where was he hiding?

...

The corpse of Black Whirlwind lay in the hall, stiff as a board after a day and night. Thankfully, it was winter and there was little odor; in summer or autumn, the stench would have been unbearable.

Beside the corpse knelt a young woman, voluptuous and seductive, sobbing incessantly, surrounded by a dozen or so local ruffians—the same who had caused trouble at the brewery the day before.

The hall’s entrance was packed with onlookers: Aunt Qing, Uncle Cai, White Bun, Steward Sun, Manager Jia, the brewery workers, and villagers from Qianlong Ridge—two to three hundred in all.

“Mighty and majestic!” cried the herald.

A clerk presented the case dossier, and Magistrate Cao struck the gavel, commencing the trial.

“Is the one standing below Li Zhao?”

“I am.”

“The dossier states you are of imperial descent?”

“Yes. I am the great-great-grandson of the Wu Prince, third son of Emperor Taizong.”

“Then, as a scion of the imperial family, you are exempt from kneeling. Please be seated.”

“Thank you, your honor.”

To stand before an official without kneeling and to be granted a seat in court—such was the privilege of the imperial clan. A constable brought a stool, and Li Zhao sat down calmly.

Meanwhile, Black Whirlwind’s widow, Lady Sun, and the ruffians began raising a clamor.

“Your Excellency, I am wronged—my husband died a cruel death!”

“Your Excellency, please see justice for our leader!”

...

“Silence! Speak your grievances clearly and truthfully. This court will see justice done.”

Magistrate Cao banged the gavel again, quieting the tumult, and listened as Lady Sun and the others narrated the events, while a clerk recorded everything.

On the day before the winter solstice, Black Whirlwind—Li Dayong—had stirred trouble at the brewery, only to be felled in a single move by Li Zhao. The ruffians had quickly carried him to a doctor, who set his broken arms and prescribed herbal decoctions to reduce bruising and pain.

Black Whirlwind, strong as an ox, revived after two bowls of medicine, regained his spirits, and even ate a little at home. Yet, come midnight, he suddenly convulsed and vomited blood, dying soon after.

Lady Sun and the ruffians all insisted Li Zhao’s blows had caused fatal internal injuries, leading to his death, and so, at dawn, they brought the corpse to the yamen to press charges.

“Defendant Li Zhao, is the plaintiff Lady Sun’s account true?”

“With respect, your honor, it is mostly accurate. On the eve of the winter solstice, Black Whirlwind—Li Dayong—came to the brewery and caused a disturbance. I was provoked and taught him a lesson, but I was measured—I would never have struck to kill. As for Li Dayong’s death, I suspect another cause.”

“Hmph. Whether there was another cause, a proper examination will reveal. Where is the coroner?”

“Here, your honor.”

“Examine the body in court!”

“Yes, sir!”

...

A white-haired, elderly coroner stepped forward and, in full view of the court, began examining Black Whirlwind—Zhang Dayong’s body to determine the cause of death.

First: poison test.

Poisoning is among the most common methods of murder, and Li Dayong’s symptoms did resemble poisoning.

Tradition held that silver would turn black in contact with poison. The coroner inserted silver needles into the corpse’s philtrum, throat, abdomen, and pulse points, then withdrew them for inspection. The needles showed no discoloration—there was no sign of poisoning.

Second: examination for bone trauma.

A blunt instrument wrapped in cloth could shatter organs and bones without leaving a mark on the skin. The coroner carefully palpated, but Li Dayong’s bones were intact and his organs undisturbed—no evidence of bludgeoning.

Third: examination for wounds.

He cut open Zhang Dayong’s clothing and checked meticulously from head to toe, including hidden places like the ears, nostrils, navel, and groin, for any sign of stabbing or puncture.

The result: not a single wound on the body, save for severe bruising on both arms—twisted during the fight—and a distinct purplish handprint two inches below the heart, the mark left by Li Zhao’s strike.

After nearly a year of day-and-night training, Li Zhao’s Iron Sand Palm had become formidable.

“Your honor, upon careful examination, I find no wounds on Li Dayong’s body, his bones are unbroken, and there is no sign of poisoning. The bruises on his arms and chest were caused by blows.”

“Oh? Could the injuries to his arms and chest have killed Li Dayong?”

“Your honor, the arm injuries are harmless, but the blow to the chest could have been fatal.”

The coroner’s findings were clearly unfavorable to Li Zhao.

No matter his privileges as an imperial scion, one immutable law remained: a life for a life.

If Li Dayong had truly died from Li Zhao’s blow, even if the case reached the ancestral court in Chang’an, the latter would not escape death. Aunt Qing, White Bun, and the others at the hall’s entrance broke out in cold sweat—what was to be done?

“The facts are clear, with both witnesses and evidence. Li Zhao, do you have anything to say?”

“I do. I suspect Li Dayong died of poisoning!”

“What, poisoning?”

Moments ago, the coroner had tested the corpse with silver needles before all, with no sign of poison. Now Li Zhao claimed Li Dayong had died of poisoning—was he not grasping at straws, shirking responsibility?

“Your honor, as a learned man, you must know that the silver needle method only detects common poisons such as arsenic, realgar, monkshood, or datura, but there are countless poisons in the world. Some, rare and colorless, leave no trace and kill without a sign. Li Dayong’s dying convulsions and bloody vomiting are classic symptoms of severe poisoning. I ask your honor to investigate and find the true culprit, so my name may be cleared!”

“Well…”

Magistrate Cao nodded thoughtfully, then shook his head.

“You may have a point, young master, but the silver needle test is ancient and trusted. Is there any other means of detecting poison?”

“Yes, your honor. The liver governs detoxification and stores blood. If one dies of poisoning, toxins remain in the liver. If we cut open the body and examine the liver, the truth will be revealed.”

“What, cut open the body?”