coobybook Chapter 398 Shiono was hidden in the anecdotes of the Bosho clan.
Chapter 398 Shiono was hidden in the anecdotes of the Bosho clan.
Chang'an, the eve of the Lantern Festival.
The rain fell like a cascade, sweeping from the roof ornaments of Taiji Palace across the nine streets and twelve alleys, finally landing on the eaves tiles of Anyifang in the East Market. The gutters jingled and clanged, like someone plucking a silent pipa in the dark night.
Amidst the commotion, the gate creaked open a crack, and a green bamboo lantern peeked out. The figure beneath the lantern was extremely young, his raincoat dripping wet, like he was draped in shattered glass. His name was Zhi Xiaoye, the ward head of Anyi Ward, and he was being urged on by an even more urgent knocking at the door.
“Young Master Zhi—” came the old woman’s hoarse, trembling voice from under the door, “My water vat exploded, and even the Kitchen God soaked his feet in it!”
Zhi Xiaoye turned around, and the lamplight reflected two warm, smiling lights in his eyes. He reached out and tilted his cloak towards the old woman, as if protecting a dying flame in his palm.
"Grandma Yang, don't panic," he said. "The water vat is cracked, but we can sew it up."
The sound of rain suddenly intensified, as if the entire city of Chang'an leaned down to listen. No one saw that, the instant Zhi Xiaoye stepped over the threshold, a raindrop rolled down his sleeve, landing without shattering, instead condensing into a tiny glimmer of light, like someone quietly burying a star in the dust.
That was the beginning of everything—
Later, the Imperial Astronomical Bureau's junior official repeatedly calculated on her astrolabe before finally spotting the three characters "Zhi Xiaoye" in that faint light. She closed the scroll and sighed softly.
"After searching for so long, finally... it turns out that he was hidden in the streets and alleys of Chang'an on a rainy night."
On the eve of the Lantern Festival in Chang'an, snowflakes fell like torn pear petals from the nine-layered city gate. The lanterns in Anyi Ward swayed in the wind and snow, nailing the shadow of Zhi Xiaoye, who was bent over his desk, to the earthen wall like a short sword polished by time.
When the copper bell suddenly rang, he was copying the water gate inspection map for tomorrow's Lantern Festival. The bell's sharp sound, like the whistling of an imperial guard, startled the tea leaves in the ceramic cup on his desk, causing them to ripple.
“Young Master Zhi… the water vat has cracked, and snow water is flooding into the kitchen…” Old Mrs. Yang’s voice came through the receiver, trembling like rust.
The moment Qingjin crossed the threshold, a thin layer of frost had already settled on his shoulders. As he pushed open the carved wooden door of the Yang residence, well water gushed from the crack at the bottom of the vat, meandering across the blue brick floor like a glossy black snake. Zhi Xiaoye took off his fox fur coat, and his dark undershirt was immediately soaked through with snow water, clinging tightly to the young man's budding shoulder blades.
For three hours, his back rose and fell like an arch in the icy water. When the last bucket of muddy water was poured into the ditch, a smile suddenly bloomed in Old Woman Yang's wrinkles: "Child, you are warmer than a hot water bottle." Her withered fingers stroked his frozen purple earlobes, and she scooped out a pot of ginger soup simmering in the stove. White steam rose between the two of them, like a hot spring suddenly blooming in winter.
The following evening, he knocked on the gate of Wang the blacksmith's courtyard. The old man held up his newly issued "copper talisman"—a bamboo identification token newly made by the imperial court, his fingerprints leaving blurred sweat stains on the copper. Zhi Xiaoye knelt on the polished elm floor, pressed the old man's trembling thumb into the inkpad, and then pressed the words "Certified" onto it. As the red seal of "Verified" appeared, the old man suddenly grabbed his wrist, his palm lines embedded with thirty years' worth of iron filings: "Xiao Zhi, you're more considerate than a son."
The dispute under the Waiyun Bridge was like molten copper boiling. Meltwater leaking from upstairs seeped into the ceiling below, forming moldy patches that resembled angry, demonic faces. Zhi Xiaoye first pressed on Old Li's taut shoulder acupoint, then knocked on Old Zhang's tightly closed carved door. For three days and nights, he led craftsmen through every eaves pillar, their shoes leaving crescent-shaped white marks on the slippery roof tiles. When Old Zhang finally presented the silver ingots of compensation, Old Li's tears fell onto the bluestone slab: "We almost went to court..."
Before the morning bell of Dongying Temple rang, the solitary Liu Shou lay down beside his prayer mat. Zhi Xiaoye knelt down, his fingertips touching the old man's cold skin like touching melting ice chopsticks. The Imperial Medical Bureau's oxcart rolled over the snow, and he ran after the tracks until the copper nails on the door of the alchemy room swallowed up all sound.
On the Lantern Festival, the pavilions of Leyouyuan became a bustling marketplace. Located south of Xi'an and northeast of the Big Wild Goose Pagoda, this loess plateau is the highest point in the Tang Dynasty's Chang'an city. Because of its "spacious views, overlooking the capital city like the palm of one's hand," it was known as Yichun Garden during the Qin and Han dynasties. Emperor Xuan of Han built the "Leyou Temple" here, hence the name "Leyouyuan" (a homophone for "Happy Tour Plain"). Old Wu's storytelling of the Tang Code drew cheers, disciples from the Imperial Medical Academy rolled up their white robes to take blood pressure readings, and the scissors at the paper-cutting stalls sizzled like silkworms eating mulberry leaves.
Si Zi knew this place because it was the place where Li Shangyin of the late Tang Dynasty wrote the five-character quatrain "Le You Yuan" on a gloomy evening when he "drove his carriage to the ancient plain": "As evening approached, I felt unwell, so I drove my carriage to the ancient plain. The setting sun was infinitely beautiful, but it was nearing dusk." Thus, "Le You Yuan" became a symbol of the rise and fall of a great dynasty.
Meanwhile, Aunt Li was touching her newly cut short hair, her smile radiating sunlight: "This haircut has made my heart feel lighter." Zhi Xiaoye stood at the edge of the crowd, seeing the ink on the ledger gleaming a blood-red color in the sunlight—five legal education sessions, seven free clinics, every number seemed to breathe.
In the skills workshop, Sister Wang, who had been laid off, clutched her childcare worker's wooden plaque tightly, her knuckles white as porcelain: "Xiao Zhi, I've found a job, four strings of cash a month!" He looked into her eyes and seemed to see an oil lamp that had been relit, the flame licking at the accumulated black ash.
At midnight, the lights in the neighborhood office still flickered on the window lattices. The record book lay open: fifty-six petitions, ninety-eight percent marked "processed" in red ink. Behind him, the filing cabinet stood silently, holding canal repair plans, disaster relief ledgers, and creased thank-you letters.
His fingertips brushed against the bamboo slips still warm from his body, and he suddenly realized that he was originally the golden needle in the Weaver Girl's hand, sewing these fragments into a net—a net that could catch tears, support loneliness, and hold back despair.
Outside the window, the last streetlamp was extinguished by the night watchman. As darkness crept in, he heard his own heart pounding like a drumbeat, heralding the arrival of tomorrow.
On a rainy night in March, Zhi Xiaoye patrolled the Waiyun Bridge in the rain. Suddenly, the glazed tile eaves of a wealthy family's house cascaded down like a waterfall; it wasn't dripping, but the entire courtyard transformed into an overturned silver basin.
He waded into the corridor, as if entering a capsized pleasure boat. Between the nanmu beams and pillars, the tung oil putty, worth fifteen coins, was torn open by the water, revealing dark, jagged edges.
As the soaked scriptures floated past the shelves, the owner, clutching a gilded bronze incense burner, roared, "Compensation is due!" Zhi Xiaoye first lifted a copy of the "Preface to the Orchid Pavilion" to a high place, then took off his blue robe and covered it with the scorched-tail zither. Amid the roaring water, he whispered almost, "Stop the trouble first, then discuss the blame, is that alright?" His voice was not loud, but it was like a thrown rope, tethering the out-of-control boat.
Later, an extra line of small red characters appeared in the canal repair ledger:
"Tung oil putty costs fifteen coins, enough to ward off a flood worth ten thousand coins."
As the night deepened and the water clock dripped, he wrote three sentences on the parchment scroll of the neighborhood office:
"When measuring ponds, do not let the ruler deceive your conscience." — I recall myself measuring the reverse slope with my knees.
"The silt must be cleared to a depth of two fingers, for silt is the termite of time." — Black water gushing from the stove in Wang the blacksmith's house.
"First empathize, then reason; the flood will naturally become a boat to cross the river." — The anger that died down in the master's eyes that night.
Three sheepskins, folded into a square inch, were pasted onto the title page of the *Commentary on the Waterways Classic*. As the morning bell tolled through the locust trees of Anyi Ward, Zhi Xiaoye whispered to the dawn:
"Today there will be new stories. But as long as this net remains, not a single drop of water will escape our grasp."