Transmigrated to the Northern Song Dynasty as a County Magistrate (GL) - Chapter 58

58: Ideological Dispute

The spectators who had sensed this suspect was different from the previous two—especially those convinced Yang Dalang was the killer—could no longer contain their excitement. Some even arrogantly thought solving the case wasn’t that difficult after all. Yet their fear of authority kept them from voicing these thoughts aloud, lest they disrupt the court proceedings and face punishment.

Seeing the defendant’s psychological defenses completely shattered, Tian Qingyi wasted no more time. She struck the gavel sharply and demanded, “Yang Dalang! What do you have to say for yourself now? Speak quickly—why did you kill Zhou Silang’s entire family?”

Yang Dalang, who had collapsed to the floor earlier, suddenly burst into maniacal laughter. “Why? Because he went back on his word! He thought he could bully me, just take my family’s burial land for free! All that talk about being kind to others is bullshit! That bastard Zhou Silang—every chance he got to oppress me or take advantage, he took it. And his son bullied my son too! Killing them was the only way to vent my hatred. I knew I’d pay with my life, but at least my son won’t suffer under them anymore!”

Some in the crowd, who had initially recoiled at the thought of a murderer, fell silent. The oppression of lower-class households by their wealthier counterparts was all too common here—they had long grown numb to it. Yet Yang Dalang’s defiance struck a chord. Those who had suffered similarly couldn’t help but regard him with newfound respect.

Tian Qingyi felt both pity and frustration toward Yang Dalang—a man with just enough knowledge to commit the crime but not enough to understand the law. Sighing, she asked, “If it was just about the burial land, why didn’t you bring your grievance to the yamen? Now, by killing Zhou Silang’s family, you’ve thrown away your own life. What will happen to your elderly and children? Have you ever thought of them?”

At this, Yang Dalang broke down into uncontrollable sobs. When he had killed them, the pent-up rage inside him had finally dissipated. But afterward, fear kept him awake at night. When arrested, terror had consumed him. During his days in jail, he had concocted countless excuses, even hoping the magistrate would fail to solve the case. But fate had betrayed him—a petty thief, Zhang Wulang, had witnessed him scaling the wall with his ladder.

Worse, this magistrate was far more capable than rumored. She had scrutinized every detail, leaving him no room to deny his guilt.

Yang Dalang knew the principle of “a life for a life.” When he decided to act, he had already considered this outcome. But hope and years of humiliation had driven him to strike during the New Year, using his newly made ladder to climb into the Zhou residence. His tears now weren’t for his impending death, but for his family—left with no means to survive.

With Yang Dalang taken into custody, the trial concluded. The crowd dispersed in small groups, buzzing with conversation. Zhou Liulang and Song Laocai, now exonerated, were the happiest, while the village chief of Qinglong Town was the most shaken. He had always believed Zhou Silang was a good man and Yang Dalang an honest one—only to realize his assumptions had been naive.

Though the case was solved, the murder weapon remained missing. Without it, the chain of evidence was incomplete, preventing Tian Qingyi from promptly submitting the case to the prefecture. She privately ordered the captain to retrieve the weapon within a day and instructed the clerk to compile the case files within three days.

Tian Qingyi had only detained Yang Dalang without sentencing because, for cases warranting punishment beyond flogging, she had the authority to investigate but not to judge. By law, sentencing rested with the prefecture, and imprisonment was carried out there. Death penalty cases required approval from the Ministry of Justice and the emperor after review.

Her duty was to solve the case, complete the trial, and submit the files with witness statements and evidence to the prefecture. The rest was beyond her control—the prefecture would conduct its own review before sentencing and reporting to the imperial court.

With the case closed, Tian Qingyi felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She hummed cheerfully on her way back to the rear courtyard, her joy evident when she saw Yun Jingchu, who had returned earlier.

“The case is finally solved—and it was your first one! I thought we should celebrate, so I had Qingyu prepare a feast and sent Yuanqi to buy your favorite lamb wine.” Yun Jingchu spoke without looking up from the government gazette she was reading.

Unbothered by her distraction, Tian Qingyi sat beside her, leaning in to read together. Yun Jingchu obligingly shifted the gazette between them.

These court bulletins, accessible only through official channels, were something even Tian Qingyi relied on Jiufang Xin to send. Yun Jingchu’s maid, Baoqin, couldn’t obtain them and had to settle for unofficial newsletters, which lacked the gazette’s comprehensive coverage. Thus, Yun Jingchu preferred the official reports and wouldn’t stop until she finished.

Tian Qingyi, familiar with this habit, always forwarded the gazettes to Yun Jingchu immediately after reading them. Sharing them now made the experience even better.

When Tian Qingyi read about the emperor elevating Consort De to empress, she couldn’t help but remark, “As the old saying goes, ‘The arm can’t twist the thigh.'”

Yun Jingchu finally looked up, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

Instead of answering directly, Tian Qingyi dismissed the servants and stationed Wei Shier outside the door. Only after ensuring privacy did she whisper, “The emperor is the thigh; the ministers are the arm. After the previous empress passed, His Majesty wanted to elevate Consort De, but the ministers opposed it—vehemently. Even the emperor had to compromise temporarily. But as you can see, though delayed by years, he ultimately prevailed.”

Ancient taboos forbade casual discussion of imperial affairs, forcing them to speak in hushed tones. Worse yet were the naming taboos—Tian Qingyi found them so troublesome that she relied entirely on Zhang Sancheng for official documents.

“I’ve heard rumors about Consort De. Her background was humble, but her looks were exceptional. To rise from a lowly beauty to empress—she must be formidable. I wonder if the person who sold her regrets it now that she’s an empress?” Yun Jingchu mused aloud.

“No… probably not. That person might even benefit from her rise.” Tian Qingyi caught herself, realizing her certainty might seem odd, and quickly amended her tone.

Yun Jingchu scowled. “If that’s true, this world is too unjust. Sold into servitude, yet her betrayer profits? Unheard of!”

“I agree. If it were me, sparing their life would be mercy enough—let alone letting them benefit! And why should men be allowed to sell women? This damned world!” Tian Qingyi fumed.

Their grievances spilled forth, from systemic injustices against women to the constraints imposed on them. The discussion turned to why Empress Wu Zetian hadn’t passed the throne to her daughter, Princess Taiping. Here, they hit a snag: Tian Qingyi argued that Taiping lacked political acumen, while Yun Jingchu insisted Wu Zetian’s decision was influenced by patriarchal norms.

Tian Qingyi vehemently disagreed, citing historical records to prove Wu Zetian hadn’t been bound by such biases—otherwise, she wouldn’t have declared herself emperor. Yun Jingchu, equally stubborn, shot back, “Then why didn’t she pass the throne to Taiping?” The debate circled back to its origin.

Their argument grew heated, voices rising enough for Wei Shier outside the door to hear every word—though their meaning eluded him. Just as another dispute threatened to erupt, Qingyu arrived. Wei Shier quickly knocked. “Second Young Master, Second Madam—dinner is ready. Shall it be served now?”

Qingyu, robbed of her chance to speak, merely glanced at Wei Shier but said nothing. After a pause, the order to serve came from inside.

With dinner imminent, Tian Qingyi and Yun Jingchu tacitly called a truce. Yet the meal proceeded in strained silence. Unable to bear it, Tian Qingyi broke the ice. “Our earlier debate was ideological. Disagreements are normal—people think differently. But we shouldn’t let ideological clashes, especially the frustration they bring, spill into our daily lives.”

“True. Debate is debate; life is life. Then it’s settled—neither of us will carry the frustrations of argument into our life together.” Though still irked by her loss, Yun Jingchu conceded Tian Qingyi’s point. Ideological disputes belonged to the realm of thought—life had to go on.

“Agreed.” Tian Qingyi smiled, tentatively placing a piece of Yun Jingchu’s favorite lamb in her bowl. This time, Yun Jingchu didn’t refuse—even reciprocating with cabbage. When Yuanqi refilled their lamb wine, Tian Qingyi raised her cup in toast. Yun Jingchu clinked hers against it and drank.

Surveying the spread—ginger shrimp, stir-fried chicken, rabbit, spicy lamb, roasted duck, lotus meat cakes, cabbage, tripe soup, and steamed yellow croaker, accompanied by lamb wine—Tian Qingyi realized Yun Jingchu had spared no expense to celebrate the solved case. There were dishes they both loved.

After the feast, they returned to the gazette, this time without argument—because Tian Qingyi refrained from commentary, and Yun Jingchu read intently.

Having served in Huating County for over half a year, Tian Qingyi had never missed an issue of the capital’s gazette, even if batches arrived late. She was well-informed.

For instance, the fiscal commissioner connected to the Pu family had been demoted after an investigation confirmed his negligence. His honorary rank, substantive position, and assignment were all downgraded to prefect.

Meanwhile, the chancellor Jiufang Xin ingratiated himself with the emperor’s deep trust—though his poor reputation among officials remained unchanged. By association, Tian Qingyi, though not aligned with him, was automatically grouped into his faction. In Huating, she felt little impact, but at the prefecture, some colleagues regarded her with a mix of awe and disdain.

If she remembered correctly, Empress Liu’s ascension marked the beginning of her political influence. The chancellor she relied on was Lu Yijian. Even if “Chancellor Wang” retained his position, his influence would wane—though still far surpassing hers. If he promoted her, all her efforts to remain inconspicuous would be ruined.

Yet promotions weren’t hers to decide. Denying ties to Chancellor Wang would only offend him and cross Jiufang Xin—hardly worth the cost.