Chapter 33

Chapter 33

At the beginning of autumn, a major incident occurred in the Capital. Rebels had infiltrated the commoners to stir up trouble within the city. Fortunately, they were discovered by the authorities after killing only one person. Regrettably, the cunning rebels managed to escape.

I heard the victim’s surname was Ma. His hands had been severed before he was finished off with a single sword stroke to the throat.

But currently, no one in the palace cared about that single life. The favored Imperial Consort had been caught in an affair with a foreign performer. When they were discovered, the performer’s bright red cloak was draped over her body.

The aging Emperor, now in the twilight of his years, was consumed by rage. An investigation revealed that the performer had actually been sent to the Imperial Consort’s bed by the Imperial Uncle himself.

However, this investigation unraveled more than expected. It turned out the Imperial Uncle hadn’t just cuckolded the Emperor; he was also hiding dragon robes and secret correspondence discussing a coup with numerous officials. This was the capital crime of high treason.

The Imperial Uncle’s faction, which had once held enough power to eclipse the sun, was purged from top to bottom.

Reeling from this blow, the Emperor fell bedridden. Coupled with a series of natural disasters, commoners from all over were displaced and flooded into the Capital. Suddenly, refugees were everywhere.

Even my flatbread stall was surrounded by them.

They were sick and hungry, waiting for me to show mercy and give them all my flatbreads for free.

Every day, a beggar stood by the stall, waiting for a handout. But I knew that if I gave to one, I would have to give to countless others, and I couldn’t save all the refugees in the city.

I told the beggar that my husband had been busy lately and couldn’t help make flatbreads. I asked him to help me instead, promising him wages. He could take the money or exchange it for flatbreads, which he could then use to help his companions.

The beggar nodded in agreement.

I had my younger brother take the disheveled, filthy beggar to wash up and found him a set of clean clothes.

Once cleaned, the beggar looked to be in his early twenties. He was tall, but his back was hunched due to malnutrition.

On the first day, I happened to have something to do, so I left the young man and my brother to watch the stall.

Cui Zishu was now an artist at a painting workshop. Aside from coming home to sleep at night, she ate all her meals there. Recently, the workshop’s cook had fallen ill, and they asked me to fill in for a day. They offered me one tael of silver for a single day’s work-it was practically free money, so how could I refuse?

I expected the young man to be overwhelmed, but to my surprise, he was silent and efficient. While I was away, he coordinated perfectly with my brother. He kneaded dough basin after basin, while my brother kept his head down, baking batch after batch of flatbread.

Batch after batch came out, but by the end of the day, we hadn’t even sold half.

When I returned, there wasn’t a single pedestrian on the street, and the flatbreads had already gone cold.

With disasters striking everywhere, the price of grain had soared. The cost of making one flatbread had risen to 20 wen, yet I only sold them for 21 wen. Factoring in the cost of sesame, lard, and charcoal, all the money I had earned previously was being funneled back into the business.

When I tried to give him his wages, he refused, only packing a few flatbreads for himself.

“Forget it, take all the flatbreads with you. Otherwise, they won’t sell tomorrow anyway.”

He looked up at me, his dark eyes unreadable. I sighed. How had I ended up with another brooding type? Or perhaps he was a mute.

The young man took the flatbreads and gave me a deep bow.

He arrived at the stall on time the next day, his hands just as quick as before. This time, however, his timing was precise; he only started kneading the next batch of dough when the previous one was nearly sold out.

By the time the government’s disaster relief grain finally arrived, not a single refugee in our alley had died of hunger.

Later, the young man came to bid me farewell, saying he was going to join the army.

Only then did I realize he wasn’t a mute after all.