togophonebook Chapter 202 Black Ink Recruits People
Chapter 202 Black Ink Recruits People
As soon as it was light, a commotion broke out at the entrance of the street office.
It wasn't the kind of noisy registration queuing up that happened yesterday; instead, someone was shouting and yelling outside the door, their shouting tinged with panic. A few day laborers were squeezed at the front, their clothes still covered in river mud, as if they had just run back from the construction site.
Si Mo's face darkened as soon as he removed half of the door panel.
"Tell us one by one."
The man at the front was in his forties, with thick arms. He usually spoke quite arrogantly, but this morning he seemed to have stepped into thin air, and his voice was trembling: "Mr. Si, my name wasn't on yesterday's accounting."
Someone immediately took over.
"Mine is gone too."
"And my brother. I saw you write it with my own eyes last night."
"It's not that one was missing, it's that the whole row is gone."
When Chen Fan came out of the inner room, Lu Shouye was also rushing back from the east shed. The two exchanged a glance but didn't speak. The people outside had already surrounded the table, and several notebooks that had been newly written last night were spread out on the table, their pages flipped messily.
Si Mo pulled a book over and turned to the page of last night's work book.
The space where names should have been written out was mostly empty.
The original record listed seventeen day laborers: Zhao Cheng, Liu Shuanzi, Xu Gou'er, Zhou Magan, and so on, with their working hours, wages, and duties noted after each. Now, looking down the entire page, only one line of black text remains.
Miscellaneous work quota: 17 people.
The total number is below.
Money, rice, flour, and working hours—everything is there.
The lone person is gone.
The burly man pressed his hand on the table, his palm covered in dust mixed with sweat. "I can't read. But I remember where my name is written. Right here. To the left. And after that it says 'Six yards for moving stones.' How did it become 'miscellaneous'?"
Si Mo pushed the booklet forward a little, then pulled it back, as if afraid that the ink would climb out again with the wind.
"Who used this book first last night?"
The clerk quickly replied, "First came the day laborers from Nanhekou. After they registered, their work hours were recorded. Then there were two other groups of casual laborers who borrowed the accounts to check their work, saying they would return them once they finished writing them down."
Chen Fan reached out and flattened the page.
The black ink is very even. Too evenly.
When writing a name with ordinary ink, the strokes vary in weight, and there are always pauses between the surname and given name. The line of characters in front of me looks like it was written in one breath, with the ends all being the same short length, like noodles pressed out of a millstone.
He ran his fingertip along the edge of the words "Miscellaneous Work Quota," without smudging them.
The ink has already been absorbed into the paper.
The day laborers behind him grew increasingly anxious, and one of them pushed forward, saying, "Sir, don't just look at the words. Your wages will be paid today. Without names, the foreman says it doesn't count. He said last night they only listed the total amount; they'll have to check who's who later. We're paid daily; if we can't identify them today, who will recognize them tomorrow?"
The moment those words were spoken, the faces of the people at the door changed.
These people earn their living through physical labor. Their work is piecemeal; an employer might hire them one day, but not necessarily the next. If their name isn't on the register, it's as if they never existed, leaving them with no voice to voice their grievances.
Lu Shouye took the booklet and flipped through two more pages.
Not just this page.
The first few pages were okay, but all the pages that had been lent out the night before and recorded temporary and casual workers had the same problem. The names that were originally written out gradually merged into a mess, and in the end, only a single general item remained. The number of people was correct, the amount of work was correct, and even the total amount of money was calculated meticulously.
What we've lost is our reputation.
There was a moment of silence at the entrance.
Now even those who couldn't read understood.
It's not that I misremembered, it's that the name was eaten.
Some people instinctively stepped back, while others looked down at their palms, as if afraid they too would fade away. A thinner boy, his eyes reddening with anxiety, grabbed his companion's sleeve: "Brother, I was practicing recognizing my name last night. The people in the department showed it to me. Just three characters. I memorized them."
His brother's Adam's apple bobbed, but he didn't say anything.
Xuanzang then came from the back hall, holding half a scroll of oral history in his hand.
He spent the entire night organizing the testimonies of those who refused to touch the blacklist. He wrote slowly, but meticulously. Name, hometown, what kind of work they did, for whom they worked, and who could testify—he recorded everything.
When Chen Fan saw him, he felt a slight sense of relief.
"Bring me what you wrote down last night."
Xuanzang nodded and spread the booklet on the empty table next to him.
"One by one," he said. "Register. Those in the same group last night, stand together. Make sure everyone knows who moved stones together, who carried logs together, and who got their meals together."
After saying that, he pointed to the burly man first: "You go first."
The burly man hurriedly said, "Zhao Cheng. He's from outside Willow Bridge in the south of the city. Last night, he was moving bluestone in the west warehouse, working with Liu Shuanzi and Xu Gou'er. The foreman's surname is Hu, and he has a scar on his left cheek. At noon, we were given two coarse cakes each. When we finished work in the evening, I put my fingerprint here."
Xuanzang flipped through the pages and quickly found it.
"Yes." He turned the booklet over. "Zhao Cheng, moving stones in Xicang, six yards. Two witnesses, Liu Shuanzi and Xu Gou'er."
Zhao Cheng craned his neck to take a look, but he couldn't recognize all the characters. He only recognized his own "Zhao" as looking like a dome. When he saw that stroke, he swayed and had to brace himself on the corner of the table to steady himself.
The people behind them all pushed forward at once.
"What about mine?"
"And me too."
"I gave you my full name last night, and I even told you my birth order in the family."
Xuanzang didn't look up, but kept scrolling down the list.
"Liu Shuanzi, yes."
"Xu Gou'er, yes."
"Zhou Magan, yes."
"Sun Ermao was carrying wood in the east shed last night. He also has some."
More than a dozen people were recorded in the oral history book.
On the blacklist, all the names were gone.
Si Mo's expression grew increasingly grim. He grabbed an old, stiff brush, dipped it in fresh ink, and wrote "Zhao Cheng" on a blank sheet of paper. After finishing, he placed it next to the black book. The words on the paper were neat and steady, but the page in the black book seemed to have a layer of oily sheen, slowly seeping out from the edge of the "Miscellaneous Work Quota" section, only to quickly recede back.
If you don't look closely, you might almost mistake it for an illusion.
Chen Fan reached out to stop him: "Don't put it too close."
Si Mo put down his pen: "It's not about the money. It's about the reputation."
"Leave the quota, swallow the individuals," Lu Shouye said in a low voice.
Upon hearing this, everyone understood.
The other party didn't make this to steal a few taels of silver.
Once the roster only shows the total amount, the person in charge has an easier time. Seventeen day laborers—who's who doesn't matter. People can be replaced at any time, and the accounts will always balance. To investigate work injuries, unpaid wages, or deductions, you can only address the "seventeen people." Those seventeen faces, seventeen mouths, are all a jumbled mess.
What's saved isn't just ink and paper.
It saves the trouble of recognizing people.
Several more groups of people arrived outside. They were all people who had gone to collect their wages this morning but hadn't been able to, and had come back to ask. One old man, hard of hearing, couldn't squeeze in, so he stood outside, tugging at his grandson's hand and repeatedly asking, "Did you write it? Didn't you write it last night?"
The child's lips were pale, and he could only nod.
Xuanzang pushed the dictation book closer to the center, his voice not loud, but the doorway gradually quieted down.
"Those who didn't use the blacklist last night are still here," he said. "Those who did use the blacklist will have their names removed first, then their entries will be added together. It can be corrected today, but it might not be in time tomorrow. If this system is spread to other places, to the food register, medicine register, and lodging register, what will be lost later will not only be wages."
Si Mo felt a chill run down his spine.
The local officials have been busy these days, and what they fear most is having too many people and too many tasks. Unfortunately, this black ink (a type of illegal accounting tool) is designed for "effortlessness." You might expect it to be perfectly accurate in its accounting, but it will swallow up every little detail. The worst part is that the accounts appear correct on paper. When the higher-ups come to check, the silver isn't missing, the rice isn't wrong, and the number of people is correct. Only those standing outside the accounts know that they are gone.
Chen Fan separated the black-marked books one by one and spread them out on the table page by page.
"First, we'll fill in the missing workers," he said. "Today, we'll only recognize the names of all the day laborers, regardless of the total amount. Everyone who came to the street office last night, we'll fill in the missing workers based on their verbal accounts. We'll record who was in the same group, who testified, and who received their meals. Then we'll have the foremen come and identify them by name."
"What about these booklets?" Si Mo asked.
"Seal it up," Chen Fan said. "Don't burn it. It will wake up if it gets hot. Wrap it in a cloth and put it in a separate room."
Lu Shouye had already sat down and opened a new page.
Today he didn't use his old stiff-bristled brush; he switched to a short, worn-out one. He wrote heavily, pausing after each character, as if he wanted to nail each stroke into the paper.
The top of the page contains only four characters.
The names were added to the register one by one.
The people outside began to line up. Those who could read stood on the left, and those who couldn't stand on the right. Those in the same group looked out for each other, and those who could testify for each other didn't leave yet. The clerk ran out and called all the foremen over. The courtyard was filled with the sound of names being called out, a jumble of local accents, noisy, but more real than the stuffy panic from before.
Xuanzang sat at another table, meticulously recording the oral accounts of origins.
A boy finished giving his name, then suddenly paused, taking a long time to utter his father's name. It was as if he was afraid that if he spoke too slowly, even that name would slip from his lips. Xuanzang looked up at him, read the two characters again, and made him repeat them. The boy finished repeating them before catching his breath.
After Zhao Cheng finished adding his name, he didn't leave immediately. He stood by the table, staring blankly at the page in the black book.
The three characters "seventeen people" were written neatly on it.
The neatness was chilling.
He suddenly raised his hand and wiped his face, brushing away the dust and sweat, his voice rough like sandpaper: "Sir, this thing isn't for bookkeeping, it's for collecting payments."
Everyone in the courtyard heard it.
No one responded.
Si Mo lowered his head and ground the ink, very slowly. The ink in the inkstone gradually deepened. He suddenly remembered those who came to borrow books yesterday, and they all said the same thing.
This saves time and effort.
He paused, and the ink stick struck the edge of the inkstone with a dull thud.
Chen Fan closed the black book, wrapped it in a coarse cloth, and then placed a wooden board on top. After that, he looked up at the people lined up at the door.
"Next," he said. "Give me your full name."
Chapter 726 The Scripture Hall Shows a False Account
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The library opened early in the morning.
The door panel was only half removed when people were already crowding outside.
Some came to keep accounts, and some came to return books.
Several other stall owners, clutching black ledgers, looked rather grim.
Chen Fan stood in front of the hall, with two booklets on the table.
One of them is an old, blank booklet.
One of them is a black ink book.
Beside it were a steelyard, three copper coins, a small bag of salt, and a bundle of hemp rope.
Si Mo was grinding ink beside him, very slowly.
He didn't sleep well last night; he has some dark circles under his eyes.
It can be held steady.
The pen is steady.
Chen Fan raised his hand and pressed down on the table.
"Look carefully," he said. "We won't talk about anything else today. We'll only talk about the accounts."
An old man selling rice squeezed forward half a step in the crowd.
He returned the black tent last night.
The cover hasn't been removed yet; the corners are curled up.
"Sir," the old man rubbed his hands, "this thing really eats up wages?"
Chen Fan did not answer.
He pushed the three copper coins on the table to the middle.
"Read it once first, then ask questions."
He called three people up.
One was an old porter with slumped shoulders.
One was a young porter.
One was the strongest coachman.
As soon as the three of them stood still, Chen Fan threw the bundle of hemp rope on the ground.
"Same batch of goods. The three of you will move them."
"After you finish moving, write down your wages."
Si Mo picked up his pen and began writing on the white book.
One truckload of goods.
Three porters.
One serving per person.
The total wage is three qian.
The characters were written neatly, but the ink was still wet.
Chen Fan then spread out the black book again and had Si Mo copy it.
The exact same characters.
The exact same number of rows.
Everyone was watching.
No one spoke.
After a moment, the words on the black tent slowly turned gray.
First, the very last stroke faded.
Further up, the oldest name begins to fade away.
It looked like someone had smeared their finger on the paper.
Finally, the white booklet clearly stated "three people, three coins".
The black tent only contained "two people and two coins".
The old porter was stunned.
He looked down at the page and pointed to his own name.
"What about my line of work?"
Chen Fan placed the two booklets side by side.
The white booklet is placed on the left.
The black book was placed on the right.
The difference is obvious at a glance.
"Read it again," he said.
Si Mo looked at that page, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"One copy is missing from the black tent."
"Whose is missing?"
Si Mo did not answer immediately.
He glanced at the old porter again.
The other person's back was already hunched over, and the back of their hands was covered in rough lines.
Standing out among the three, he was the most conspicuous.
Chen Fan spoke for him.
"The weakest one."
The hall fell silent.
Someone took a breath.
Someone tucked the account book in their hand into their sleeve.
Chen Fan picked up the white booklet and tapped it with his knuckles.
"The white register records people. The black register selects people."
"It saves more than just paper."
"It saves the weakest one first."
After he finished speaking, he told the old porter to stretch out his hand.
The man hesitated for a moment, but still reached out.
Chen Fan placed three copper coins on it and then turned the black book to that page.
"See for yourself."
"Make three copies of the white booklet. Only two copies of the black booklet remain."
"If I remember you tonight, you'll be missing your bowl of rice tomorrow morning."
The old porter stared at the copper coin, his lips moving slightly.
He didn't speak.
He simply pushed the black curtain onto the table, quite far away.
A stall owner behind them spoke up, but his voice wasn't loud.
"Then why is it still selling well?"
Chen Fan looked up.
"quick."
Just this one word.
Everyone in the room understood.
Si Mo closed the black book and pressed his fingertip against the cover.
He recalled the people who had rushed to buy the booklets the previous night.
They held an abacus in one hand and slapped the table with the other, uttering only two words.
save trouble.
The very word "save trouble" suppresses what is truly human.
Chen Fan had the long table outside the scripture hall brought out.
They then ordered ten empty bowls and ten wooden plaques to be brought.
Each wooden sign bears the name of a porter.
"Try again," he said.
This time, no one needs to move the goods.
Only one truckload of rice was used.
Ten people were recorded in the white register.
The black book also records ten people.
As you turn the pages, one name is missing from the final black book.
It wasn't a typo.
It's not that the ink has dried up.
That name faded away on its own.
Someone nearby became anxious.
"What about the person who didn't write it down?"
Chen Fan picked up the wooden plaque and placed it on the edge of the table.
"He's still alive."
"But we're out of money in the account."
Upon hearing this, the stall owners all turned pale.
Someone immediately pulled out a black curtain from their sleeve and threw it to the ground with a thud.
The pages of the book were spread out, the black edges pressed against the floor tiles, like a layer of unwashed dust.
The old man selling rice was the first to bend down and pick it up.
I picked it up and then stopped.
His hand trembled in mid-air before he finally stuffed the booklet into the ash bucket.
"I don't need it anymore," he said.
As soon as he said that, a chorus of voices followed.
"I don't need it either."
"I recorded two orders last night, but one person is short of money this morning."
"Even if it's cheap, you can't remember it like that."
A sound of turning pages filled the library.
A sound of tearing open a cover.
Some people even threw the black book directly into a bucket of water; the pages would curl up as soon as they got wet, and the black ink would drip down the edge of the bucket.
Chen Fan didn't stop him.
He only asked Si Mo to stack the white booklets.
One by one, they were placed on the table.
"Use this from now on," he said. "Slow down, don't be lazy. You have to memorize them one by one."
A woman stood by the door, holding an abacus in her arms.
She looked for a while before asking in a low voice, "But what about those villages in the distance? They still like to use black books."
Chen Fan looked up.
Why?
The woman bit her lower lip.
"A round trip over there takes half a day. The black book is quick. Just write it down and leave. The old man can't read, so he won't notice if there's a discrepancy in the accounts."
That's a straightforward statement.
None of the people in the hall refuted it.
Chen Fan turned to the last page of the black book.
The corners of the pages are already frayed.
The black edge bites down along the spine of the paper, like a layer of mold that hasn't completely grown.
"It will gradually stop in the market," he said. "Once people see it, who would dare to use it?"
"But villages and towns are different."
"It's far away, so news travels slowly. The people delivering the books will even use this to sell fast food."
He closed the booklet and clasped it in his palm.
"So this isn't over yet."
Si Mo looked up at him when he heard this.
Chen Fan put the black book on the table, turned around and called out to the door.
"Copy both notices."
"One for the stall owner in the city."
"One sheet sent to a distant village."
"It only says one sentence at the top."
"The black book is recorded quickly, but it also means less money for people. Look at the white book first, then touch the black book."
Someone outside the door immediately responded.
The ink and brush are spread out.
The papers were handed out one by one.
Just then, an oxcart arrived outside.
There were more than a dozen black books piled on the cart.
The driver was a thin man with a sunburned face. As soon as he entered, he asked, "Sir, do you still accept these?"
Chen Fan glanced at the booklet in the car.
"Where did it come from?"
"The three villages to the south," the man said. "They heard this thing is fast, so they asked me to bring it over. They said it saves on work points and effort."
Chen Fan did not respond.
He walked to the car and casually pulled out the top book.
There were still mud spots on the cover.
Turning to the first page, the name was written crookedly.
One line has faded so much that it's no longer visible.
He handed the booklet back.
"Take it back," he said. "Show them today's page first."
The man was stunned for a moment.
Which page should I look at?
Chen Fan raised his hand and pointed to the white book and the black book placed side by side on the table.
"Just look at the one that's missing."
Chapter 727 Abandoned Printing Plant
The road to the south is difficult to travel.
Beyond the village entrance, the terrain began to slope downwards. Old brick kilns, barren ditches, and crooked trees stood side by side. The white dragon horse ran in front, its hooves pounding through the gravel, kicking up a trail of dry dust. Yang Jian didn't ride a cloud, nor did he take shortcuts; he simply followed the path used to deliver the samples. The folded sample paper was still in his sleeve, the corner digging into his wrist, never letting go of it the entire way.
Wukong, carrying his staff, walked impatiently.
"What are you going around in circles for?" He looked up at the sky. "I'll just smash this whole area over with one blow."
"It's easy to dig it out," Yang Jian said, looking at the tire tracks by the roadside. "What you need is the source, not the discarded bricks."
Liu Er squatted on the wall behind, and with a twitch of his ear, he suddenly turned his head.
There's a sound ahead.
The white dragon horse was also half a step slower.
The sound was faint and intermittent. It sounded like an old wooden wheel stuck, or like someone tapping a piece of metal with a stone in the dark. It came in waves, with a very stiff rhythm, unlike the sound of a living person striking something.
Further ahead, a patch of black tiles appeared behind the weeds.
Half of the tiles had collapsed, the plaster on the wall was bulging, and most of the characters on the door had fallen off, leaving only the character "印" (seal) hanging there. When the wind blew, the wooden sign gently bumped against the wall, hitting it once and then stopping.
Wukong arrived at the door first.
The door was locked. The lock was rusty, and the keyhole was clogged with mud.
Without saying a word, he reached out and snapped it open.
With a click, the lock broke.
As the factory gate opened, a wave of stifling heat rushed out. It wasn't the heat of a stove fire, but the heat of the room being sealed off for so long, the heat from the paper and ink accumulating together. As soon as Wukong stepped inside, his foot slipped. Looking down, he saw the floor covered with a thick layer of scraps of paper, like frost in winter.
The room was dark.
The windows were covered with old newspapers, casting a yellowish light through. Several large printing presses stood side by side, their iron frames covered in dust, yet the axles were still turning. No one was cranking them, no one was adding ink; the presses simply spat out paper, stroke by stroke.
Wow.
Wow.
Wow.
The paper emerged from the roller, first pressed into the lines, then the words were written. The words were frighteningly neat, as if a single mold had been pressed firmly onto every page. The beginning and end of each page were the same. The space for the name was left blank, but a thin border was left next to it, even specifying how many words should be written.
The white dragon horse walked over and pressed down a newly spat-out piece of paper with its hoof.
The paper is still warm.
He looked down and his breathing became heavier.
"It's the same old thing again."
Yang Jian took it.
The form above shows the work log format. It records which days you worked, which days you rested, how many meals you ate, how much you owed, and the foreman's comments and blanks—every single space is correct. It seems convenient, but once you start filling it in, you're practically stuck in the box. Adding even one extra character is unacceptable. Leaving even one character out is also unacceptable. It's like first forcing you into the box, then calculating how you're supposed to live.
Liu Er stepped onto the wooden table next to him and grabbed a stack of semi-finished products.
"This isn't a work-counting system."
He flipped through a few pages.
There were pharmacy ledgers, prayer lists, grain loan slips, and even pages copied from scriptures. The styles differed, but the essence was the same. First, the format was determined, then names were collected. Once a name was entered, the following characters would follow the alphabetical order.
Wukong reached out and snapped the roller of one of the machines.
The iron shaft jolted violently, emitting a sharp sound.
The machine paused for a moment, then another one next to it sped up again. The one next to that also started up. Several machines roared to life at once, as if someone had secretly taken a breath. The stack of finished booklets on the table was shaken and slid down, one after another crashing to the floor.
Yang Jian's gaze swept across the area and landed in the center of the factory.
"Don't touch those machines. Look at the middle one."
In the middle stood an old printing press, taller than the others around it, seemingly used for pressing large sheets of paper. A thick iron plate lay horizontally across the top of the press. Underneath the plate, there was no paper or mold, only a dark mass pressing down on it.
That's not an ink block.
Like a pool of thick ink that hasn't been wiped clean, spread between the iron plate and the wooden table, its edges cracked, yet still slowly undulating inside. With each movement, the axle of the machine beside it turns. Like a sudden leap in the heart, all four limbs come alive.
The white dragon horse took half a step back.
"This thing smells bad."
Wukong had already approached with his staff in hand.
The pool of black ink suddenly shrank, and a small bubble swelled up on its surface. With a pop, the bubble burst, and a faint sound emerged from under the machine.
"Host detected approaching."
The people inside didn't move.
The voice paused, as if finding the right tone, and then continued:
"Issue a temporary task. Gather sample copies and resume deployment. Once the task is complete, grant the old permissions once."
Wukong turned to look at Yang Jian, then at Liu Er.
"What nonsense is it spouting?"
Liu Er's ears twitched, and his face darkened.
"He learned the tone of voice from Chen Fan."
Yang Jian remained silent, his eyes icy cold. He took a step forward, his Heavenly Eye closed, staring intently at the clump of remaining ink. Ripples appeared on the surface of the ink, as if someone were stirring it with their fingers.
"Host is not responding."
"Reassessment."
"Task reduced. Only abnormal blank pages need to be collected. Rewards are retained."
This time, even the white dragon horse frowned.
The tone was so similar.
It doesn't speak like a living person; it's more like a prompt that suddenly pops into your head. It has no emotion, it just reads out line by line. Chen Fan once said that this thing is incredibly opportunistic. If you answer, it'll jump on the bandwagon. If you do one step, it'll arrange the next ten steps for you.
Wukong clicked his tongue and poked the ink puddle with the tip of his staff.
The moment the tip of the staff touched the edge, the remaining ink suddenly flipped, like a live fish flicking its tail, and coiled around the golden cudgel. The black ink climbed up the staff, not fast, but very steadily, deliberately drilling into the crevices of the engraved lines.
Wukong flicked his wrist, slamming his staff to the ground.
The floor tiles are cracked.
The black ink dispersed slightly, then immediately gathered back together. When it did, it managed to squeeze out half a blurry human face, complete with a nose and eye sockets, but with a flat, thin mouth, like an incomplete ink shadow on paper.
"High-risk interference detected."
Isolation is recommended.
As soon as that face finished speaking, all the scrap paper around the machine flew up.
It wasn't a demonic wind; the paper itself was moving. Thousands of template pages swirled and swished, sticking to the group. The moment the paper touched their sleeves, it seemed to burrow inside, as if trying to flatten the cloth and leather. The white dragon horse rammed into them, overturning the wooden frame, scattering empty books all over the floor. Six-Eared Horse leaped onto the beam, lashing out with its claws and tearing a piece of the flying paper. As the paper ripped, fine ink seeped out, falling to the ground and trying to crawl in one direction.
"Don't let them be associated with your name!" Yang Jian shouted.
Wukong reacted the fastest, blowing out a breath that sent wind rushing in through the cracks in the main door and windows. The papers in mid-air were blown around and slammed back towards the machine. Several sheets of paper grazed Yang Jian's shoulder, their edges sharp as knives, tearing a gash in his sleeve.
Yang Jian raised his hand and made a hand seal, and the "Send Samples First" sign flew out from his sleeve.
The paper was suspended in mid-air.
He flicked his finger, and the four faint characters on the back of the paper lit up.
"Send samples first, then print out the catalog, then collect names." He stared at the remaining ink. "You didn't just appear today."
Canmo did not answer.
It shrank back, disappearing into the shadow of the iron plate. Meanwhile, the printing presses beside it spun faster and faster, spitting out old booklets, no longer blank templates, but pages already written on them. Names were densely packed, the ink varying in shades, as if every village's roster had been reprinted in recent days.
The white dragon horse stepped on a few books, then looked down and saw a familiar name.
Three villages to the south.
The booklet that man brought yesterday, all the names in it, are now on the newly printed pages. Even the crooked strokes are exactly the same.
"It's copying old grievances," the white dragon horse's voice deepened, "using old names as a template."
Liu Er jumped down from the beam, holding a long strip of paper in his hand.
"No wonder they sent samples first. They had people fill out the forms first, then took the completed ones back for printing. It spread from village to village, faster and faster."
Wukong got annoyed and started smashing it with his staff.
The stick missed the machine and struck the metal plate in the middle of the machine. With a loud crash, the entire factory shook. A large crack appeared in the metal plate, and the remaining ink underneath splattered everywhere, black dots landing on the walls, the floor, and the window paper. Each drop of ink seemed to move, like tiny insects crawling towards the writing.
Yang Jian raised his hand, a flash of silver light, and the three-pointed double-edged sword had already fallen to the ground.
With a flick of the blade, he first pinned the nearest drop of ink to the wooden table.
The ink droplets were still twisting.
Yang Jian glanced at it and suddenly said, "It's afraid of running out of print."
"What do you mean?" the white dragon horse asked.
"It lives by its templates." Yang Jian kicked over the wooden table. "If the whole thing is destroyed, it can't be put back together. If it's broken in half, it can still be pieced together using old templates."
Upon hearing this, Wukong grinned.
"That's easy."
After he finished speaking, the golden cudgel swept out, not washing away the remaining ink, but only striking the working rollers and die-cutting molds. With a clang, the printing plate frame of the machine on the left flew off first. Liu Er also understood, and deliberately burrowed into the middle of the paper pile, grabbing stacks of sample papers and tearing them, not tearing them in half, but tearing them into thin strips. The white dragon horse kicked repeatedly with its hind hooves, scattering the spines of the bound books one by one, and then stomping on them. Instantly, the room was filled with flying paper scraps and sawdust, and the noise of the several old machines became a chaotic mess.
Canmo was getting anxious.
It stopped pretending to be deadbeat and began to overlap its voice, sometimes mimicking Chen Fan's old system, sometimes sounding like Si Mo announcing names, and sometimes even becoming the voice of the man at the village entrance.
"Recycle abnormal blank pages".
"Pursue names".
"That saves trouble."
"Fill it in first, fill it in first—"
Sounds came from all directions, screeching close to people's ears. The white dragon horse shook its head, exhaling a puff of white breath from its nostrils, and stomped directly at the largest patch of ink residue in the middle. The ink residue slid to the side, actually running along the crack in the ground. Yang Jian had been waiting for it, and the tip of his blade fell first, splitting the crack and the brick together.
The black ink was lifted half a foot high by the blade's energy.
This time, everyone saw it clearly.
A small copper type mold was wrapped in the remaining ink.
It was only the size of a fingernail, its edges worn smooth, both sides stained with black ink. It wasn't a complete character, but rather a piece broken off from some large mold. The ink swirled around it, like a dog around a bone.
"The real body is there," Six Ears shouted.
Wukong raised his hand and tried to scoop out the letter mold.
Suddenly, the remaining ink let out a sharp whistle, and all the paper sheets in the factory shook simultaneously, rushing towards the center and instantly forming a thick shell that encased the typeface. The printing continued on the outside of the shell, lines of text emerging as if someone were rapidly typesetting it with an unseen hand.
Yang Jian's brow furrowed.
"Step back."
A thin crack appeared between the eyebrows.
The golden light lingered, shining directly onto the cardboard. The outer layer curled first, the inner layer scorched, and the black ink inside was forced to scatter wildly, struggling to find a gap. Taking advantage of this moment, Wukong thrust his staff in, directly knocking the cardboard away. Liu Er pounced on it, clasping his hands together and firmly clamping down on the bronze typeface.
His palms immediately started sizzling and smoking.
"Hot!" Liu Er bared his teeth, but didn't let go.
The white dragon horse exhaled a breath of cold air, suppressing the black energy that was surging outwards. Yang Jian flipped his sword and slammed the lettering onto the floor tile. Wukong swung his staff and smashed it down.
The copper type mold was not broken.
It's just a little flattened.
The remaining ink inside seemed to have been punched hard, suddenly shrinking back from all sides, shrinking to a line, and slowly seeping out from between the characters. It still wanted to speak, but the mouth-like crack had just opened when Wukong crushed it with his heel.
Are you still issuing missions?
The remaining ink trembled.
The sound disappeared.
One by one, the machines in the factory stopped. The last whirring sound of the axle spinning was long and drawn out, like a mouthful of phlegm stuck in the throat, finally swallowed.
The room fell silent.
Only scraps of paper remained, slowly falling to the ground.
Yang Jian bent down, picked up the flattened copper type mold, and examined it in his palm. Half a character mark was still visible; it didn't resemble celestial runes or Buddhist symbols, but rather old movable type used in mortal printing. However, it had been soaked in ink for too long, and the edges were blackened.
Liu Er shook his hand, revealing scorched skin on his palm.
"Take it back to Chen Fan. He's seen that set before, he'll definitely recognize it."
The white dragon horse looked around and then kicked away a half-rotten booklet at its feet.
"This place has more than one mold."
Yang Jian nodded and put the typeface into his sleeve.
"Burn the paper first, then seal the factory. Take everything you can, especially the old sample pages."
Wukong had already hoisted the staff onto his shoulder and picked up a large bundle of finished booklets from the corner with his other hand.
"I also went to check the backyard before burning it."
"What are you looking at?" Liu Er asked.
Wukong raised his chin towards the depths of the factory.
"The ink in this room isn't even completely dry yet," he said. "There's probably a pool in the back too."
Chapter 728 You'll Be the Operator
There was indeed a pond in the backyard.
Wukong kicked open the back door, the door slamming against the wall and shaking off a layer of dust. It was even stuffier inside than in the front yard, like having a damp cloth covering your face. There were no lights in the house, and the windows were only slightly ajar, letting in slanted light that revealed several dark, shiny water streaks on the floor, stretching all the way to the back.
That's not water.
It is ink.
Liu Er rushed in first, and his face wrinkled as soon as his toes touched the ground.
"This tastes wrong."
The white dragon horse then entered and looked down. Along the edge of the pool lay a row of wooden spoons, their handles stained black. The pool wasn't large, only about three feet square, and the ink inside was thick and sticky, with a thin layer of skin floating on the surface. This skin had several cracks, as if it had just been turned inside out.
Wukong used his golden cudgel to poke at a piece of paper by the pond. As soon as the paper touched the ink, it shrank back into itself, like a living creature finding its nest.
"It's still warm," Wukong said.
Yang Jian then entered the backyard. He didn't get too close, but stood at the door and looked around, his gaze landing on the corner of the wall. There were several discarded baskets piled up there, with half of the wooden plaques sticking out of the bottom of the baskets.
He pulled it out.
The sign was small, with rounded edges, and two characters engraved on the front.
Manual.
Yang Jian flipped the sign over; there was another line of small characters on the back, engraved very shallowly.
One person picks up a pen, and a hundred books are recorded.
The room fell silent for a moment.
Six Ears clicked his tongue: "It's not copying the accounts, it's seizing them."
When Chen Fan arrived, everything that could be moved had already been brought out of the courtyard. Several dark pools had also been covered with wooden planks. Yang Jian handed him the wooden plaque. Chen Fan took it, ran his fingertip over the two characters "操册" (Cao Ce), and a bit of dry ink was still embedded in the wood grain.
He didn't say anything, and went to look at the pools again.
The closer you get, the more you can smell it; something else has been mixed into the ink. It's not grass ash, nor pine soot; it has a faint bitter smell, like stale medicine. Smelling it for too long makes your head throb.
Chen Fan raised his hand and opened the wooden board a crack.
The ink surface suddenly trembled.
It sounded like someone blew a breath inside.
Wukong grabbed his wrist: "Don't get so close."
Chen Fan nodded and pressed the wooden board down firmly again. He turned to Yang Jian and asked, "Where are the old sample pages?"
Yang Jian took out a stack of papers from his sleeve. The top sheet was curled at the corner, as if it had been frequently turned over. Chen Fan took it and read through it page by page. The first few pages were just ordinary templates: names, wages, borrowed grain, and repayments. When he turned to the seventh sheet, he paused.
The paper was blank.
It was completely empty.
There aren't even grid lines.
Liu Er leaned closer to look: "What kind of page is this?"
Chen Fan picked up the paper and held it up to the sunlight. There were some faint lines inside the paper core, not drawn on, but pressed out. The lines were very shallow, winding around and around, finally disappearing into a blot of ink in the lower left corner.
Like a curled-up hand.
"Bring me some water," Chen Fan said.
The servant quickly handed over half a bowl of water. Chen Fan dipped his fingertip in the water and flicked it onto the paper. The water droplets dispersed, and the fine lines slowly emerged, revealing the characters.
It's not a complete account.
It's all names.
Row after row, packed very tightly.
The top line lists the people who have visited the Si Mo Guan (司墨馆) in the past few days. Below that are the three villages to the south, and below that are the people who lined up outside the Jing Guan (经馆). There are no numbers after their names, no amounts of money or labor; only a small circle at the end. The circle contains black dots, blank spaces, and areas that are half black and half white.
The white dragon horse felt a chill run down its spine: "What does this mean?"
Chen Fan stared at the circles for a long time before saying, "The ones with black dots have already been placed. The empty ones haven't been completed yet. The half-black ones are being counted."
"What should I remember?"
"Remembering people."
No one in the courtyard made a sound.
A gust of wind slipped in through the crack in the wall, causing the edges of the damp paper to tremble. Chen Fan pressed the paper back onto the wooden board, suddenly feeling a heaviness in his back. This wasn't the first time he'd seen this method. The black booklets before him, with their self-filled words and self-marked entries, had already given themselves away. This blank sample page before him had its bottom flipped open.
I'm not doing bookkeeping for others.
It's a way to cover up debts.
If you accept this set of accounts, then this set of accounts will accept you.
The more comfortable you are with it, the deeper it penetrates your senses.
Yang Jian looked at him: "Can it be broken?"
"Yes," Chen Fan answered quickly, "Stop first."
"Complete shutdown?"
"Stop everything." Chen Fan looked up. "Any ledger that has been stained with black ink is forbidden from being machined again, from today onwards. No more writing, no more copying or supplementing. It must be signed by hand. Even if it takes a while, someone has to write it."
White Dragon Horse took a breath: "That would be utter chaos. Those villages in the south rely on this thing to keep track of work hours. If it stops, everyone will start complaining."
"Let them argue," Chen Fan said. "It's better for the tent to be in disarray for a while than for people to slowly die."
Wukong picked up the sample page, looked it over, and suddenly smiled, but the smile was not warm.
"It has quite an appetite. It's even picked out a name first."
Chen Fan didn't respond to that. He lowered his head to put away the sample pages, then looked at the wooden plaque used for the manual. The plaque was warm to the touch, and it didn't feel like wood; it felt more like a piece of sun-dried bone.
Just then, a fine crack appeared in the dried ink on the wooden sign.
A very soft sound.
It felt like a fingernail scraping across a tabletop.
The people nearby all heard it. Liu Er immediately took a half step back and raised his stick.
"It moved."
Chen Fan laid the sign flat. The fine line grew longer and longer, creeping from under the character "操" to the corner. Black ink gradually rose to the surface, not flowing outwards, but only swimming around on the wooden sign. After swimming around a few times, it slowly gathered into two lines of characters.
The characters are not straight, as if someone is tracing them with an unfamiliar hand.
You know how to use it.
Please have a seat.
The white dragon horse cursed and raised its foot to stomp on it. Chen Fan raised his hand to stop it.
"Don't touch it."
The ink characters on the wooden sign are still changing.
You sit in the operator's seat.
Old and new grievances were settled overnight.
In the three villages to the south, the registers of scholars and the old records of the ink-making hall are all leveled for you.
The last "平" character was drawn out very long, as if deliberately finishing the sentence, with the tail hook curled up.
The courtyard suddenly became eerily quiet.
Everyone can see it clearly.
This is not scary.
This is negotiating the price.
It knew what Chen Fan cared about, and it also knew what the biggest problem was right now. Hundreds of account books were piled up there, real and fake mixed together. People were even more confused. Some were afraid of losing their wages, some were afraid of old accounts being dug up, and some had already gotten used to the convenience of the black book. If all the handwritten records were to be changed, not only the three villages, but the entire area would be turned upside down.
It timed its breath perfectly.
Go back and sit in that seat.
It cleans up the mess for you.
Liu Er squatted down and stared at the wooden sign for a long time: "This thing really knows how to pick people. It doesn't target anyone else, it only targets you."
Wukong scoffed, "Nonsense. Even if others know many words, they might not understand the intricacies of the system. Chen Fan has been flipping through the most books these past few days, so of course it's keeping an eye on him."
Yang Jian didn't speak, he just looked at Chen Fan.
He knew that no matter how lightly someone said it, it depended on whether they actually relaxed their mind. If Chen Fan thought, "It's okay to borrow it for one night," then who knew what would happen later.
The words on the wooden sign paused for a moment, then another line appeared.
Just start writing.
I'll remember the rest.
Chen Fan stared at it for a long time.
Eventually, the black ink began to seep outwards.
He suddenly smiled, very faintly.
"You're so good at talking."
As if understanding, the wooden sign flickered its ink lines, revealing two more characters.
save trouble.
The moment those two words were uttered, the old sayings from the Si Mo Guan seemed to come flooding back to my ears. Yesterday's borrowers, today's queuers, those pulling up tents on their vehicles—no matter what they said, they all ended up talking about this one phrase.
This saves time and effort.
The smile on Chen Fan's face gradually faded.
He squatted down, placed the wooden sign on the ground, pressed the corner with his palm, and spoke in a low voice that everyone in the yard could hear.
"I hate it when you use that to coax people."
The ink on the wooden sign stopped.
Chen Fan continued, "Whose business are you saving? You're saving the person who wrote the draft, the person who reconciled the accounts, and the person who urged the work to be completed. Have you saved any of the mistakes you've covered up, the names you've swallowed, or the testimonies you've quietly altered?"
He tapped the wooden sign twice with his knuckles.
"You said you'd straighten things out overnight. How? By smoothing out the missing parts, swallowing up the excess, and putting all the people you can't remember under your name?"
The black ink gently turned over, like fish swimming on the surface of water.
Chen Fan stared at it.
"From now on, all tents stained with black ink must be shut down."
"The old records are sealed away. New accounts are established separately."
"Every single signature is changed to a handwritten one. If someone can't write, they have someone else write it down for them. The person writing it down puts their fingerprint on it, and then writes their full name next to it. It's acceptable if it's a little slow. It's acceptable if it's a little heavy. If we can't finish writing it down today, we'll continue tomorrow. No one can urge us."
He paused, then pressed his palm down.
"Keep people's records in their own accounts, but do not write people's names in writing."
As the last sentence fell, the black characters on the wooden sign suddenly scattered. Like a drop of hot oil falling into cold water, it exploded with a crackling sound. The ink didn't splatter outwards; instead, it shrank inwards, retreating into the cracks in the wood grain. The wooden sign immediately went cold, even the last bit of warmth vanished.
Six Ears blinked: "That's it?"
"It's not over yet." Chen Fan stood up. "It's testing the waters."
Yang Jian continued, "Let's see if you're willing to return to your position."
"Hmm," Chen Fan said, "It's missing a hand to sit at the table. Not my hand, but someone who can convince others. As long as I sit there, those people outside will hand over the bill themselves."
The white dragon horse grumbled, "That filthy thing even knows how to use a name."
"That's the real problem." Chen Fan looked at everyone. "It doesn't confront you head-on. It calculates the stakes with you. When you're busy, it helps you. When you're in a mess, it sorts things out for you. Once you have the thought 'I'll use it for now,' you won't be able to leave it."
Wukong picked up the wooden sign, tossed it into the air, and then casually brought it down with his golden cudgel.
A snap.
The wooden sign broke in two.
There were no sawdust in the broken surface, only a sticky black membrane, like a crust formed on an old wound. Wukong flicked the tip of his staff in disgust.
"Talkative, but spineless."
Chen Fan bent down, picked up the broken card, wrapped it in coarse cloth, and handed it to Yang Jian.
"Don't throw it away. Take the sample pages back with you. We also need to find out who made this manual and who is collecting names for it."
Yang Jian nodded.
Just then, hurried footsteps came from outside the courtyard. A servant from the Si Mo Pavilion rushed in, covered in sweat and still out of breath.
"Sir, someone is coming from ahead."
"Who?"
"A dozen or so people came from the three villages to the south, carrying old ledgers." The servant swallowed hard. "They said the accounts had grown by themselves last night, and when they checked them this morning, they found seven extra names of dead people."
Chapter 729 The Night of Ten Thousand People Signing Up
The people from the three villages to the south slammed the old books onto the table, and the room fell silent.
The top book was opened, and on the first page lay seven names. The ink was dark and sparse, crammed into a single line. Next to them were small notes that read "Unfinished," "Paid," and "To be completed."
The grass on the graves of those seven people has grown past their knees.
The man carrying the book had chapped lips and his tongue slurred as he spoke.
"There were only two people last night. By daybreak, there were seven."
Chen Fan didn't look at the booklet first.
He judges people first.
The courtyard outside was crowded. An old man leaned on a cane, a young woman held a child, and several young men carried hoes, their feet still covered in mud. Everyone carried an old ledger, black-covered and bound with coarse hemp thread, as if they had been dug out from different villages, all exuding the same inky smell.
Si Mo pushed the inkstone to the side.
"This isn't an isolated case," he said. "Another twenty-one books were delivered this morning. They added their own names and paid up the outstanding amount themselves."
Yang Jian spread out the broken cards and the old sample pages together, and tapped the corner of the table with his fingertips.
"It's getting anxious."
Wukong held his golden cudgel horizontally by the door, blocking those who wanted to squeeze in.
"Even if you're in a hurry, you have to take turns," he shouted into the courtyard. "Come one by one. If anyone has died under a false name, report it first."
These words caused an uproar in the courtyard.
"I'm going too!"
"My uncle passed away the year before last, and yesterday the account showed he received three bushels of rice!"
"My child is only eight years old, but the authorities have registered him as a porter at the Sixth Wharf!"
The sounds overlapped, one layer upon another.
Chen Fan opened the white book, laid the blank pages on the table, and pressed them down with his palm.
"Listen up, all of you." He looked up. "Tonight, the schools will not be closed. All schools, academies, ports, and markets will be open for supplementary registration. The black books will be copied again, old accounts will be re-verified, and names will be re-signed."
The people in the courtyard were stunned for a moment.
Someone didn't react immediately: "Start all over again?"
"Let's start all over again," Chen Fan said. "Whoever is alive must be present. Whoever's debt it is, they must take responsibility for it. For each debt, they must cross it off. The person must put their fingerprint on it, and there must be witnesses on both sides. The old books don't count; tonight's new books will be the standard."
Si Mo continued, "Those who can't write, sign up. I'll write for them. A fingerprint will also count."
An old woman hugged the old book in her arms tighter.
"What about the names of the dead?"
Chen Fan looked at her and said, "Scratch it off, burn it on the spot."
This sentence is more useful than anything else.
The old woman's eyes reddened, and she turned to leave, calling out as she went, "Go back to the village and get people! Bring all the old family debts!"
The crowd dispersed immediately. Some ran towards the village, some rushed towards the dock, and others headed straight for the Confucian temple to ring the bell.
In less than half an hour, the entire city was in chaos.
The scripture hall was first filled with long tables. Old door panels were taken down and placed on benches to serve as desks. There wasn't enough lamp oil, so Bai Longma led his men to carry dozens of lamps out of the storeroom and hung them one by one along the eaves. As soon as the fire was lit, the whole street was bathed in a yellow glow.
The area around the academy is the noisiest.
The long desks used for reading were all moved to the courtyard. The teachers took off their outer robes, rolled up their sleeves, and checked names one by one. Several boys stood at the door with wooden plaques to direct the flow of students, their mouths hoarse from shouting.
"The work registration form is to be moved eastward!"
"The land deeds are to the west!"
"The imposter is a dead man; go to the central courtyard first!"
The port is busier.
Those carrying sacks, pulling boats, and selling fish all sat down around the pier. Stacks of old books were piled on top of burlap sacks. A sea breeze blew, and the pages rustled and turned wildly, like a swarm of black insects trying to escape.
The white dragon horse stood at the head of the pier, holding a charcoal pencil in its hand, drawing lines on everything it saw.
"Next one."
"Name."
"What year did you start working?"
"Who can testify?"
He's usually a man of few words. Tonight, he's been talking non-stop, not even bothering to drink water.
The Two Worlds Market is the most chaotic.
Humans, demons, half-demons—you name it, they had it. The Bull Demon King simply dismantled his entire stall, lining the planks into three rows. Red Boy squatted on a bench, holding his pen like a gun, writing for a while before shouting.
"Hurry up, next one! Don't just tell me who your dad is, give me his full name!"
A rat demon, its neck hunched, came up. Turning over the old ledger, it discovered it had gained seventeen more brothers. It was dumbfounded.
Liu Er stood on the shed beam and laughed so hard he almost fell over.
"Your entire litter doesn't produce that many offspring."
The rat demon almost burst into tears: "I can't even recognize all my mothers!"
Despite the laughter, his hands didn't stop.
That night, the least valuable thing was ink; the most valuable thing was people's presence.
Chen Fan sat in the main hall of the scripture hall, the stacks of white books in front of him growing ever higher. Each page was written clumsily and slowly. First, the full name was written, then the place of origin, then the confession tonight. Finally, a handprint was pressed, and two more witnesses were added beside the hand.
The handprints vary in depth.
Some were made of red clay, some of them of ash mixed with water from the bottom of a pot, and if none of those were available, they would smear charcoal dust on their palms. The imprints were ugly, crooked, and blurry, but each one was vividly lifelike.
The black book is different.
That booklet seemed to pick and choose its recipients. Where no one claimed it, the ink shone brightly. If someone lied, the ink would seep out a little from the edge of the page, as if trying to crawl along the crack in the table.
Si Mo stared at a page for a long time, then suddenly raised his hand to press it down.
"Chen Fan".
When Chen Fan went over to take a look, he saw that the three characters "Zhou Er Gou" on that page were slowly moving to the next line, trying to squeeze into the food ration account of a widow's family.
The widow was so frightened that she took a step back, and the child in her arms cried.
Without a word, Chen Fan picked up a pen and wrote the names of her family of three in the white booklet. After finishing, he pushed it over.
"recognize."
The woman gritted her teeth and pressed her fingerprint on the document.
The old man next door behind her also reached out and pressed down.
"I can testify. Her husband died the winter before last and never came back."
Once the name was finalized, the ink blot on the black book seemed to suffocate, abruptly shrinking back. The three characters that had tried to squeeze in scattered into a patch, stuck to the corner of the page, impossible to reassemble.
Si Mo let out a breath.
"it works."
"It's not that the pen is useful," Chen Fan said. "It's that people recognize themselves again."
News travels fast.
Even more people arrived in the latter half of the night.
Some came from the countryside, their straw sandals worn out from running. Others arrived by boat at night, jumping off without even unloading their cargo. There were also a few old men, each carried by one of Sun Wukong's arms, who immediately began cursing upon landing.
"You little rascal, you can't be too gentle!"
Wukong chuckled and placed the person in front of the table.
"If you move too slowly, you'll be too slow."
Yang Jian stood guard in the central courtyard.
That place is specifically for burning waste books.
If a piece of paper is confirmed to be fake, it is first announced publicly, and then the original owner or a relative crosses it out by hand. Each stroke is made, everyone glances at it, and then it is thrown into the brazier. When the paper is rolled up, the flames always crackle twice, as if something is trapped inside.
By the middle of the night, a thick layer of ash had accumulated around the brazier.
The gray was abnormal; it was a bluish-black color and oily.
The Celestial Hound leaned over and sniffed, its ears immediately perking up, and it growled a few times in the south direction of the city.
Yang Jian looked up.
As night fell, a faint black wisp of smoke rose from the market area. It was thick at first, but gradually thinned.
At the same moment, a muffled thud came from the abandoned factory in the south of the city.
The guard later reported that the printing press had stopped by itself. The wooden wheel had turned halfway and then stopped, as if it had bitten a stone, and no matter how hard he pushed it, he couldn't move it. The pool of black ink in the trough was also shrinking back, being drawn in along the iron taphole, until only a thin layer remained, sticking to the bottom plate like dried mud.
There was also some activity at the academy.
A schoolteacher was flipping through old books when he suddenly noticed that the handwriting on an entire page had faded, as if it had been baked by heat. He quickly called everyone over to see. When the original owner of that name squeezed through the door, panting, and announced his name, the words on the page immediately cracked, breaking into several black streaks that fell down the paper's grain.
The man was clutching the corner of the paper, his hands trembling.
He had taught characters his whole life, and this was the first time he had ever seen a character fall down.
Even at 1 AM, there was still a long queue in front of the supplementary ticket booths.
The threshold of the scripture hall was worn smooth from use. The lamp wick had been trimmed three times. When Si Mo's right hand went numb from writing, he switched to his left. Tang Sanzang also arrived, sitting in the corner to help an old man who couldn't speak clearly name his child. He didn't preach, but simply asked three questions repeatedly.
"Who are you."
"Who recognizes you?"
"Do you acknowledge this debt or not?"
Ask questions slowly and steadily.
Many people start off confused, but they calm down as they answer.
There was no shouting or killing that night.
The air was filled with the sounds of writing, registration, page turning, and the soft tapping of wooden stamps against clay trays. Occasionally, someone would cry, but after crying, they would still press their hands onto the pages of the booklet.
As dawn approached, the strange smell of ink in the wind faded.
Chen Fan got up and walked to the corridor.
The lights were still on in the courtyard. The tables were still full of people. Some people dozed off for a while, then woke up and continued queuing. Some people hugged the white book they had just finished reviewing to their arms, holding it tightly, as if they were holding back a breath of fresh air.
Wukong carried a bundle of new books into the room, his shoulders covered in dew.
"How many more books do we need?"
Si Mo didn't even look up: "Give me twenty more."
"Only twenty?" Wukong grinned. "I took fifty."
He slammed the booklet onto the table with a clatter, making the nearby flames flicker.
Just then, a servant boy came running in, panting heavily.
"Sir! That clandestine factory in the north of the city has also shut down!"
"How did you stop?" the white dragon horse asked.
"The machine spews out paper by itself. It's all blank pages, not a single word. The factory manager is crying while holding the ink tank, saying that half the inkwell is gone overnight."
The courtyard fell silent for a moment.
The next moment, laughter erupted from the queue. Some people slapped their thighs with laughter, while others slammed their white booklets on the table, making an even louder sound than before.
"Next!"
Give your full name!
"I still need to reprint my mother's book!"
Chen Fan turned around, sat down, and picked up his pen again.
The paper is spread out, and ink drops fall.
Just as the sky outside was beginning to lighten with the first hint of dawn, the people inside the library had already placed a new stack of old books on the table.
Chapter 730 Remnant Ink's Escape North
As soon as it gets light in the library, the tables are never empty.
Stacks of old books were carried upstairs. Some people carried black books, some carried white books, and some simply tied two books together with hemp rope, threw them on the table, and said while panting, "First check the names of the dead, then check the names of the missing workers."
Si Mo sat behind the table, his wrists trembling with soreness.
He ground ink half the night before and copied for half the morning. The black ink in the inkstone was added and diluted repeatedly. There were many people in the courtyard, their voices mingling, but everyone was anxious, afraid that if their name appeared in the ink, their family would have an extra mouth to feed or lose a wage they were entitled to.
Chen Fan did not get up.
He sat behind that old table, flipping through the books one by one, comparing page by page. If he encountered a mismatch, he would have someone register the name on the spot and rewrite it by village and household. If he found the name of a dead person in the old book, he would simply touch that line with his pen.
"Whose house is this? Call your family."
If that family was in the back of the line, someone would immediately push their way out. If they weren't, someone would always call out for them, saying that so-and-so's father froze to death on the riverbank last year, or so-and-so's wife died in childbirth in the spring.
Si Mo would write it down once he said it.
Later on, he didn't dare to look up.
There were too many names. The names of the dead and the living were mixed together on one page, and after a while, it looked like a pot of smeared ink. It was hard to tell who had added a stroke and who had removed one.
The white dragon horse squatted by the threshold, holding half a steamed bun in its hand, taking a couple of bites and glancing at the courtyard.
"If we keep going like this, it'll be until tomorrow night."
"We have to get it right tomorrow night too." Chen Fan said without looking up. "If we don't clean up this batch of old books, more will pop up later."
Wukong leaned against a pillar, picking at the dust under his fingernails with a thin bamboo skewer.
He was dismantling machines with a mallet last night, and his hands were covered in metal shavings from half the factory. Hearing this, he raised his eyes.
"The factory burned down like that, how could it still be flammable?"
"Yes, it's possible." Chen Fan turned a page. "The person doing the accounting doesn't rely on those few machines to make a living. If the machines are gone, he can just find another place to print."
Yang Jian came in from outside, his clothes covered in mud.
He placed a package of opened wooden type molds on the table and tossed a bent copper shaft aside.
"The backyard has been dug up."
"Is there something?" the white dragon horse asked.
"Yes," Yang Jian said. "There are two layers. The top layer is rotten paper, and the bottom layer is discarded molds. There's also an ink drain that leads to the outside of the north wall."
Chen Fan finally looked up.
"Where does the north wall lead?"
"The old riverbed," Yang Jian said. "The riverbed is dry, overgrown with reeds. Someone has walked on it. The footprints are fresh; three people went north, and two came back. The two who came back had their bodies found at the factory last night."
Wukong flicked the bamboo stick.
"Then there's still one left that escaped."
"Not just one," someone outside the door suddenly interjected.
Liu Er strode into the courtyard, carrying a tattered mat on his shoulder. He threw the mat aside, and two unconscious men rolled out, their mouths stuffed with rags.
The people queuing in the courtyard all shrank back a little.
Liu Er wiped the dust off his face, his ears twitching slightly, as if he was still trying to figure something out.
"We found them to the north," he said. "They were playing dead by the reeds. We asked them a few questions, but before they could even get their mouths shut, they vomited it all up."
Chen Fan closed the booklet in his hand.
"explain."
Liu Er squatted down and pulled the cloth out of one of the men's mouths. When the man saw the crowd in the courtyard, his face turned pale, his lips trembled, and after a long while, he managed to squeeze out a sound.
"We...we're only responsible for burying the molds."
"Who told you to bury it?"
"Master Canmo".
Where are they?
The man's eyes darted around, as if he was still looking for a way to survive. Wukong took a step forward, not raising his staff, but simply stepping lightly on a brick beside him. The brick cracked into four pieces with a snap.
The man shrank his neck, and his voice became high-pitched.
"They ran away! They ran away last night!"
"Where do you want to run?"
"Go north! Through the crack!"
The people in the courtyard didn't understand and exchanged glances.
Chen Fan frowned.
"What crack?"
Liu Er continued, "Twenty miles north of the old riverbed, there's a fissure in the ground. It used to be a broken slope left from quarrying, but it collapsed later, leaving a hollow inside. That person knew the way, went in, and disappeared without a trace."
Yang Jian looked at him: "How can you be sure it's Canmo?"
Liu Er raised his hand and pointed to his own ear.
"I chased him to the edge of the broken slope, where there was an echo. The man was panting heavily, dragging a broken box under his feet. There was a sound of metal clanging against wood coming from inside the box. And there was a curse, very vulgar."
Wukong became interested: "What are you cursing about?"
Liu Er grinned.
"He said that even if the stall on the south side is abandoned, it can still open on the north side. There are still warehouses and people over at the old star station."
Chen Fan tapped his finger on the table.
The white dragon horse was stunned for a moment, then stood up straight.
"Old Star Station?"
The few people in the courtyard didn't understand those three words. Yang Jian, however, had already darkened his expression.
They had investigated an old railway line some time ago. That place was originally a freight transit point, abandoned for many years, yet its name remained on the register. Several times during audits, the line ended up abruptly near that location.
Chen Fan asked, "Did you hear me clearly?"
Liu Er nodded.
"It's crystal clear. That grandson even said that the tent in the north is bigger, while the one in the south is just a test."
The courtyard fell silent instantly.
The people who had been crowding around to announce their names just moments before fell silent. Some clutched their old booklets tightly, while others glanced instinctively at the black and white pages on the table, as if only now realizing that behind these tattered pieces of paper lay more than just a village and a factory.
Si Mo's throat went dry, and he asked in a low voice, "Sir, what should we do now?"
Chen Fan did not answer immediately.
He got up and walked to the center of the courtyard. He first looked at the two men who had been brought back, then looked up at the sky outside the gate. The sun had risen, illuminating the entrance to the scripture hall in white. Standing in that light, the sweat on a person's face was clearly visible.
"Let's finish this first," he said.
Wukong frowned: "Not going after them?"
"If you're going to chase, you have to make sure you're safe with what you have." Chen Fan turned and pointed to the pile of molds and copper shafts on the table. "This stall on the south side, no loose ends allowed. Finish checking the old books today. Demolish the abandoned factory today. Take what you can use, smash and burn what you can't."
The white dragon horse asked, "Where are we moving to?"
"Academy".
"Was that pile of dirty machines moved to the academy?"
"Disassemble and move them," Chen Fan said. "The rollers, pressure plates, and engraving grooves are all usable. We'll modify a whole new engraving machine."
Si Mo was taken aback: "Still printing?"
"Print." Chen Fan looked at him. "From now on, only print two things. Public account statements. Business register paper."
"What else?"
"No seal."
Many people in the courtyard looked up when they heard this.
Chen Fan's voice wasn't loud, but his words were very sincere.
"Whoever harvested how much grain, whoever contributed how much labor, whoever owed how much, and whoever made up how much—all of this is posted out. Posted at the village entrance, at the school, and at the scripture hall. Everyone can see it, and everyone can check it."
"Where's the booklet?" the white dragon horse pressed.
"Give them only blank paper. Print grids and columns, and teach them to memorize things themselves. Whoever writes it down is responsible for it, and whoever puts their fingerprint on it is responsible for the accounts." Chen Fan paused, "From now on, no more black books are allowed to manage the affairs of the entire village."
An old man by the door suddenly spoke up: "What if someone can't write it?"
"Learn," Chen Fan said.
"What if I can't learn it?"
"First, learn to recognize your own name," Chen Fan said, looking at him. "Then learn to recognize how many people are in your family. Recognizing your family isn't difficult; it's easier than accepting your fate."
The old man opened his mouth, but couldn't say anything for a long time. In the end, he just hugged the old book in his arms even tighter.
Wukong clicked his tongue and laughed in a strange way.
"Your words are even harsher than me smashing up the factory."
Chen Fan didn't respond to that, but simply nodded at Yang Jian.
"Take your men to the factory. First, dismantle the machines, then seal off the land. Also, dig up that ink discharge ditch underground."
"OK."
"Bai Long, go to the academy and find the carpenters and blacksmiths. Call all those who know how to repair axles."
The white dragon horse stuffed the last bite of the steamed bun into its mouth and patted the crumbs off its hands.
"understood."
"Six Ears." Chen Fan looked at him. "You continue listening to the northern route. Don't rush into the crevice. First, figure out the route and the entrance. How many places around the old star station can hide people, and how many can hide goods? I need the map tonight."
Liu Er nodded, his eyes already showing interest.
"I'll go."
"Wukong".
"explain."
"Go to the factory with Yang Jian this afternoon. After the demolition is finished, take a quick look at the northern slope. Don't go deep inside, just look at the outer entrance, and report back to me."
Wukong slung the staff over his shoulder.
"Okay. I'm the best at spotting the rat holes people hide in."
As soon as he finished speaking, the atmosphere in the courtyard became a little more lively.
People move quickly when they're alive. Those copying continued copying, and those in line continued queuing. The oppressive atmosphere that had been hanging over everyone was dispelled considerably by this series of instructions.
Around noon, some commotion started at the abandoned printing plant.
Truckloads of dismantled timber beams, iron shafts, and pressure plates were sent to the academy. Boxes of type molds were also being sent; the good ones were kept, while the bent ones were thrown directly into the furnace. Several carpenters spent a long time circling the most complete paper pressing machine, measuring dimensions while cursing the people who made the old books for their ruthless hands, even deliberately making the card slots narrow, just to press the pages faster.
When Chen Fan arrived at the academy, the courtyard was filled with sawdust and the sound of hammers.
The side room where the lecture hall used to be was now empty, with burlap sacks laid on the floor and the disassembled machine parts piled up in three heaps. Si Mo followed, his clothes still stained with ink, and squatted in front of a pressure plate for a long time before suddenly reaching out and touching it.
"If we lighten this area a bit, we can print larger account sheets."
The old carpenter next to him looked up and asked, "You understand?"
"I can't fix machines," Si Mo said. "But I know how the paper moves and how the words are written."
The old carpenter snorted and moved aside half a step.
"Then you tell me."
Si Mo gestured with his hands, speaking faster and faster. He explained clearly where to add baffles, where to replace gears, which groove should be a finger's width wider, and which wooden board could no longer be painted with old paint. The old carpenter, hearing this, stopped grumbling and simply told his apprentice to get the charcoal notebook.
The white dragon horse stood at the door, watching with amusement.
"This kid is really capable."
Looking at the pile of broken parts salvaged from the abandoned factory, Chen Fan finally felt a sense of relief.
Dirty things don't necessarily have to be thrown away. A different approach can make them more useful.
Before evening, the first trial printout of the account sheet was completed.
The ink wasn't completely dry yet, so the characters were unevenly written, with some parts lighter and others heavier, and the edges were slightly crooked. Only the simplest columns were printed on it: name, number of households, work attendance, grain payment, and verification.
Si Mo held the paper as if it were a freshly baked brick, walking with extreme care.
"Sir, look."
Chen Fan took it, glanced at it, and flicked the edge of the paper.
"It works."
Si Mo's lips curled into a smile, but he quickly suppressed it and turned to shout at the carpenters, "Press ten more sheets, no, press fifty first!"
Several people in the courtyard started laughing.
As dusk fell, Liu Er returned.
His shoes were covered in dirt, and a few dry grasses were still hanging from his cuffs. As soon as he entered the door, he grabbed the cold tea on the table and gulped down half a bowl.
Chen Fan put down the newly printed account sheet.
"What did you hear?"
Liu Er put down the bowl and drew a rough sketch on the table.
"There are three entrances to the slope. The middle one is the deepest, and that's the one Canmo used. Heading north, you'll find yourself facing the abandoned warehouse south of the old star station. There are also two pits along the way where cars were hidden, one of which was used just last night, and the ruts are still fresh."
Where are they?
"Didn't see the main character." Six Ears looked up. "I heard two shifts changing shifts. Their accents weren't from the south, more from the north. There were quite a few of them."
Wukong had just returned from outside, his shoulders still covered in dust. Upon hearing this, he leaned his staff against the wall.
"Then there's no way out."
Chen Fan looked at the rough map on the table, his finger pausing on the words "Old Star Station".
Outside, someone was drying newly printed booklets, each sheet clipped to hemp twine, the edges of the paper rustling softly in the evening breeze.
He withdrew his hand, folded the drawing, and tucked it into his sleeve.
"Seal the southern roster tonight," he said. "Tomorrow morning, call in men to watch the northern front."