The next day, as official work begins, rin’s carriage stops in front of the governor’s residence.
He steps down and imdiately notices that his own servants are carrying items and furniture inside the building. Boxes, scroll racks, personal belongings, everything necessary for a governor’s occupation is being moved in with deliberate efficiency.
rin does not pause.
He walks through the front entrance, passes the first lobby, and turns into the inner corridor. Pushing open another set of doors, he enters the main administrative hall.
Inside, governnt servants move back and forth carrying scrolls, inkstones, ledgers, and seals. Petitioners stand in clusters, voices raised in frustration. So argue loudly; others complain bitterly about delays.
When they see rin, the servants bow respectfully, but their movents do not stop.
The discontent among the townspeople is clear.
“Where are the officials?” soone shouts.
“How can there be no one here to process our cases?”
rin releases his spirit quietly.
The offices are empty.
Every administrative room, every assistant’s desk, was vacant.
He withdraws his spirit and walks toward the staircase, climbing steadily to the upper floor.
He understands the situation imdiately.
This is a show of force.
The forces within the town are reminding him who truly holds influence here.
He reaches his office and pushes the door open.
Inside, an old man stands waiting. He wears a grey robe with two bronze-colored rings sewn onto the sleeves, marking his rank, an eighth-rank official.
In the kingdom’s hierarchy, officials are divided into nine ranks. Nine is the lowest. One is the highest.
The old man bows deeply.
“Official Han Futong greets you, Governor.”
rin smiles faintly.
“You did not take leave today.”
He walks calmly behind the large desk that now belongs to him.
Han Futong straightens slightly.
“In one week, my retirent date arrives,” he says. “And not all officials can take leave at the sa ti.”
rin pulls out the chair and sits.
“So not everyone is absent.”
Han Futong nods.
“Yes, Lord. Those who did not request leave were assigned by the forr governor to carry out official duties in nearby villages or sent to Weinji City.”
rin’s gaze sharpens slightly.
“When did this occur?”
“At dawn today,” Han Futong replies. “The forr governor convened a final eting and issued the assignnts. The rest requested leave of absence. Because only one week remains before my retirent, the forr governor left here.”
rin leans back slightly in his chair.
“Bring all the docunts that the other officials are supposed to review.”
Han Futong hesitates.
“All of them?”
On a typical day, local officials handle routine matters. Only the most urgent or complex cases reach the governor’s desk. A governor cannot possibly review hundreds of docunts daily.
But rin nods.
“All of them. Bring them in batches.”
Han Futong bows.
“Yes, Lord.”
He exits the room.
A few minutes later, he returns.
He carries a stack of docunts so large it stretches from his belly to his neck. The thin bamboo-strip bindings creak faintly as he struggles under their weight.
He steps carefully, breathing heavily.
With a strained exhale, he drops the stack onto the desk.
The wood groans.
Han Futong’s face flushes red as he inhales deeply to steady himself.
“Are these all?” rin asks calmly.
Han Futong shakes his head.
“There are more.”
rin nods.
“Bring the rest after I finish these. You may sit.”
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He gestures toward the two chairs opposite the desk and the two chairs by the window overlooking the street below.
Han Futong straightens again.
“No need, Lord. I will stand.”
rin does not insist.
He picks up the first docunt.
The outer cover is made of thin painted bamboo strips bound together. Inside, the pages are thick, durable paper filled with neat brushstrokes.
He flips through the pages rapidly.
His mory does not forget what it sees.
His powerful spirit sorts and categorises information instantly, extracting essential points, discarding repetition, and identifying contradictions.
This particular case concerns a land dispute between an uncle and his nephew.
The land originally belonged to the uncle’s father, the nephew’s grandfather. After the old man’s death, the property was divided into two portions: one-half went to the uncle, the other to the nephew’s father. For years, the division stood without conflict.
Then, about a year ago, the nephew’s father died.
Soon after, the uncle filed a lawsuit, claiming that the original division had been incorrect and unjust. He demanded that the land be re-evaluated and redistributed.
rin looks up from the docunt.
“Official Han,” he asks calmly, “what do you know about the Zou family, the uncle, the nephew, and their disputed land?”
Han Futong’s eyes widen slightly.
He had assud Governor Duan was rely flipping through the pages to gauge volu before beginning a serious review. The speed at which rin turned the pages had seed almost dismissive.
But this question,
It reveals that rin had read and understood the contents while flipping.
Han Futong has heard that higher cultivation brings extraordinary abilities. Sharper senses. Stronger mory. But reading so quickly, yet grasping details,
It unsettles him.
He gathers himself and replies.
“Governor, the uncle is a drunkard and a gambler. He survives by renting out his land. Because he neglects it, the soil has beco infertile and barren. anwhile, his late brother carefully cultivated his portion, and it remains fertile and productive.”
Han Futong pauses briefly.
“The uncle now demands an exchange; he wants his nephew to trade the fertile land for his own ruined land.”
rin understands.
So that is the motive.
He picks up the feather pen.
As he prepares to write his decision, Han Futong adds quietly, “Governor, the uncle is close to the Bear Gang. That is why no decision has been made until now.”
rin pauses for a fraction of a second.
The Bear Gang.
A local force.
Intimidation disguised as influence.
He resus writing.
His decision favours the nephew.
The law is clear. The original division stands. The uncle’s claim lacks rit.
rin channels a thread of blood qi to dry the ink instantly, preventing saring. He sets the docunt aside.
He picks up the next one.
And the next.
For each case, he reads rapidly, extracting core issues, questioning Han Futong for background information, and then issuing precise rulings. Land disputes. Trade disagreents. Tax conflicts. Minor criminal complaints. Corruption allegations buried under procedural delay.
rin’s movents are steady and efficient.
His spirit categorises each matter into urgency levels, legal precedence, and potential impact on town stability.
Han Futong watches in growing astonishnt.
In re minutes, the first batch of docunts is completed.
“Bring the next,” rin says.
Han Futong obeys.
Another heavy stack arrives.
Again, rin reads.
Again, he decides.
Hours pass.
Sunlight shifts across the floor. Shadows lengthen.
By the ti the afternoon light begins to dim, rin has completed not only the present day’s workload but also the backlog accumulated over months, perhaps years.
He sets down the final docunt.
“Call the runner captain,” he orders.
The runner captain arrives swiftly.
“Inform all parties involved of my decisions,” rin instructs. “Deliver copies imdiately.”
“Yes, Governor.”
The captain departs.
Han Futong stands frozen.
His eyes are wide, not from fear, but from awe.
In a single day, the new governor has cleared what had been deliberately delayed for political leverage.
rin turns his attention back to Han Futong.
“Where are the financial records of the town?”
Han Futong blinks.
He has not yet recovered from the display he has witnessed.
“Th-the financial records?” he stamrs.
“Yes.”
Han Futong nods quickly, almost chanically, and leads rin down the corridor to another room.
Inside, shelves line the far wall from floor to ceiling. Bundles of financial docunts are arranged carefully, separated by year, each marked clearly above with the appropriate date.
rin scans the labels.
“Which year did Shi Yuli beco governor?”
“Song Calendar, year 446,” Han Futong replies.
rin calculates silently.
“It is now year 469,” he murmurs. “So he governed for twenty-three years.”
He steps forward.
Instead of starting with 446, he reaches for the records of the year 445.
Han Futong watches closely.
rin opens the financial record of 445 and begins reading.
Revenue entries.
Tax records.
Grain storage counts.
Trade tariffs.
Expenditures for infrastructure and militia.
He reads year 445 completely before moving to 446.
Then 447.
Then 448.
He does not rush.
He compares patterns.
He notes fluctuations.
Tax revenue spikes one year. Grain shortages are next. Military spending increases during certain trade seasons. Repair funds are allocated repeatedly for the sa infrastructure.
His spirit overlays the data across the years, constructing a layered structure of comparison in his mind. Revenues, expenditures, harvest reports, trade tariffs—each category aligns against the next like interlocking grids.
Sothing is wrong.
It is not blatant theft.
Not obvious embezzlent.
It is subtler than that.
At the beginning of the records, nearly forty per cent of the town’s agricultural output consisted of staple grain crops. Rice, wheat, and other basic produce were grown locally. The town was at least partially self-sufficient.
But now—
Zero.
Not a single field is recorded as growing grain.
Every agricultural plot has been converted to white leaf tea or saffron—cash crops with higher market value but no nutritional substance for daily survival. Yet the land tax remains unchanged, because the tax is levied on acreage, not on what is cultivated.
The revenue appears stable on paper.
In reality, the entire agricultural tax inco is now used to purchase rice, wheat, and other necessities from outside the town.
Dependency has replaced resilience.
rin’s gaze sharpens.
He continues reviewing.
There was once a Cold Silver tal Mine in the region. It had been one of the primary reasons this frontier town was established. The mine produced strategic tal—useful for weapon forging, resistant to cold climates.
Two decades ago, however, the mine was officially closed.
The reason recorded: operational difficulty and repeated beast attacks.
Since then, the town’s economic structure has shifted dramatically.
Without the mine, trade weakened. Agriculture transford into luxury crops. The town now survives primarily on funds sent by the imperial court, justified by its strategic frontier position.
The court cannot close the town.
It lies too close to the northern tribal territories.
Forty years ago, the town was opened for economic exploitation of the mine.
Now, it functions as the first line of defence against northern tribes.
A beacon tower.
A delaying wall.
If mountain barbarians descend, this town is expected to stall them for days—buying ti for the prosperous cities behind it to prepare adequate defence.
rin closes the final ledger.
He turns to Han Futong.
“Tomorrow,” he says calmly, “I will visit the Cold Silver tal Mine. Make the preparations.”
Han Futong’s face grows solemn.
“Yes, Governor.”
“You may leave.”
Han Futong bows and exits the room.
rin returns to his office.
He stands before the large map of the town and its surrounding terrain hanging on the wall behind his desk. His eyes trace the roads, the agricultural zones, the forest lines, the mountain passes leading toward the Maggon Mountains.
The town is hollow.
Economically dependent. Militarily symbolic. Strategically important—but structurally fragile.
He studies the terrain in silence.
Improving the town is not only for the court.
It is for himself.
Gatewatch Peak Town will beco the first architectural stone of his larger design.
From here, he will extend influence into the Maggon Mountains.
From here, control will begin.
And he continues staring at the map, calculating.
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