Chapter 569: Kill the Chicken to Scare the Monkey

After enduring the psychological tactic of being deliberately kept waiting, Zhu Ping’an was treated to yet another classic maneuver of officialdom—

Killing the chicken to scare the monkey.

After leaving the Zhaomo Office, Zhu Ping’an followed Director Zhai toward the office of Minister of Justice He Ao.

Yet even then, he was unable to meet the minister.

He Ao was not in his office.

Instead, he was attending a hearing in one of the ministry’s main halls.

The case was being jointly tried by the Ministry of Justice and the Jinyiwei.

A director from another Qingli Division was presiding over the proceedings. Minister He Ao sat in attendance, observing the trial from his seat, while accompanying him was Wei Boyang, a fourth-rank Commanding Officer of the Jinyiwei.

Several Ministry bailiffs stood around the hall.

A number of Jinyiwei officers were present as well.

Although these men carried the title xiaowei—”guard officers”—they were, in reality, ordinary members of the Jinyiwei. Their status was roughly equivalent to common soldiers in other military units.

Most were selected from among strong and capable men throughout the empire, many possessing considerable martial skill.

Their normal duties involved ceremonial escorts, carrying imperial insignia, delivering summonses, and executing official assignments.

The Jinyiwei also maintained their infamous imperial prison.

Interrogations.

Punishments.

Trials.

Executions.

Such matters were as familiar to them as breathing.

Since Minister He was occupied with the hearing, Director Zhai led Zhu Ping’an into a nearby room to wait.

Once the case concluded, they would request an audience.

Coincidentally, the seat Zhu Ping’an occupied provided a clear view of the courtyard outside the hall.

And there, he witnessed a punishment being carried out.

“Lord Qu, this way, please.”

The words sounded courteous.

The manner was anything but.

A prisoner clad in white prison garments was dragged from the hall by two grinning Jinyiwei officers.

The man looked utterly terrified.

Though the officers addressed him as “Lord Qu,” there was not a trace of respect in their voices.

They handled him as casually as one might carry a chicken by its wings.

“Li does not descend to commoners, punishment does not rise to scholars!”

Lord Qu struggled desperately.

“I am a seventh-rank county magistrate! You cannot treat me like this!”

Because the distance was short, Zhu Ping’an could see everything clearly.

Even the wrinkles in the prisoner’s white robes were visible.

Every word exchanged between the magistrate and the guards reached his ears.

‘Punishment does not rise to scholars?’

Zhu Ping’an almost laughed.

Many officials had ended up as human lanterns or warning banners.

Compared to that, an ordinary beating hardly counted for much.

One of the Jinyiwei glanced at Magistrate Qu and curled his lip disdainfully.

“Oh, my Lord Qu.”

His smile never reached his eyes.

“Forget a seventh-rank magistrate. Even third-rank officials have tasted my rod before.”

“We’re rough men. We don’t understand all that nonsense about rites and scholars.”

“We only understand one thing.”

“Following orders.”

As he spoke, his hands never stopped moving.

Together, the two guards hauled Magistrate Qu to a long punishment bench in the center of the courtyard.

Upon reaching it, they released him.

The guards exchanged amused glances.

“Will Lord Qu lie down himself?”

“Or shall we help you?”

The meaning behind their smiles was unmistakable.

Humiliation.

Pure humiliation.

Magistrate Qu’s face alternated between red and white.

He knew resistance was futile.

Yet perhaps some shred of dignity remained.

Clenching his teeth, he suddenly straightened.

“I’ll do it myself!”

His voice trembled with anger.

“Utter humiliation!”

“A complete disgrace to scholars!”

He brushed imaginary dust from his sleeves with exaggerated force before climbing onto the bench and lying face down.

Just as he settled into position, a Ministry clerk emerged from the hall.

Holding a punishment token, he displayed it before Magistrate Qu and read aloud in a cold, expressionless voice.

“Wangping County Magistrate Qu.”

“For defying his superiors and improperly discussing affairs of state.”

“Sentence: sixty strokes of the rod.”

“Taking into account the hardships of official service, punishment is reduced by half.”

The Ming legal code measured rod punishments in increments of ten.

Sixty strokes represented the minimum formal sentence.

One hundred was the maximum.

Since officials received preferential treatment, Magistrate Qu’s sixty strokes would be reduced to thirty.

“If one wishes to condemn, excuses are never lacking.”

Magistrate Qu snorted.

After that, he said nothing more.

Once the sentence was announced, the two Jinyiwei retrieved their instruments.

They were long, thick rods made from heavy thornwood branches.

Each measured roughly three feet in length.

The striking ends were as thick as a man’s fist.

Dark stains marked their surfaces.

Old blood.

Dried and blackened.

One guard casually weighed the rod in his hands before grinning at Magistrate Qu.

“A bit light, really.”

“Not nearly as satisfying as those iron-bound court canes with barbs.”

He deliberately swung it through the air.

The rod emitted a low whistle.

The threat was obvious.

Magistrate Qu’s face paled slightly.

Another guard stepped closer.

“Lord Qu.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Anything you’d like to… entrust to us?”

As he spoke, his fingers rubbed together.

A universal gesture.

Money.

Bribery.

Zhu Ping’an’s lips curved faintly upward.

Just as the histories described.

The hidden rules of corporal punishment.

The hidden professions born from it.

One might say that beyond the traditional three hundred and sixty trades, corporal punishment had given rise to a three hundred and sixty-first.

Because administering a beating was, quite literally, a craft.

The guards who wielded the rods made their living through skill.

And it was genuine skill.

According to unofficial records, Jinyiwei tasked with executions and punishments required years of training.

One did not simply pick up a rod and begin beating people.

Apprentices had to find masters.

Offer gifts.

Study techniques.

Practice endlessly.

Their training centered around two methods.

Heavy outside, light inside.

And—

Light outside, heavy inside.

To practice, they created two training dummies.

One was filled with tofu.

The other with bricks.

Both were dressed in clothing.

When practicing the “heavy outside, light inside” technique, the goal was to shred the clothing to pieces with thunderous strikes while leaving the tofu untouched.

Only then was the technique considered mastered.

For the opposite method, the brick-filled dummy was used.

The trainee had to strike hard enough to shatter every brick inside while leaving the clothing externally intact.

Only then could he graduate.

Thus, if a prisoner had offered gifts beforehand—or if a superior hinted that leniency was desired—the executioner employed the first method.

The victim appeared horribly beaten.

Clothes torn.

Skin split.

Blood everywhere.

Yet the injuries remained superficial.

After a few days of rest, he could return home healthy and energetic.

But if no bribe had been offered…

Or if a superior desired a harsher lesson…

The second technique was used.

Externally, there might be little more than bruising.

A few swollen patches.

Nothing dramatic.

Yet beneath the surface, bones shattered.

Organs suffered trauma.

The injuries could cripple a man—or kill him.

The rod was the same.

The number of strokes was the same.

But life and death depended entirely upon the hands holding it.

A single thought.

A single decision.

That was all.

And so, naturally, those facing punishment often paid handsomely for a “lighter” beating.

Thus was born that unofficial three hundred and sixty-first profession.

Of course, those without money—

Or those ignorant of the rules—

Or those too stubbornly upright to participate—

Had no choice but to endure whatever fate awaited them.

“Hmph.”

Magistrate Qu’s response consisted of nothing more than a cold snort.

The guards immediately understood.

No money.

No compromise.

No pleading.

One of them laughed.

“Very well.”

“Then Lord Qu will have to bear with us.”

“We’re only following orders.”

“Please forgive the offense.”

The words sounded polite.

The strike that followed was not.

WHACK!

The rod descended with a vicious hiss through the air.

It landed squarely across Magistrate Qu’s backside.

The sound alone made onlookers wince.

In the next instant, Magistrate Qu’s body arched violently.

His neck stretched forward like that of a goose.

Veins bulged across his forehead.

“AHHHHHHHH!”

The scream echoed throughout the courtyard.

One strike.

Two strikes.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Again and again the rods fell.

Each scream became more agonized than the last.

Eventually, the sounds ceased altogether.

Not because the pain had lessened.

Because it had become too great.

Magistrate Qu’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

His lips moved in silent cries.

Only instinct remained.

Within moments, blood soaked through the white prison uniform.

The spreading crimson stain grew larger with every stroke.

“This is Magistrate Qu of Wanping County.”

Director Zhai’s voice sounded beside Zhu Ping’an.

“During the recent official evaluations, he repeatedly criticized his superiors in public and made inappropriate remarks concerning state affairs.”

As he spoke, Zhai carefully observed Zhu Ping’an’s expression.

Watching.

Measuring.

Waiting for fear.

Waiting for regret.

Waiting for cracks.

The purpose behind this spectacle was obvious.

Kill the chicken.

Scare the monkey.

Defying superiors.

Criticizing official policy.

Speaking recklessly about state affairs.

The parallels were impossible to miss.

Director Zhai had deliberately brought him here to witness this scene.

A warning.

A lesson.

An example.

But Zhu Ping’an merely sat at the table.

Calm.

Relaxed.

Almost amused.

He watched the punishment as if watching a film unfold before him.

A faint smile rested upon his face.

No fear.

No anxiety.

No visible discomfort.

Only detached observation.

Director Zhai’s expectations crumbled.

And with them came profound disappointment.

The monkey he intended to frighten…

Didn’t seem frightened at all.