Chapter Nine: The Trap

The Feng family's father and son owned a modest shop on the outskirts of town. The location was remote, and business was neither thriving nor dire. Most of their trade came from wholesale, and the pungent odor of their medicinal processing was unpleasant enough to warrant distance from neighbors, lest it cause quarrels.

It was midday. Feng Xiaobao was napping when a commotion outside startled him awake.

"Your pills killed someone! Pay with your life!" someone shouted at the entrance of the apothecary.

The man's booming voice quickly drew a crowd.

"What happened?"

"What's going on?"

"I'm not sure, I just got here myself!"

Gossip, it seemed, was human nature. In a blink, even this secluded street was teeming with onlookers, though none could say from whence they came.

Rushing to the storefront, Feng Xiaobao saw his father, Feng Dabao, facing off against a group of people. Outside, a door panel had been laid on the ground, upon which rested the body of an old man—lifeless.

At the head of the group was a young man holding high a box of the "Immortal's Vitality Pills," spittle flying as he declared, "…My father died after taking your pills! He died so pitifully! He never even enjoyed much happiness in his later years, and now—"

Several burly men at his side cried out, "A life for a life! He must pay! Justice for the dead!"

Their numbers and their volume carried their indignation across the streets, attracting an ever-larger throng. Hearing their words, passersby and neighbors alike buzzed with speculation:

"So it was his medicine that killed the old man!"

"That medicine—take it and you'll feel as happy as an immortal, and then go off to become one!"

Laughter rippled through the crowd. The accusers glared, but Feng Dabao, seasoned in the ways of the world, knew not to lose his composure. Calmly, he asked, "Pray tell, where did you purchase these pills?"

"In the city, at the Hundred Herbs Hall!" the young man replied.

The Hundred Herbs Hall did indeed stock his wares. Feng Dabao nodded, then asked, "Did they not mention the medicine's contraindications?"

Without waiting for a reply, he continued, "Young people, one pill a day at most. Middle-aged, up to three. Elders, half a pill—any more is dangerous. Taken as directed, there's never a problem! Didn't their physician tell you?"

The young man, impatient, said, "He did, but my father still died!"

"Impossible! Our medicines are meticulously prepared. Never has there been an incident—why only your father?" Feng Dabao insisted confidently.

"But something happened!" the young man shouted. "You must compensate us!"

"Perhaps you didn't follow instructions. As for how much your father took at home, who can say?" Feng Dabao cleanly deflected blame.

Both sides had their arguments. A busybody in the crowd suggested, "Take it to the authorities!"

"Yes! Let's see the magistrate!" the young man agreed. "Come with us!"

See the official?

Even as the words were spoken, an official appeared—Liu San, the local constable. He was a man of seemingly honest demeanor, dressed in the Tang dynasty's official garb: a round-collared, right-fastened robe just to the knees, narrow sleeves, a leather belt, soft boots, and a black gauze cap.

In the Tang dynasty, the position of constable was appointed at the local level, one for every hundred households, five such communities making a township. The constable was responsible for local affairs.

To wear such attire was to have some measure of status or wealth. The common folk respectfully parted before him.

"What has happened here?" Liu San inquired.

"My name is Du Chen. I live in Huiyu Lane in the city. Officer, this is what happened: my father took their medicine and, alas, passed away…" The young man, Du Chen, squeezed out a few tears.

"Is that so?" Liu San said noncommittally, then turned to hear Feng Dabao's explanation. Feng Dabao firmly denied responsibility, insisting the death was a result of improper use. As the conversation grew heated, Du Chen and his burly companions raised their voices, each side refusing to yield.

"This is a matter of life and death, a grave disturbance. Since you both have your reasons, I think you'd best go together to the magistrate and let the authorities decide," Liu San said, appearing impartial.

The magistrate!

The gates of the yamen are wide, but without money, your case is for naught.

Though the scales of justice hang high, their light seldom shines on the common folk.

A glint flickered in Feng Dabao's eyes. He addressed those present: "Very well, we shall see the magistrate. Allow me a moment to make arrangements. Please wait."

Liu San, unperturbed, nodded pleasantly: "Please do."

Feng Dabao pulled his son into the shop and whispered, "Son, whatever I say, do not panic. Do not fear. Do exactly as I tell you."

Feng Xiaobao nodded vigorously as his father continued, "They are all in league."

Though their association was not overt, Feng Dabao, keen observer that he was, had already spotted the flaws in their act. Du Chen was altogether too calm—if his own father had truly died, would he have brought such a retinue merely to stand by? In righteous fury, would he not have already started a brawl?

Only someone with an ulterior motive would exercise such restraint, fearing things might spiral out of control.

No true aggrieved party would hesitate—if words failed, fists would fly, and the authorities could be called upon later.

The burly men were clearly acting on orders, parroting lines, nothing like the impassioned helpers of a bereaved family.

Not only them, but other suspicious figures loitered on the fringes of the crowd—Feng Dabao noticed them as well.

As for Liu San, his arrival was too timely, his demeanor too composed. Clearly, he was prepared.

With such a trap set for the Fengs, the answer was clear to Feng Dabao: these must be the forces who had previously sought his ancestral prescription, now using official authority in an attempt to obtain it openly.

Feng Dabao swiftly discerned the truth. He did not fear their scheme. He had nothing to lose; if pushed to desperation, he could easily alter the formula, ensuring those who took it would suffer slow poisoning.

His only weakness was his son. If they used Feng Xiaobao against him, that would be real trouble.

Thus, his instructions to his son were simple: "Go! Go as far as you can!"

He believed that, once far away, his son would be able to live well. Over the past year, Xiaobao had changed greatly, as if, after a certain injury, he had become a different person. If he had not been so familiar with his son's habits, Feng Dabao might have called for an exorcist.

"Father!" Feng Xiaobao whispered.

Feng Dabao silenced him, sternly: "Do as I say!"

"Do you remember the cabinet in my room, the one I gave you the key for?" Feng Dabao stared hard at his son, as if to memorize his face.

"I remember!"

"Go, open the cabinet, take the money, and leave! Go!" Feng Dabao gripped his son's hand, nearly crushing it.

"Alright," Xiaobao answered softly.

Feng Dabao released his son and walked out the door. "Come, let us see the magistrate!"

With curses and threats from Du Chen, Feng Dabao set off with them toward the county seat.

Outside, the crowd lingered. Feng Xiaobao quickly shuttered the shop, shutting out all outside eyes, and rushed to the back room, unlocking the cabinet with his key.

Inside was a backpack containing over five hundred copper coins and a handful of silver ingots.

During the Tang dynasty, Kaiyuan Tongbao copper coins were used—square-holed and round, ten coins to the ounce, a thousand coins weighing six pounds and four ounces. Five hundred coins weighed just over three pounds, heavy and cumbersome.

People primarily spent copper; gold and silver were rare, mostly used for rewards, gifts, and ceremonial offerings, sometimes even in trade for cloth, but seldom circulated as currency. Yet silver, as a precious metal, still had value in folk life: for savings, jewelry, family heirlooms—both prestigious and practical. Silver was true hard currency. Feng Dabao, experienced in the ways of the world, had converted some savings into silver, just in case.

For those who lived by their wits, a sense of instability was ever-present. Now, those silver ingots would serve their purpose.

Feng Xiaobao hurriedly packed, taking some clothes and concealing silver within them, grabbed a few more for his person, and slipped out in haste.

"Where are you going, eldest son of the Fengs?" No sooner had he slipped out the back than two ruffians, clearly waiting for him, blocked his way.

Feng Xiaobao lowered his head, a sharp glint in his eyes.

So, there it was—the plot revealed.

He looked up, feigning fear. "Who are you?"

"Who are we?" the ruffians laughed. "We're your dear brothers. Come with us, and you'll have a good time!"

They moved in, one on each side, reaching for his arms.

As their hands touched—much like the "bridge hands" of Wing Chun—Feng Xiaobao sensed immediately that their aim was to subdue, not harm him, and their strength was unimpressive, hardly that of professional thugs.

Who would send real muscle against a child?

Feng Xiaobao had studied Wing Chun, an art that prized sensitivity and reaction. Wing Chun taught that reactions triggered by touch were faster than those by sight—a tactile reflex ran through the spine, bypassing the slower route of visual processing through the brain.

So when Xiaobao struck, the two ruffians were caught utterly off guard. His moves flashed like lightning; in a heartbeat, their faces, necks, and bodies were struck with heavy, rapid blows, loud and punishing. Though grown men, they could not withstand the assault of a teenage boy.

Energy aligned, force rising from the ground, power generated from the waist and issued through the arms—this was true Wing Chun.

The world spun, and in the blink of an eye, both men were sprawled in the dirt.

It was Wing Chun's first display of might—a clean victory, felling two ruffians without breaking a sweat. By the time their accomplices arrived, the only thing left on the ground was the groaning of the defeated, with not a trace of Feng Xiaobao to be found.

In a tavern nearby, commanding his men, Zeng Erlang received word of Feng Xiaobao's escape. He could no longer sit still and, in his rage, smashed his cup to the floor.

In his plan, Feng Xiaobao was the linchpin—more crucial even than the authorities themselves. As long as they had the boy, they could threaten Feng Dabao and force him to surrender the secret of the ancestral prescription.

Now that Xiaobao had escaped, Dabao would not be easily cowed.

All that remained was to see whether the authorities' pressure—or the ruse of pretending Xiaobao had been captured—could force Dabao to yield the prescription.

Zeng Erlang immediately dispatched men to pursue Feng Xiaobao.