After making a full round through the county, Li Daoxuan's vision finally settled on the county yamen.
It was already dusk.
Yet Magistrate Liang Shixian hadn't gone home. He was still in his office, surrounded by piles of ledgers and scrolls. His Shaoxing scribe was darting between tables, compiling data into neat stacks and handing them over one by one.
Li Daoxuan glanced down with curiosity—
The magistrate was flipping through a thick booklet titled Debt Records.
Each page listed an entry:
"On such-and-such date, borrowed grain from Li family of Gao Village…"
"On such-and-such date, borrowed more grain from Li family of Gao Village…"
And so on.
Page after page.
A whole volume full.
Liang sighed deeply, holding the booklet as if it weighed a thousand catties.
"I once thought I owed some hidden noble clan an unrepayable debt," he murmured. "Only now do I realize—it was divine relief all along. This ledger… what a joke it's become."
The scribe beside him chuckled softly.
"Heavenly beings don't lack for grain, my lord. Surely they won't demand repayment. Besides, we didn't hoard it—we gave it all to the starving folk."
Liang nodded slowly. It made sense. Back when he'd borrowed the grain, the Li family had handed it over without hesitation, insisting he use it for porridge and famine relief. Now he knew why—
That was Tianzun's compassion at work.
But then—
something tugged at his memory.
"Wait… there was a detail, wasn't there? Something the steward said…"
He frowned.
Yes—at the time, Steward San had said something peculiar:
"We don't pay taxes on behalf of others."
He hadn't thought much of it then. But now, looking back, Liang felt a prickle of unease.
He lowered his voice.
"Sir Scribe, I sense… something's not quite right."
"What do you mean, my lord?"
"Tianzun has blessed Gao Village, Zheng Village, Zhong Village, Wang Village—all their droughts ended, crops thriving again. Yet none of them have come to pay taxes."
The scribe froze mid-scribble. His brush hovered over the paper.
Liang continued, voice grave:
"Nearly ten thousand refugees now labor under Tianzun's direction—building roads, earning fair wages. But none pay taxes either. I was too busy being grateful they survived to notice. Now that I think of it… if this continues, won't the court question me? How am I to answer?"
Li Daoxuan couldn't help grinning from above.
"Ha! So that's what I forgot. Leave it to the magistrate to remember the taxes."
Indeed, everyone else might overlook such matters—
but a county magistrate never did.
After all, tax collection was his single biggest metric of performance.
(Ming Context: In Ming administration, a magistrate's career advancement depended heavily on tax quotas—grain and silver alike. Failure meant demotion, success meant promotion.)
The scribe blinked, then gave a helpless smile.
"My lord… perhaps we should, ah, delay the matter?"
"Delay again? We already did last year!"
"Then delay it the same way again," the scribe whispered urgently. "Now's no time to collect taxes—it would be like defying Heaven itself. Forgive my bluntness, but the people's food and wages all come directly from Tianzun. To tax them now would be to tax Tianzun's gifts. And if he were angered—one golden palm from the clouds and we'd be paste! You can't even flee; you're bound to this post."
Liang rubbed his forehead.
"You… have a point. But tax collection is my duty! I can't just keep stalling forever."
He paused—then brightened suddenly.
"Tianzun has boundless power and compassion. Since the grain he created saved the people, perhaps he could… magically produce the taxes as well? That way the court would be satisfied, and the commoners spared."
He chuckled at his own thought—
then froze again.
Something about that idea didn't feel right either.
He searched his memory, flipping mental pages like a scholar paging through scrolls. Every word, every conversation flashed before his mind's eye until—
Ding!
It stopped on Shansier's voice.
"And after you hand the taxes in—where do they go? Do you even know? Are you sure they all reach the treasury? And even if they do—are they ever used for the people?"
That was it.
Liang sighed long and low.
"So, in the end… perhaps it's better not to collect them at all."
Up in the sky, Li Daoxuan grinned.
"Finally someone thinking straight."
Still, he didn't dismiss the issue.
He leaned back in thought.
Taxes. Should they exist at all?
Of course, they should.
Gao Village's entire system was abnormal—it ran only because he constantly infused it with resources. That wasn't sustainable. A functioning society needed structure, funding, circulation.
Taxation was essential—
but how it was collected had to change.
The poor shouldn't bear it.
It should come from those with enough to give.
(Trivia: Ming tax reform debates often centered on who should bear land and labor taxes—leading eventually to the "Single Whip" system, which simplified but also deepened inequality.)
Li Daoxuan smiled wryly.
"Looks like I'll need to design a whole new system—who pays, how much, what for. No point rushing it."
For now, he decided, the people of Chengcheng County could enjoy a little peace.
He turned his vision toward the city's bookstore.
Inside, Gao Yiye sat cross-legged with four young women she'd rescued from brothels, all focused on sketching the next installment of The Legend of Tianzun, Demon Vanquisher.
The third volume was already halfway done—
the siege of the county seat, the divine palm from the clouds, the rebels kneeling in surrender.
Li Daoxuan chuckled.
"This girl—she's turning current events into bestsellers."
He leaned closer.
"Yiye! Starting tomorrow, you'll be busy. Pass the storyboards to your team—let them draw. You'll be assisting me directly, coordinating with the magistrate. We're going to rebuild the county."
Gao Yiye's eyes sparkled.
"Yes, my lord!"