In the fourth year of Chongzhen — 1631 by modern reckoning — the Ming court moved like a wounded beast lashing out in every direction. Over twenty thousand imperial troops marched from Sichuan, Shaanxi, and Shanxi, forming nineteen encampments across the ravaged countryside. Sixteen officers, ranging from brigadiers to governors-general, spread their banners like a massive net, closing in on Wang Jiayin's rebel army in Hequ County.
For the other scattered rebels, the court offered something different — amnesty and silver, not swords.
Censor Wu Shen arrived in Shaanxi with a hundred thousand taels of emergency funds, scraped together from the Chongzhen Emperor's last vestiges of imperial dignity — palaces pawned, treasures sold, pride mortgaged. His task was to distribute relief grain, soothe rebellion, and, if fortune allowed, remind the commoners that the Son of Heaven still cared for their hunger.
Meanwhile, in Gao Family Village, the crisis wasn't rebellion — it was recruitment.
The great machine of progress needed hands, and hands were precisely what they lacked.
"Reporting to Dao Xuan Tianzun!" Liang Shixian stood at attention in Chengcheng County, bowing to the colossal golden statue that gleamed beneath the sun. His voice carried both reverence and frustration. "Your humble servant managed — with no small effort — to lure a few families from Baishui County to settle here. I hoped their example would attract more laborers. But ever since Censor Wu Shen arrived, things have changed. He's opened a porridge station in Baishui County, and now the hungry flock to him instead of us. They'd rather line up for gruel than cross a county line for good pay!"
"Reporting to Dao Xuan Tianzun!" Feng Jun's voice echoed from Heyang County. "The people of Dali County have just enough to eat now. They're content. I've used every trick I know, but they won't budge. They'd rather starve slowly at home than live well somewhere new."
From the heavens — or rather, from outside the vast diorama that contained their world — Li Daoxuan watched through the lens of his Co-sensing ability. The emperor's silver and grain were indeed doing their job: famine subsided, rebellion quieted, and for once, the map of Shaanxi looked deceptively peaceful.
The truth, however, was simpler and more ancient.
Humans are loyal to soil.
As long as they weren't starving, they clung to their ancestral homes like moss to stone. Promise them gold and they might nod; promise them comfort and they might smile — but move them? Hardly.
Even in modern times, Li Daoxuan mused, villagers in remote mountains refuse to move to the cities, though those cities might pay ten times the wage. They would rather till the same rocky fields, sunburnt and uncomplaining. It's not logic that binds them — it's hometown sentiment, that quiet ache that says: "I was born here, and here I shall die."
And so, the question stood.
How do you outwit sentiment itself?
While Li Daoxuan pondered, a messenger came sprinting through the county streets to Liang Shixian's golden statue. "County Magistrate!" he shouted breathlessly. "Censor Wu Shen has arrived — with chests of silver and cartloads of grain! He claims to be here for disaster relief and requests your presence to greet him!"
Liang blinked, taken aback. "Disaster relief?" he muttered.
The words sounded almost comical to the ears of Chengcheng's residents. Disaster relief? For them? Usually, they were the ones being begged to help others.
Still, duty was duty. Liang Shixian turned, bowed deeply to the towering figure of Dao Xuan Tianzun, and declared, "Your humble subordinate must take his leave to welcome this so-called angel of the court."
Dao Xuan Tianzun chuckled from his perch beyond the stars. Now this, he thought, could be entertaining. Perhaps this Censor Wu Shen will deliver me a new labor force wrapped in silk and ceremony. Liang's decent, but diplomacy isn't exactly his forte. Best I intervene before he offends half the imperial court.
He grinned. A little mischief never hurt anyone.
With that thought, Dao Xuan Tianzun activated Co-sensing once more.
Inside the ancestral shrine of Gao Family Fortress, the silicone statue of Dao Xuan Tianzun suddenly sat upright. Once, there had been only one clay idol in that hall — a crude figure of piety. Now, thanks to Li Daoxuan's peculiar hobby, the shrine housed an entire army of silicone Dao Xuan Tianzuns, each crafted with unnerving lifelike precision. Sculptors labored day and night, their chisels guided by faith and caffeine.
Li Daoxuan selected one of the silicone forms and slipped his consciousness into it. The statue's eyes blinked open.
"Greetings, Dao Xuan Tianzun!" cried San Shier and Gao Yiye, who had been offering incense. They both fell to their knees in alarm as the idol sat up.
Dao Xuan Tianzun stretched, smiling. "I think I'll take a little stroll among mortals today. Fetch me some props — a tattered monk's robe, a string of prayer beads, a cracked wine gourd, and a broken palm-leaf fan."
San Shier gawked. "Uh… may I ask what for, Your Divine Excellency?"
Gao Yiye, on the other hand, brightened with amusement. "Oh! Isn't that how Monk Ji Gong dresses? The opera troupe that came last year performed a play about him. Are you going to disguise yourself as Ji Gong, my lord?"
Dao Xuan Tianzun laughed. "Exactly! If Guanyin can moonlight as a Daoist, surely I can borrow a monk's robes for a day. I might even give the Tathagata himself a friendly tap on the back of the head!"
San Shier paled. Gao Yiye clapped like a delighted child.
The Heavenly Lord hasn't changed one bit, San Shier thought miserably. Still the same prankster who once filled Gao Yiye's house with divine rice just to see what would happen.
Before long, San Shier returned with the costume borrowed from the opera troupe. The silicone Dao Xuan Tianzun slipped the ragged monk's robe over his immovable Daoist one, slung the cracked wine gourd over his shoulder, and tucked the broken fan under one arm. He rubbed a smear of ash across his cheek for good measure.
Then, fanning himself lazily, he began to hum:
"My shoes are torn, my hat is torn, my kasaya is torn...
You laugh at me, he laughs at me, my fan is torn…"
If there had been an audience, they would've sworn Monk Ji Gong himself had descended from the stage.
"Perfect," he said with a grin. "Let's pay our good Censor a visit."
Since this form wasn't bound by flesh, the logistics were simple. No need for steam trains or solar carts — a thought would suffice.
Dao Xuan Tianzun's real self reached into the diorama box, pinched the tiny silicone monk between his fingers, and lifted him gently into the air.
To the people inside the model world, it looked like divinity itself had taken flight.
Villagers gasped and pointed. "Look! Dao Xuan Tianzun is flying!"
Another cried, "Why is He wearing a monk's robe?!"
"Maybe He's off to prank some Buddhist monks!"
Gao Laba burst out laughing. "Hahaha! You don't know half of it! Once, He filled Gao Yiye's entire house with celestial rice! When she opened her door, she almost drowned in it!"
As laughter rippled through the village, Dao Xuan Tianzun reached down from the real world and tapped the glowing label marked 'Chengcheng County' on the box's side.
The scenery inside the diorama shifted — villages, fields, rivers flickering away like pieces on a chessboard.
Then, with a faint pop, the silicone monk hovering above Gao Family Fortress vanished.
The villagers cried out in awe.
"He disappeared!"
"The Heavenly Lord used immortal magic!"
Dao Xuan Tianzun chuckled.
Ah, mortals. Always good for applause.
Trivia :
The real Ji Gong — or Daoji — lived during the Southern Song Dynasty and was, by all accounts, delightfully insane. He was a monk who drank wine, ate meat, and scolded the greedy in rhyme. The people adored him precisely because he was imperfect — a walking contradiction who proved enlightenment didn't have to come wrapped in solemnity.
The figure of Ji Gong endures because he pokes fun at both hypocrisy and holiness. In a way, Dao Xuan Tianzun dressing as Ji Gong is poetic justice — a heavenly being pretending to be a mad monk to toy with bureaucrats.