Volume Two: The Noble and the Ignoble Chapter Forty-Eight: Petitioning for Justice at Shuntian Prefecture

Knock, knock, knock...

It was noon on June 16th, and the scorching sun beat down mercilessly over Beijing’s city center.

The oppressive heat had silenced even the cicadas, and only a few pedestrians lingered in the shadows along the streets.

Yet this quiet scene was abruptly shattered by the sudden pounding of a drum, causing the cluster of government clerks lounging near the Shuntian Prefecture’s gate to snap out of their midday rest in alarm.

Was someone beating the drum of grievance?

After a moment of dazed realization, the dozen or so clerks exchanged astonished looks, as if they had seen a ghost under the blazing sun.

People only beat the grievance drum to petition the government for justice.

This was a familiar trope in many later films and dramas, but it hardly reflected reality in ancient times.

In the Ming Dynasty, even the grievance drum before a county yamen could not be beaten at will. Only in the most serious cases—such as major murders or rebellions—could the drummer avoid punishment.

Otherwise, no matter the grievance, the offender would first be charged with assaulting government officials, punished with dozens of strokes, and only then would the complaint be considered.

At higher levels of government, the grievance drum was little more than a symbolic prop.

For the Shuntian Prefecture yamen in Beijing, the grievance drum outside had been silent for decades, making the sudden clamor all the more surprising. Once fully alert, the clerks hurried outside, intent on apprehending the drummer.

But when they rushed out, the scene had already transformed dramatically. Hundreds of people seemed to have sprung up from the earth, gathering before the prefecture’s gate, their faces full of curiosity as they observed the two men standing by the tall drum stand, whispering speculations and pointing fingers.

“Who dares to disturb the prefecture with such audacity?” a squad leader barked, darkening his face. “Cease immediately!”

With his roar, the drum sounded a few more thunderous beats before a young man set down the drumsticks, staring intently at him.

Beside him, a man dressed as a scholar stepped forward and declared loudly, “Today, Zheng Zinian, son of the former Censor Zheng Qian, petitions the Shuntian Prefecture on behalf of his parents and the entire family of forty-seven, who were wrongfully murdered. We implore the honorable Prefect to seek justice for the innocent souls!”

At these words, the young man knelt swiftly, pounding his forehead against the ground with a heavy thud, crying out, “I beseech the honorable Prefect to bring justice for my father and the forty-seven souls of the Zheng family!”

His voice brimmed with anger, helplessness, and hope, stirring the hearts of the onlookers, many of whom showed expressions of shock.

In broad daylight, under the clear heavens, and beneath the Son of Heaven’s very gaze, such a wholesale massacre had occurred?

Curiosity deepened among the crowd, who pressed closer still, while the clerks hesitated before hurrying inside to relay the matter.

Shortly after, a messenger emerged, proclaiming, “The Prefect commands that those petitioning be brought into the main hall for questioning!”

The announcement drew a low murmur of excitement from the crowd.

In the Ming government courts, an unspoken rule allowed common folk to attend trials held in the main hall.

Cases like this naturally attracted great interest; everyone wanted to witness the proceedings firsthand.

As the two men were escorted inside by several clerks, over a hundred onlookers followed closely behind, quickly lining up in rows before the main doors of the hall, watching with eager anticipation.

Watching this scene unfold, Tong Rui, the Shuntian Prefecture magistrate, already fully dressed and seated beneath the gleaming plaque inscribed “Clear Mirror,” felt a deep unease.

He had anticipated this outcome and disliked allowing unrelated civilians into the trial.

But the law was explicit: when the grievance drum was sounded for a major case, the public could not be barred from witnessing the trial.

Other local courts might flout such rules, holding interrogations in secondary halls and quietly concluding cases behind closed doors.

But here in the capital, under the watchful eyes of numerous imperial censors and remonstrators, any misstep could bring unpredictable consequences. So he had no choice but to endure.

With a sharp rap of the court gavel, accompanied by the authoritative calls of the clerks, Tong Rui fixed a stern gaze on the two petitioners.

“Who among you is the plaintiff? Present your grievances truthfully, without fabrication, lest you face severe punishment from this office!”

Zheng Zinian immediately knelt again, pounding his head repeatedly and saying, “Respectfully, Honorable Prefect, I am Zheng Zinian. My father, Zheng Qian, and my entire family of forty-seven were killed unjustly. I come to seek redress.”

“That is a grave accusation. Who would dare slaughter your entire family?” Tong Rui’s voice sharpened, his concern deepening.

His gaze then shifted to the man beside Zheng Zinian.

“And who might you be?”

The man appeared to be in his thirties, tall and lean, exuding an air of cunning shrewdness.

Though he did not kneel, Tong Rui did not scold him, recognizing that as a scholar, he was entitled to stand before officials.

“I am Peng Chunhan, a student from Wanping County,” the man said with a composed smile, bowing politely. “I am the legal representative petitioning on behalf of Zheng Zinian.”

Despite his graceful demeanor, Tong Rui’s brow furrowed sharply.

“A litigator!” he muttered inwardly.

No magistrate relished having a legal advocate meddle in their cases—such men were sly and eloquent, making them difficult to handle.

Without such advocates, plaintiffs and defendants were easily managed under the court’s authority. But with one present, the situation changed entirely.

“Who will recount the facts of the case—he or you?” Tong Rui asked, his displeasure evident though he dared not dismiss the advocate outright in public.

“Naturally, I shall present the case to Your Honor,” Peng Chunhan replied with a courteous bow. “This young gentleman, Zheng Zinian, is the son of Zheng Qian, a former Censor of the Supreme Court. Five years ago...”

He proceeded to detail how Zheng Qian had been deceived and framed by Liao Kui, frequently glancing at the kneeling Zheng Zinian for confirmation that his account was truthful.

As he narrated, the crowd outside the hall grew visibly moved, their faces etched with sympathy.

But Tong Rui’s frown deepened further.

“Wait. Let me ask you—where exactly did this alleged massacre of the Zheng family occur?”

“Of course, in Ruyang County...” Peng Chunhan answered with a smile.

Before he could finish, the magistrate struck the gavel again with a loud bang.

“This is nonsense! Seize these two troublemakers and flog them thirty strokes outside!”

The hall erupted with commotion as the order was carried out.