Liu Dadao and Fang Datou were born in the same small town and had been close playmates as children.
Liu Dadao was part farmer, part butcher. Pig-slaughtering was good work—there was money in it.
But the town was desperately poor, and there were barely any pigs to slaughter, so the trade could only be a side occupation.
Fang Datou's ancestors had once held official posts—nothing grand, but enough to leave behind a modest family estate.
Several generations in a row had failed to pass the imperial examinations, and by his generation the family could just barely afford schooling, though he was nothing more than an impoverished scholar.
When most people called themselves impoverished scholars, it was false modesty—how poor could someone really be if they could afford an education?
But his family was genuinely destitute. If he didn't make something of himself through study, his son would have even less chance of affording it later.
Oh wait—that was getting ahead of things. He had already bet everything on this. If he failed, there would be no son to speak of.
Liu Dadao, for his part, had simply grown up and taken over his father's trade in town—pig-slaughtering and farming.
Fang Datou would sometimes seek him out for a few cups of wine and to reminisce about the old days.
Later, once Fang Datou felt he had a reasonable chance at success, he went to the county seat to sit for the examinations.
Then he discovered he had overestimated himself—he couldn't even pass the county-level exam.
He hadn't even achieved the rank of tongsheng, let alone anything higher like xiucai or juren.
Unwilling to accept defeat, he wandered from teacher to teacher, hoping that one day he might find his footing on the path of the imperial examinations.
Then the realm descended into chaos, and for different reasons, the two men each found themselves joining a rebel band.
Liu Dadao was powerfully built, and having slaughtered pigs since boyhood, he turned out to be equally unflinching when it came to killing men. His strength and ferocity earned him a growing reputation, and before long he had made quite a name for himself.
When his leader eventually died, he stepped naturally into the role.
Fang Datou, despite his lackluster scholarly record, turned out to have a real talent for rebellion, and carved out a name for himself as well.
His own leader later fell under the imperial army's suppression, and Fang Datou escaped with a portion of the men, becoming a leader in his own right.
By a twist of fate, two flourishing forces stumbled into each other's path, and the two old friends, meeting again, naturally drank and laughed and talked late into the night over all they had been through.
In the end they clasped hands and resolved to join forces and accomplish something truly great together.
But then the problem arose: who would be the leader?
Between themselves, the two men felt that given their friendship, neither would shortchange the other regardless of who took the top position.
Their followers, however, saw things differently. Each man had his own brotherhood of men, and whichever group ended up in second place would be conceding superiority to the other—without having done anything to deserve it.
Every one of them had been risking his neck in this rebellion, staking his life for the sake of reputation and honor.
And besides, one rebel leader after another had recently been proclaiming themselves emperor. Everyone understood that claiming the imperial title was what gave a man true authority.
While they were still equals, the hierarchy remained vague—but once one of them became emperor, the other would be nothing.
In the end, the two men went their separate ways, agreeing only to a non-aggression pact. The arrangement was this: once each of them had taken half the realm, they would meet for a final showdown at the Forbidden City and settle things once and for all.
So it came to pass that when the imperial army swept into the county after the autumn harvest that year, the commanding general stood dumbfounded. Two emperors—in a single county?
Good heavens. Had the title of emperor really become this worthless?
Two emperors, coexisting peacefully in the same cramped little patch of land? You must be joking.
He had done his old brother a favor after all.
Liu Dadao, feeling he had come out on top, could finally sleep easy. He pulled his new blanket around him and drifted off contentedly.
On the other side of the prison, in the warden's office, Li Xuanji knocked on the door and entered, offered a crisp salute, and stood at attention.
Ming Yuan waved a hand. "Director Li, please sit."
Only then did Li Xuanji walk over and take a seat.
"After deliberation, the district has decided to appoint you as warden of this prison."
"Your compensation will remain unchanged for the time being."
"However, we anticipate a steady stream of prisoners arriving going forward, and additional prisons will need to be built. When that time comes, the entire oversight of this area will be placed under your management."
"Your rank will be elevated accordingly."
Lao Wen and Lao Lin had grown wiser—or perhaps they had simply come to understand how things worked in Longcheng. They had stopped trying to go straight to Zhao Baihui for everything; not only could they never get a meeting, they were forever coming away deflated.
Instead they tried approaching the Longbei District government through proper diplomatic channels—and Jinyi agreed!
Lao Lin and Lao Wen were astonished.
Their first request—not a demand, mind you, a request—was that Longcheng show some consideration toward Li Xuanji, preferably by promoting him. Let the man taste the pleasures of power once more.
The Longcheng government agreed.
And so it was that Li Xuanji received three promotions in half a year, with this latest appointment as warden—a position that clearly came with the prospect of yet another advancement in the near future.
As for what Jinyi was thinking, and why they had agreed, that was anyone's guess.
…
The next morning, over two thousand people gathered in the prison's main yard. The prison staff distributed breakfast—coarse-grain flatbread and pickled vegetables.
Everyone ate with the same hearty appetite as before.
After a brief rest, Li Xuanji stepped up to the main platform.
"Settle down, everyone. Let me introduce myself—I am the administrator of this prison. My name is Li Xuanji."
"I have some unfortunate news: because you have all committed war crimes, you have each been sentenced to a uniform term of ten years."
"However, this is not set in stone."
"Those who conduct themselves well may have their sentences reduced. Those who behave poorly—or attempt anything reckless like escape—will have time added."
"You are criminals, but our lord is generous and compassionate, and is willing to give you a chance to reform yourselves. Shortly, each of you will be photographed for an identity document. Anyone who goes a full year without incident will be eligible for official Longcheng residency."
"What that means for you, you will come to understand in time."
As prisoners, they fell into a special category—unlike ordinary residents, who faced a three-month review period, theirs lasted considerably longer.
They were all serious offenders. Their review period was a full year.
"Now, let's talk about what your daily life will look like."
"Each day you will be assigned a standard workload, scored on a ten-point scale. Falling short will result in penalties; the higher your cumulative score, the better your chances of earning a reduced sentence."
"Work points can also be exchanged for money—one point equals one jiao. That money can be used to improve your living conditions."
"Any meritorious conduct will earn you both sentence reductions and bonus work points."
"Study can also reduce your sentence—earning a primary school certificate will take two years off your time immediately."
The crowd below fell into stunned silence.
"Pinch me—did I hear that right? They pay you in prison?"
"I'm just as lost as you are…"
"Is this actually a prison? This is paradise. Honestly, I'm not even sure I want my sentence reduced anymore."
The prison had been designed with a deeply humane philosophy—because people improve when they have hope.
And they fall apart when hope is taken from them.
What Zhao Baihui needed was people—people with futures and hope—not a population of the broken and despairing.
Here, what the prisoners lost was their freedom, and their labor came cheap. That was all.
Most people are prone to inertia; they lack the inner drive to push themselves. With someone to give them a nudge, most will rise to the occasion.
So while hope had been placed before them, it could not simply be left there for them to take or leave as they pleased. They still needed to be guided toward it.