Minister Su’s face stiffened at once—how could he not hear the sting hidden in those words?
He forced out two awkward laughs, feeling the piercing gazes from both sides like thorns in his back. After a pause, he stammered: “Um… I wonder, Lord Pei, apart from congratulating my son, is there some other matter?”
Pei Tan cast him a long, shadowed glance before replying slowly: “No hurry. Once the wedding banquet is over, I shall speak with Lord Su in detail.”
At those words, Minister Su’s heart sank halfway. He forced a smile, bowed, and slunk away in embarrassment. He even ordered the servants that, aside from those pouring wine, no one was to approach Pei Tan.
But who was Pei Tan?
In the Tang dynasty, there were the Five Great Surnames and Seven Clans, as well as the Four Noble Families of Guanzhong—families so lofty that ordinary people could never hope to reach them. The Four Noble Families included the Empress’s Wei clan, the Pei clan of Hedong, and the Liu and Xue clans, also of Hedong. Among them, the Pei clan was second only to the Empress’s family in prestige, having produced five generations of prime ministers. They were nobles among nobles.
And as fate would have it, Pei Tan had barely assumed his new post as Minister of Judicial Review when he stumbled upon a major case.
The son of Minister of War Zong Chuke, Zong Huo, had galloped recklessly down Chang’an Street and killed a man. A human life lost—serious indeed. Yet, people whispered, the dead man was only a fishmonger, while Zong Huo was the son of a high-ranking official. Surely their lives could not be weighed the same. But the most unexpected events are often the ones that shock the world.
The fishmonger’s daughter went to the Ministry of Judicial Review to beat the grievance drum. It was only Pei Tan’s third day in office.
Without hesitation, Pei Tan led his men straight to the Minister’s residence. At that time, Zong Chuke was in the palace, discussing affairs with Emperor Zhongzong and his ministers. When Pei Tan arrived, Zong Huo arrogantly assumed Pei Tan wouldn’t dare touch him.
But Pei Tan said nothing—he simply ordered the prison guards to seize Zong Huo, press him to the ground, and lock him in chains. Zong Huo was stunned. By the time he began to struggle and scream, it was too late. The frail household servants were no match for the burly prison guards of the Ministry of Judicial Review. And who would dare openly defy them?
Clad in his official robes, Pei Tan looked every inch the stern judge. His mere presence made others falter.
When Minister Zong returned and learned his son had been shackled, he rushed to the Ministry to demand his release. But Pei Tan had already shut his doors to visitors, refusing to meet him. Instead, he submitted the case file to the Ministry of Punishments. Once approved, Zong Huo would be sent to the execution ground.
The officials of the Ministry of Punishments were terrified—who dared sign off on such a case? Naturally, they reported it straight to Zong Chuke.
Zong Chuke was furious. That insolent upstart Pei Tan actually meant to go through with it! He stormed into the palace to denounce him before Emperor Zhongzong.
Now the emperor was caught in a dilemma: Pei Tan insisted on punishment, while Zong Chuke demanded his son be spared. Even the Empress herself pleaded, reminding Emperor Zhongzong that Zong Chuke had only this one beloved son. Surely mercy could be shown.
With the Empress interceding, the emperor wavered. But Pei Tan then brought the fishmonger’s daughter into the palace and had her kneel before Emperor Zhongzong.
Her mother was gravely ill, and she herself was eighteen, still unmarried due to poverty. Now, with her father—the family’s pillar—dead, the household was utterly ruined. The mother and daughter had no way to survive.
The emperor’s compassion was stirred. His hatred for Zong Huo deepened, and with Pei Tan fanning the flames, he impulsively issued an edict: Zong Huo was to be executed according to Tang law.
Pei Tan carried the decree back and ordered Zong Huo taken to the execution ground.
Soon after, Emperor Zhongzong regretted his rashness. But an imperial edict could not be undone. Helpless, he issued another decree: since the first edict had not specified the execution date, the punishment would be delayed by one month. Yet, delayed or not, the sentence would still be carried out.
It was as if misfortune had collided with disaster—all calamities converging at once. Pei Tan, already ill-reputed, had barely donned his official robes before condemning the son of a high minister. The people of Chang’an now whispered a nickname for him: “The Calamity Star.”
The Deputy Minister’s wife muttered bitterly: “Zong Chuke is unlucky indeed. Pei Tan must be eager to prove himself with three fires as a new official.”
The Ministry of Judicial Review oversaw all criminal cases, whether of the living or the dead. No wonder the people called Pei Tan a Calamity Star—his office was hardly a dignified one.
The Minister’s wife bit her handkerchief in resentment. Her beloved son Su Shouyue was marrying today, yet such a man had come to their door. The thought alone was galling.
Pei Tan sat there all afternoon. Even as he drank, he never removed the white silk handkerchief from his hand.
The Su family’s wedding banquet was the grandest in the capital, with gifts piled high like a small mountain.
Pei Tan noticed a frail scholar discreetly slip a ribbon-like object from his sleeve into the heap of gifts.
At the banquet, Pei Tan’s seat was the quietest. He drank wine like water, and the serving maids approached him trembling.
As the sun declined, the groom finally appeared.
The bride, a noblewoman of the Cui clan, naturally did not show herself among the guests—she had already been sent to the bridal chamber.
The groom, Su Shouyue, wore splendid red wedding robes, a bright flower pinned to his chest. He greeted the guests with bows, drinking each cup of wine offered to him with ease.
The guests applauded: “Such fine drinking, Young Master Su!”
Su Shouyue then spotted Pei Tan. Unlike the others, he did not avoid him but strode directly over. “Brother Pei,” he said, bowing.
Pei Tan was not much older than the young nobles of Chang’an, so Su Shouyue felt it fitting to call him “Brother Pei.”
Two attendants nearby frowned and said stiffly: “Our lord was appointed Minister of Judicial Review just a month ago.”
In the capital, anyone holding office must be addressed as *daren* (“Lord”). Any lesser form of address was considered disrespectful.
Su Shouyue’s face clearly froze.
Spectators nearby chuckled— even the groom himself had stumbled into iron.
Pei Tan, however, neither corrected his attendants nor acknowledged Su Shouyue’s words. He simply raised the wine cup before him and said coolly: “Congratulations to Young Master Su on winning such a fine bride.”
Su Shouyue hurriedly lifted his own cup: “Lord Pei… you honor me.”
The two drank together, but Su Shouyue remained somewhat embarrassed. After a few casual words, he moved on to other guests.
Pei Tan held his empty cup, watching the groom’s path. Wherever Su Shouyue passed, guests rose to greet him.
Pei Tan’s gaze, however, fixed on a man in plain cloth garments. The man wore a scholar’s cap, his face pale and clean, but his clothes hung loosely, as though his body was too thin to fill them. There were many such common folk at the banquet, drawn from near and far to watch the festivities. Yet unlike everyone else, whose eyes followed the groom, this man never once looked at Su Shouyue.
After three rounds of wine, Pei Tan rose to leave. Others also began to depart, including that strange scholar-like guest. As he passed the doorway, the man bumped into Pei Tan. Realizing it, he apologized quickly: “Forgive me, forgive me.” Then he hurried off.
Pei Tan watched his figure vanish at the door, then slowly lowered his gaze. From his robe, he retrieved something that had been slipped inside.
One attendant, seeing it, blanched: “Lord, what is that?”
In Pei Tan’s palm lay something thin as cicada wings, limp and soft, its edges faintly streaked with red. He rubbed it between two fingers—it felt like human skin. His expression darkened: “It looks like… human skin.”
That man who bumped into him had shoved a piece of human skin into his robe?
The attendant spun around and barked: “Did you see that man?”
The two followers stammered: “N-no, we didn’t.”
The attendant scowled: “Come, let’s chase him.”
But Pei Tan’s calm voice stopped them: “No need.”
The attendant was startled: “My lord?”
Pei Tan’s eyes remained on the doorway. “We return to the Ministry.”
Back at the Ministry, Pei Tan summoned the coroner and tossed the object to him.
The coroner’s face changed at once. He examined it carefully, stroked it for a long while, then cautiously raised it to his nose and sniffed.
“My lord… it is indeed human skin.”
Pei Tan’s gaze deepened: “From the living… or the dead?”
The coroner flinched. The skin of the living and the dead was very different—Pei Tan’s question carried deeper meaning.
After a pause, the coroner set the skin down: “There is the stench of a corpse. Most likely from the dead.”
The edges of the flesh were already blackened, with a foul odor—signs not of skin freshly stripped from the living.
Pei Tan’s eyes lingered on the strange tattoo etched into the skin. “Do you recognize this pattern?”
The coroner studied it for a long time before replying: “My lord, I do not recognize it. But I have a guess.”
“Speak,” said Pei Tan.
The coroner raised his head: “The body and skin are gifts from one’s parents. Ordinary folk would never carve words upon themselves, and nobles even less so. But in ancient times, there was a punishment called *mo xing*—the inked penalty. Criminal slaves guilty of grave crimes would have characters carved into their flesh as a mark of disgrace. Even if later pardoned, the stigma remained upon their bodies for life.”
It was one of the most humiliating punishments ever devised—stripping a person forever of the chance to be forgiven.