Chen Yi sat on his horse, coldly observing everything.

Qin Qingluo seemed uninterested in Dao Chengsi’s defense. She didn’t even inquire about the origins of those "bandits," but continued in that icy tone:

"I have come to verify the household and land records of the Southern Border. Dao Tusi, in your jurisdiction over three villages and eighteen hamlets, how many households did you report last year? How many acres of land? Has there been any increase or decrease this year?"

Cold sweat instantly broke out on Dao Chengsi’s forehead. He knelt on the ground, his mind racing, and his voice growing more humble:

"Reply... Reply to the Prince, last year we reported two thousand seven hundred and twenty-one people, with thirty-eight thousand three hundred acres of cultivated land... This year... This year the weather has been favorable, there may be a slight increase in population, and the land... the land has also been slightly expanded. The exact... exact figures need the accountants in the village to carefully verify the records to report to the Prince..." He answered evasively, ending with eager flattery: "Though our village is humble, it can still manage to accommodate the Prince for the night. Tomorrow we can present the records..."

The Prince of Annan’s voice rose slightly, calmly stating: "Verify it now. I will wait here for your report."

His words were unequivocal, without a hint of negotiation. Dao Chengsi wanted to speak, but seeing the reflection of Iron Armor, he swallowed his words. The air in the grain drying yard seemed to freeze, leaving only the oppressive heavy breathing of Dao Chengsi and others.

Chen Yi’s gaze swept over the tightly shut doors and windows, as if he could see through the earthen walls countless eyes filled with the same fear and despair inside.

......

The Iron Scale Army camped on the spot, requisitioning various rooms in the manor. The hall of the Dao family was crowded with Iron Armor, and the decorated furs were quickly trampled gray and black. Dao Chengsi ordered the servants to serve various fine wines and delicacies, while the war horses in the stable devoured their fine feed.

Where the soldiers pass, it resembles banditry.

It can even be said that since they neither looted women nor wantonly killed civilians, the military discipline was considered extremely strict.

Chen Yi had been posing as a trusted aide for a long time. Accustomed to coming and going freely, he felt slightly uncomfortable, but now he had a chance to breathe and move around a bit.

He had previously noticed the trembling old farmer, saw the direction he was heading, thought for a moment, and then headed that way.

It was a farmer’s house, built of rammed earth and covered with thatch. Chen Yi directly pushed open the door and walked inside.

The old farmer was startled, dumbfounded, unable to react before he heard someone ask, "Old man, how is the harvest this year?"

The old farmer hadn’t recovered.

Chen Yi thought for a moment, then asked, "Is it... just you living here?"

The old farmer finally came back to his senses, dully shook his head, and trembled: "They... they’re not wearing clothes."

Chen Yi was silent for a moment, then asked, "How is the harvest?"

The old farmer still didn’t answer. Inside the house, there were rustling sounds, and Chen Yi’s eyes swept over the room: an askew mud stove, a broken pot with a chipped edge, a few empty burlap sacks piled in the corner, nothing else.

He softened his voice, trying not to be too aggressive, and asked again: "Old man, how’s the harvest in the fields this year?"

The old farmer seemed to be snapped back to reality by this third inquiry, producing a hoarse sound in his throat like an old bellows,

"Harvest... harvest... Heaven has eyes, this year... it is considered good. One mu... can yield more than a shí of grain."

As he said "good," there was no joy on his face, only deeper sorrow etched into the wrinkles.

Chen Yi felt a heavy weight in his heart. In Jiangnan, more than a shí was already a very low yield, but in this Southern Border, perhaps as he said, it was considered "good," yet this "good" evidently changed nothing.

"Then... after paying the Tusi lord’s rent, is there... enough to eat?"

"Rent... rent..." The old farmer’s body trembled violently, as if these two words were red-hot branding irons. He instinctively glanced at the door, as if afraid of being overheard, his voice tinged with sobs:

"I can’t... can’t pay... can’t pay, Lord... can’t pay!" He almost collapsed in the mud at Chen Yi’s feet, his forehead hitting the ground with a dull thud, "Lord! I beg you to do justice! The rent... was agreed at fifty percent... fifty percent! But... but the Dao family... they... they took more than fifty percent! More than that!"

Chen Yi’s eyebrows furrowed tightly, looking at this humble old man, akin to mud, he simply listened quietly, not lifting him up.

He knew that if he did, the old man would not dare to complain.

"They said... we need to pay ’Wedding Money’... The young master of the Dao family’s taking a concubine, every household in the village... must gift three dǒu of grain as a congratulatory gift... not giving... not giving would be a loss of face, forgetting the Dao family’s kindness..." The old farmer’s voice was intermittent, mixed with sobs, "Last month... the headman’s old mother died... we had to pay ’bereavement leave money’... saying it delayed farm work... each household... was fined another dǒu and a half... and... and ’foot money’... the house manager lord came to collect the rent for transportation, long and tiring... each household must gift... half a dǒu of grain for his effort..."

He recounted item by item, piece by piece, "...spring plowing requires ’water leading money,’ summer harvest ’green money,’ autumn grain storage ’warehouse loss money’... so many... so many charges... hardly can count them... one mu yields more than a shí of grain, deducting seven and eight... and what reaches our pockets... is not even... not even three dǒu, Lord!"

The old farmer again kowtowed heavily, his forehead covered in grimy yellowish mud: "Three dǒu of grain... for a family of five... to last until next spring... how to manage? How to manage? Wild vegetables are already dug up... even tree bark has been gnawed... children cry out of hunger..."

He lay on the ground, his emaciated shoulders trembling violently, sobs echoing in the cramped earthen house.