Mortals Are Like Dogs

Qin Hao was barely in his twenties, young yet harboring great ambitions and lofty ideals. When he was seven, both his parents were murdered, and it was the leader of the Ghost Seven who avenged them. At that time, the Ghost Seven wanted Qin Hao to join the Taiji Society, but under the influence of the government, Qin Hao mistakenly believed the Taiji Society was a rebellious faction, involved in all manner of villainy. However, he later discovered that the Taiji Society was actually a band of redistributors—robbing the rich to aid the poor, never bullying the weak or abusing women. Though not universally beloved by the people, the society at least did not inspire public resentment. The imperial court sought to eradicate the Taiji Society due to conflicts over the ‘spirit mines’, though it was undeniable that the society harbored its share of scoundrels. Eventually, Qin Hao joined the Taiji Society and worked under the Ghost Seven leader. While his talent was average, his unwavering will and determination set him apart. As others indulged in pleasure houses, Qin Hao fought monsters in the wilderness, gradually surpassing his peers.

What was Qin Hao’s ambition?

Granted a few days off by the leader, Qin Hao returned to his childhood home, only to hear noises inside. Alert, he crept toward the kitchen and found a scruffy little beggar girl. Instead of chasing her away, he asked her, “What’s your name? Why are you here?”

The girl replied, “My father is going to sell me and my sister and mother. My mother told me to run away.”

Qin Hao instantly understood the grim reality. The reigning emperor was a ruthless ruler—quelling foreign invaders while crushing internal rebellions. Years of warfare had burdened the people with heavy taxes. The emperor was obsessed with grand achievements, and court expenditures grew ever more lavish. Ministers dared not offer counsel, for those who spoke up were swiftly executed. Even the prime minister’s warnings fell on deaf ears.

Taking the girl by the hand, Qin Hao went to a market, witnessing a frail man handing over a bound woman and child to a burly butcher. The butcher scrutinized the woman’s appearance, then leered and touched her inappropriately before paying the man a few taels of silver. Qin Hao could already foresee the fate awaiting the woman and girl: the woman would be violated by the butcher, then both sold to a brothel. If the brothel rejected them, the butcher would abuse the girl and then murder them both, selling their flesh to perverse nobles. This was the so-called “human market,” where people were traded like livestock—once common in the previous dynasty when women were disparagingly called “two-legged sheep,” utterly without status.

Just as the butcher prepared to claim his victims, Qin Hao stepped forward.

“Wait, I’ll take these two.”

“Twenty taels,” came the price.

Without hesitation, Qin Hao paid the sum. Why didn't he simply kill the butcher? Because killing one wouldn’t end the problem—another would take his place. This was a systemic issue among society’s lowest rungs.

He took the woman and girls to a nearby inn and gave the woman twenty taels.

“Go to Sujiang Province,” he instructed. Sujiang was economically prosperous with fewer such horrors. The woman could earn a living sewing.

“Thank you, benefactor,” she said gratefully.

“Go quickly.” Qin Hao assigned a trusted member of the Taiji Society to escort them safely.

After they left, Qin Hao saw the frail man gamble away his ill-gotten money in a gambling den and then target another woman. Qin Hao covertly followed a young, attractive girl the man stalked. As the man prepared to strike in a dark alley, Qin Hao descended like a shadow, ending the man’s life with a single stroke.

A light rain began to fall, its cold droplets cooling his face, calming his mind. The emperor refused to listen, and officials who sympathized with the people dared not speak. The darkness of society’s underbelly relentlessly weighed on Qin Hao’s heart. From his earliest memories, he had resolved to change this grim reality. To make the emperor hear him, he needed strength—either to become the chief of the Taiji Society or to replace the emperor entirely.

The following days saw Qin Hao aiding the vulnerable, occasionally auditing private school lessons. His education was limited—barely literate at best. He yearned for knowledge, but his status forbade it. To conceal his identity as a covert Taiji Society member, he worked as a waiter in an inn owned by Ghost Seven. The inn was not for profit but a hub for gathering news from the martial world.

On the last day of his leave, while performing chores, Qin Hao unexpectedly saw Princess Gongsun Xiaoyue. Accompanied by two C-rank elite guards, she did not recognize Qin Hao, as he wore a mask and altered his voice with his qi. She had just failed a mission, but no one dared to blame her—who would risk their life over it? She had decided to enjoy herself during this outing.

“One pot of Crane Year Tribute Wine, two taels of beef, and some side dishes—quickly,” she ordered.

“Sorry, we don’t have Crane Year Tribute Wine,” Qin Hao murmured to himself, “Do they think this is the palace? Tribute wine? How about some firewater instead?”

According to the Compendium of Materia Medica, the delight of drinking lies in mild intoxication, and Crane Year Tribute Wine exemplifies this—the joy of drunkenness, a heaven in a pot. The “Crane Year Tribute” health wine series originated from Ding Henián, a noble-born health scholar and distinguished writer, founder of Yanjing’s oldest establishment, Crane Year Hall, founded in 1405 and over 600 years old. At the imperial wine house’s request, Ding crafted a special health wine exclusively for the royal family, blending ancestral recipes with traditional Chinese medicine through countless experiments to produce a wine both fragrant and nourishing. Naturally, a grand princess like Gongsun Xiaoyue would drink this tribute wine.

“Forgot, tribute wine is only found in the palace. What’s your best wine?”

“Bamboo Leaf Green.”

“One pot, please.”

After the princess enjoyed her meal and drink, suddenly—she struck with a sword! The blade stopped mere inches from Qin Hao’s eyes. He stood frozen, unflinching. Gongsun Xiaoyue wondered, “Could it not be him?”

“Sorry, slipped,” Qin Hao said casually, watching her retreat. Only then did he realize she was testing him. His mask and altered voice had fooled her; she was genuinely startled. Qin Hao had been lost in thought when she suddenly attacked—who could react so swiftly? Not even his hair had time to move.