Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4567 | Page 291

Jing Yang shuffled anxiously towards his destination --- the city’s storeroom. His wrinkly fingers reached for
his keys hanging from his belt.
He had access to many of the city’s government facilities as he was working as a civil servant. Loyalty and honour
were qualities expected of him, but for 25 long years, he had failed to fulfil these expectations.
What other choice did he have but to resort to appropriation? He refused to take up the uncouth custom of
taking bribes and exploiting the inhabitants of the City.
His father had taught him, Follow Confucius’ teachings and heed the will of Heaven. The gods would then
await you with our reward in the afterlife.
However, his father had failed to mention that being an honest man among a sea of corrupt officials resulted in
their heated resentment and them bad-mouthing him in front of the members of the imperial clan. Jing Yang
had to find out the hard way that the man who preserved his integrity was generally considered as incapable or a
dreamer. It truly was not an easy task to swim against the stream, especially when he did not earn as much as the
officials who do made a living immorally.
He had to. He had to do this. He had a son to feed .
Silently, he unlocked the doors to the cellar, hoping to find rice and medicinal herbs. Instead, he spotted a carton
of vegetables in the corner of the room. He stretched his fingers open, grabbing handfuls of various greens to
stuff them in his sack, when without warning, the shadow crept up from behind him and bashed Jing Yang on
the head, causing him to fall unconscious, barely alive.
“Caught red-handed,” the voice echoed sinisterly in the damp cellar.
Part Three
The 36-year-old Hong Xiuquan had never strived for less than the best. Although he was born into a small and
poor Hakka family, his dreams had always been big.
It was a radiant and fragrant morning. Hong would receive his results of the Imperial Examinations that evening.
Confident that he would receive excellent results, he commenced his venture into the Chinese City of Shanghai
to purchase a piglet to slaughter and wine for the celebratory dinner that night. It would be his first time within
the walls. On the way there, he might even bump into his father who had not come home last night. He
probably had to work overtime, considering how dedicated he was to his work, working past midnight nearly
every day.
Hong approached the towering brick walls, and could not help himself from dropping his jaw in astonishment.
The structure stood majestically in front of him, the impressive grandeur and simplicity of it seemed to imply that
it had been built by the hand of God. Behind the walls would surely be a city that deserved to be where Hong
would pursue his dream. He would follow in his father’s footsteps and become a civil servant, maybe a
top-ranking official to enforce the law and bring peace to the city, the country, his home.
On the other side of town, a man bucked violently against the wooden frame that he was strapped to as his
executioner sliced repeatedly into his left arm. The man rolled his head backwards to gaze up at the sky, hoping
to see the gods reaching out to him to save him from this agony, but he saw nothing, for his vision had been
blocked by the grey hairs that had fallen onto his aged visage.
He could only hear the faint-hearted gasps of witnesses surrounding him, his own tortured, gargled screams and
a menacing voice that sneered, “ Where’s your God now? ”
“Identification, please,” the Qing soldier demanded coldly. Hong suavely slipped out his documents to show the
other man, who gave him a fancy stamp and nod of approval to head through the southern gate.
The executioner moved over to yank the man’s bloodied hair with his right hand, and brought up his free hand
to slap him hard across the face with the palm, the crisp sound echoing incredibly loudly in the silence.