Taiping 02

"The mountain man has his own clever plan." Fang Zhiyi grinned, his lips cracked from days without water stinging as they stretched.

Under Fang Zhiyi's command, the eight hundred battered soldiers turned into outright bandits. They raided the nearest county, where the walls were low and the garrison numbered fewer than a hundred. Faced with hundreds of masked raiders charging at them, the defenders quickly fled in panic.

They didn’t loot the common folk. Instead, Fang Zhiyi smashed open the gates of the wealthiest local landlord’s estate and brazenly seized their grain. The landlord, a man surnamed Huang, tried to intimidate Fang Zhiyi by invoking the name of his relative, an official in the court. All he got in return was raucous laughter.

The court? They were the rebels the court had abandoned.

With the grain secured, they trekked over mountains and ridges, bypassing guarded passes to enter the territory of Liangzhou.

A lookout posted on the hillside gaped in shock before rushing back to report: "Captain, it’s unbelievable—the road below is packed with common folk!"

"Oh?" Fang Zhiyi already had an idea—these were refugees fleeing famine.

"From now on, everyone follows my orders."

Wang Erxi trudged forward slowly, his frail mother strapped to his back. Along the way, anything edible had long been stripped bare by the starving masses—even tree bark had been gnawed clean.

They said things would be better once they reached Jizhou. The fields there were fertile, the harvests plentiful—or so they’d heard. At least it gave them something to hope for.

But now the path ahead seemed blocked. Had they run into soldiers again? Those men were no better than bandits, preying even on refugees. Just days ago, Wang Erxi had watched his neighbor beaten to death for refusing to hand over his last string of coins. The villagers had dug a shallow grave for him.

Yet when they set out the next morning, Wang Erxi noticed the grave had been dug up, the body gone. He could guess what had happened.

He didn’t want to dwell on it. In these times, life was cheaper than grass—at least grass only needed water to live. But people?

Lost in thought, Wang Erxi suddenly caught the scent of cooked rice.

He shook his head hard, thinking hunger had addled his senses. His mother, slumped over his shoulder, was barely breathing.

"Form a line in the back!" someone ahead barked.

Wang Erxi looked up. Armed men stood ahead, blades glinting in the sun, while murmurs rippled through the crowd.

"Someone’s giving out food up there!"

"Really?"

Some grew frantic with excitement, though the sight of the rough-looking soldiers kept them wary.

Whose soldiers were these? Had the court’s lords finally taken pity and sent aid?

"No pushing! Anyone who shoves gets a taste of my blade!"

The synchronized rasp of swords being drawn cowed the starving refugees into order.

After a long wait, Wang Erxi finally reached the front. A group of bloodstained soldiers guarded makeshift earthen stoves, where pots of thin rice porridge bubbled. A man in plain clothes, ladle in hand, was calmly distributing bowls to the refugees.

Wang Erxi received one. Though the porridge was watery, it was still food! He nearly gulped it down but hesitated, glancing at his unconscious mother. Carefully, he carried her aside, set her down, blew on the steaming bowl, and tipped it to her lips.

He was young—he could survive missing a meal.

Suddenly, someone tapped his shoulder. Wang Erxi turned, squinting against the sunlight. The man loomed over him, backlit by the sun, and handed him another bowl.

"Drink. You’ll need your strength."

Wang Erxi stared, dazed. The man seemed like a deity.

As the porridge ran low and more refugees streamed in, a soldier muttered, "Captain, our reserves are almost gone."

Fang Zhiyi glanced back, then gritted his teeth. "Use every last grain. Keep cooking."

The soldier didn’t question it. To them, this captain—who’d led them back from death—must have a plan.

Only when the food was entirely exhausted did Fang Zhiyi call a halt.

An old man hobbled forward on his cane and dropped to his knees. "General, we owe you our lives!" Behind him, the refugees knelt en masse. They didn’t know military ranks—to them, Fang Zhiyi was a general.

Fang Zhiyi didn’t stop them. He studied them quietly before sighing. "I’ve failed you all. You shouldn’t have suffered like this."

The refugees stared, bewildered, until one finally asked, "General… are you sent by the court?"

Fang Zhiyi shook his head.

Forgive me, old master, he thought.

"I am Fang Zhiyi, a humble disciple of the Great Peace Way—the thirty-third inheritor of its teachings!"

The crowd blinked. They’d never heard of this "Great Peace Way," but thirty-three generations sounded impressive.

Even the soldiers behind Fang Zhiyi stiffened—their captain was a Taoist?

Fang Zhiyi bent to help the old man up, speaking gently. "I once lived in seclusion, heeding my master’s teachings. But the heavens showed me a vision—a great calamity upon the people. So I stepped forth to save them."

Thousands of refugees strained to hear. Those at the back whispered questions to those ahead.

"The Great Sheng Dynasty’s time is over! Its tyranny, its endless taxes, its corrupt officials—this is why Heaven has sent this disaster!" Fang Zhiyi’s voice rose as he lifted his arms. "The Great Peace Way stands for aiding the poor, for equality, for ensuring no man goes hungry!"

The finer points escaped them, but the promise of full bellies? That was a dream worth following.

Wang Erxi gaped at the man who seemed like a god, muttering under his breath: "Great Peace Way."

"Great Peace Way."

The whisper spread until it became a roar.

"Great Peace Way! Great Peace Way!"

Even the soldiers raised their fists, shouting. They’d been farmers once, enlisting just to survive.

Fang Zhiyi let the cries swell before silencing them with a raised hand—and a single chant.

"The Azure Sky is dead! The Yellow Sky shall rise! In the year of Jiazi, prosperity will reign!"

The crowd erupted again, chanting words they barely understood. But for the first time in years, they felt hope.

"Host, are you rebelling?" Little Hei asked.

"Rebelling? Aren’t we already rebels?"

"But these people—they’re just feudal peasants. Do they even grasp what you’re saying?"

Fang Zhiyi smiled. "They don’t need to. They only need to know who’ll feed them."