Chapter 141: Death Does Not Belong to Us

While chatting with Guo Jing, Zhang Chu'an was in a village that had just been slaughtered; they had arrived too late—everyone in the village had been killed.

For a war involving hundreds of thousands and determining the future of this land, a single village was insignificant; whenever there was war, how could people not die?

War always brought massacre, looting, and rape; whenever the landlord class's interests were touched, they would retaliate without restraint—he knew all this, and had prepared himself mentally long ago, yet why, seeing this village slaughtered, did he still want to cry?

Isn't this kind of thing common in this era? Isn't someone dying every moment in this era? Landlords beat tenants to death for failing to pay rent; bandits descending from the mountains didn't just kill and rob—they raped women too; hadn't he seen all these methods before?

Zhang Chu'an, you're supposed to lead this land in toppling the great mountain of feudalism—don't you know how heavy your responsibility is? A single village is a minor matter; why didn't you ever feel sad or heartbroken before?

"If you want to cry, cry out loud—don't hold it in. I want to cry too, but since you haven't cried, I can't bring myself to break down. I've already ordered the guards to seal off the perimeter—no one will know we're crying together." As Zhang Xiaofan spoke, his eyes turned red.

They killed everyone—no one was left alive. Not even the children who couldn't walk yet, nor those still in their mothers' wombs. That group was ruthless.

Zhang Chu'an cried for a while, his voice trembling as he pointed to a pregnant woman—her belly had been ripped open, her child pulled out and hacked apart, the corpse laid right before her face.

"How could they do this? How could they speak of sages' teachings while committing beastly acts? They don't treat people as human beings—why don't they think that if they hadn't driven the people to death, why would the people rebel?" Here, he realized his past sufferings meant nothing.

He was too young—he hadn't yet understood true shamelessness. Now someone had shown him: why did this world harbor such malice toward the poor?

It was as if the suffering of the poor was their due: Wu Lingaoshou, in a bad mood, killed for amusement; landlords slapped their tenants' faces while demanding grain and forcing them to kneel and bow, uttering words of gratitude.

Aren't they all born of parents, raised by parents? Are they doomed to die just because you're in a bad mood? Are they doomed to be treated like dogs? Are they doomed to give their lives for your grand ambitions, only to hear you say they died a worthy death?

There are people in this world who demand others kneel and bow to prove their noble status—if someone refuses to kneel, they send their henchmen to beat them; if they still refuse, they raise rents; if that doesn't work, they drive them to starvation; even after kneeling, bowing, and begging for mercy, they still refuse to let them live.

Zhang Chu'an recalled the past—he too had been beaten, had knelt, had bowed his head to survive—but those who didn't want him alive never spared him just because he knelt.

"Since they refuse to spare us no matter what, then we won't kneel anymore." Zhang Chu'an stood up, grabbed Zhang Xiaofan's hand, and strode out decisively—he would make those who knelt to survive rise up; to live, they must pick up weapons and kill those who forced them to kneel.

Zhang Chu'an would wash away these crimes with their blood. Outside the village, a group of commanders had gathered—they all knew what had happened.

"Comrade Secretary, these reactionaries aren't human—how could they kill a child still in the womb?" The commander nearly shouted these words; the hardened soldier who never winced at battlefield wounds now wept uncontrollably.

Zhang Chu'an patted his shoulder and comforted him: "If you want to cry, cry your heart out. Afterward, we keep fighting. Comrades, you've all seen how these people treat us—do you think our demand to rise up and live is too much?"

"This world has always been this way—the ruling class can oppress the people however they please; they can trample them underfoot—but has it always been right?"

"If we surrender, what becomes of the warriors who have fought and died so we could rise? Now we're surrounded; the flames of counter-revolution burn from one end to the other—all funded by the landlord class. This isn't a civil war of the Jin state—it's a war between the landlord class and the proletariat. All these offensives—north, south, east—are one unified war."

"They're attacking our People's Government; these reactionaries have torn open massive wounds in us—we're bleeding, we're starving—we're in our most desperate hour. But comrades, we must hold our posts."

"Comrades, remember—we have only one path: victory. Of course, there's another path: death. But death does not belong to the proletariat." This revelation, which should have emerged only in the early twentieth century, had been suitably adapted—and it set the commanders' blood ablaze.

Once the gloom in their hearts lifted, they had only one thought: fight these reactionaries to the end.

Learning that the revolutionary army was preparing for a decisive battle, all the Jin troops rejoiced—this prolonged guerrilla strategy had truly disgusted them.

The enemy's tactics were known to their soldiers, so it wasn't hard to learn them—but sometimes the most unbearable thing was when the enemy plainly told you their method, and you still couldn't counter it.

When the enemy attacks, we retreat; when they halt, we harass; when they are weak, we strike; when they retreat, we pursue.

As the Jin generals were at a loss, the local gentry supplying the army's grain offered their opinion: the revolutionary army could always learn our movements because of the support of local civilians.

These people constantly passed intelligence to the revolutionaries; to break the guerrilla strategy, they must slaughter every civilian in the base areas—the killing must be brutal, only horrific deaths could terrify the other commoners.

Upon hearing this suggestion, the Jin generals were stunned—they never imagined these scholarly men, steeped in ritual and morality, were even more ruthless than those who had lived by the blade since childhood.

As expected, before their scorched-earth policy had been implemented for a month, the revolutionary army eagerly emerged from the mountains and forests to engage them in open battle.

"Hahahaha! The cowardly revolutionaries finally dare to face us in open combat!" General Wanyan Xili of the Xijing Road reinforcements sighed in relief—otherwise, their troops would be worn down without ever seeing the enemy.

"Still, we must be cautious. My soldiers say their firearms are extremely lethal—many have suffered losses." General Wanyan Jinshu of the Jingzhao Road reinforcements warned.

"We too have firearms—this time, I've ordered all craftsmen to produce them in full force. Most importantly, since the revolutionaries will commit all their forces to this decisive battle, the troops besieging Zhongdu will inevitably be weakened." General Wanyan Du of the Hedong North Road paused, then declared firmly to all in the tent: "This battle is critical to our Great Jin—we must win, and we cannot lose."

"Yes." All officers in the tent stood solemnly.