Chapter 141

The beacon fires of the four islands of Wa have burned the sky crimson; the castles of Honzhou Island, in the slaughter between the 'Yellow Turban Army' and the 'Loyalist Army', have collapsed one after another; the crisp sound of swords cutting flesh, the cries of women and children, and the crackling of burning castles intertwine into a hell on earth.

But beyond this sea of blood, Dongjing City at the northeast corner of Kyushu Island is like a Peach Blossom Spring isolated by heaven; the rice paddies beneath its walls shimmer with an oily green, street vendors loudly hawk their wares, and it is a world apart from the blood and fire a thousand li away.

A refugee ship from Honzhou Island, after enduring a perilous nine-deaths-one-life sea drift, finally reached the legendary 'earthly paradise'.

The refugees on the ship were each in tattered clothes, sallow and thin, their eyes filled with terror and numbness. Their homes, repeatedly ravaged by the warfare of the 'Yellow Turban Army' and the 'Loyalist Army', had become scorched earth. They were the fortunate survivors who had escaped.

When they tremblingly stepped off the ship and onto the solid, clean wharf of Zhendong City, everyone was stunned into silence by the sight before them.

The wide, level concrete road could accommodate four carriages side by side. On both sides of the street stood three- to four-story wooden buildings, shops lined up, and the air was filled with the noise of people.

Whether dressed in silk as merchants or in coarse work clothes as laborers, the pedestrians on the street all wore a calm and confident expression. Their healthy, rosy complexion formed a stark contrast with the pale, wan faces of the refugees on the ship.

Rows of Wang Family guards in black uniforms, holding spears, marched in orderly steps as they patrolled the streets.

What shocked the refugees most was the huge 'fu' ships in the harbor, as massive as mountains. These ships were more than ten times larger than any they had ever seen; tall masts pierced the clouds, and even the hulls were fitted with rows of dark, unknown weapons.

The young refugee leaned on the ship's rail and stood, his eyes fixed on the direction of Zhendong City, his fingertips trembling slightly.

He had seen countless ruined cities in the war—either piles of corpses among broken walls, or streets emptied of everything but wind—but the sight before him now felt like a dream: the blue-gray city walls stood neat and sturdy, and the road beneath the city gate was paved smooth.

People coming and going wore clean cloth clothes, holding bamboo baskets full of vegetables; even their voices carried a steady warmth. He swallowed several times before whispering, voice thin as a mosquito: 'Is… is this where the immortals live?'

The old man standing beside him slowly lifted his head, his cloudy eyes full of reverence; his bony finger lightly brushed the chest-worn wooden token that had become shiny from handling, the only keepsake he had snatched from his burned‑out home.

The old man had once followed a merchant caravan across half of Japan, seen the prosperity of Honzhou Island and the desolation of war, yet he had never seen such a pure land. His voice hoarse, he said: 'Silly child, this is not where the immortals dwell; this is the Wang Family's territory—the safest, most prosperous place in all of Japan.'

As his words fell, the sound of orderly footsteps came from the end of the wharf. A dozen or so people in cyan jackets walked over, the words 'Civil Affairs Bureau' embroidered in black on their collars, each carrying a bamboo basket filled with dry rations and water skins.

The leader, his face bearing a gentle smile, stepped forward to the refugees and stopped, helping up an elderly woman squatting on the ground without the slightest disdain, his voice clear and steady: 'Folks, you have endured a hard journey. We are the Wang Family Civil Affairs Bureau, here specifically to settle you. First, have some water and something to eat; afterward we will take you to temporary lodgings where hot soup and clean bedding await you.'

His words were like a calming pill, instantly loosening the tension of the refugees. The young refugee took the offered wheat cake, bit into it, and the warm wheat aroma spread in his mouth; tears suddenly welled up—this was the first morsel in his half‑month flight that had no mold and no grass mixed in.

They were taken to a place called the 'Quarantine Camp', where they were first ordered to strip naked and scrubbed from head to toe with hot water and a soap bearing a strange fragrance, then given clean clothes to wear.

Next, each person received a bowl of steaming hot rice porridge; the rice aroma mingled with the oily scent of minced meat, drifting in the cold wind. The rice grains were cooked soft and blooming, the fine meat crumbs sank to the bottom, and a spoonful would reveal tiny oil droplets shimmering gently.

When the warm porridge slid from the spoon into the throat, warmth instantly spread from the tip of the tongue to the stomach and then through the bloodstream to the limbs; many refugees could no longer hold back, and scalding tears fell with a 'plop' into the bowl, swallowed together with the porridge.

Some wiped their eyes with rough cuffs, yet could not stop the tears; others buried their heads, shoulders shuddering with sobs while still holding unconsumed porridge in their mouths; still others, an old man cupping his bowl, clenched his knuckles, his cloudy eyes full of grievance and gratitude.

They could no longer recall how long it had been since they had eaten such a solid, filling meal—perhaps half a month on the escape route, or perhaps over a month of sleeping rough on the streets; before this, what they swallowed was either steamed buns mixed with sand or hard‑to‑swallow wild vegetable soup, leaving their stomachs empty and them too weak to speak.

But now, this bowl of hot porridge not only filled their hungry stomachs; it was like a beam of light shining into their gray, desperate days.

A young refugee named Jianta, in the quarantine camp, met his fellow villager Ayong, who had come to work in Zhendong City a few years earlier.

Ayong was no longer the frail boy he once was; his stature was sturdy, he wore a clean work uniform, and his face bore a confidence that Jianta had never seen before.

'Ayong! You're still alive!' Jianta exclaimed, grabbing his hand excitedly.

'Jianta? How did you come too?' Ayong stared at him, then sighed, 'Ah, looking at you like this, your village… is gone, isn't it?'

Jianta's eye sockets reddened instantly: 'Gone… everything's gone… the Yellow Turban Army came and burned the village. Then the Loyalist Army came again and slaughtered the survivors… my parents, they're all dead…'

Ayong patted his shoulder; his eyes held little sorrow, more a sense of relief.

'Ah, in chaotic times, death is normal. Don't dwell on it too much—you're here now, that's good.'

'Ayong, you… you don't seem sad at all?' Jianta looked at him, puzzled.

Ayong froze for a moment, then smiled, a hint of superiority in his grin.

'Why should I be sad?' he said matter‑of‑factly. 'My parents, I brought them here a few years ago. They now work in the Wang Family textile mill, earning wages each month and eating white rice at every meal. As for the other people in the village… that's just their ill fate. Who made them not come early to seek refuge with the Wang Family?'

Jianta felt his chest tighten as he listened to Ayong's words; Ayong now seemed utterly strange to him.

'But… after all, that's our homeland! Our country is now suffering…'

'Country?' Ayong snorted as if hearing a joke. 'Can the country feed me? Can the emperor let my parents live well? It's the Wang Family! The Wang Family gave me everything! My life belongs to the Wang Family, and my loyalty is solely to the Wang Family!'

He pointed to the copper badge on his chest that signified his official employee status with the Wang Family, his face swelling with pride.

'Jianta, let me tell you, stop wasting time on useless things. Country, ethnicity—all lies. Only your own stomach is real. What you should focus on now is passing the quarantine assessment to become an official worker of the Wang Family; only then can you survive here.'

Having said that, he pulled several copper coins from his pocket and pressed them into Jianta's hand.

'This is my monthly wage; take it for now. Remember, here you must follow the rules and work hard. The Wang Family never feeds idlers.'

Ayong said this and then turned and left; he had to rush to work, for being late would dock his wages.

Jianta stood there dumbfounded, clutching the cold copper coins, looking at the fellow refugees who, like him, had come from hell, then gazing at the distant city that seemed like a dream, his feelings a tangled mix.

He did not know whether he should mourn the disaster that had befallen his homeland or rejoice in his own survival.

Perhaps Ayong was right.

In this chaotic world where lives are as cheap as grass, merely staying alive is already a luxury.

……

At the highest point of the lord's manor, Wang Meng peered through a far‑seeing lens, overlooking the entire city.

He saw the arrival of a new batch of refugees at the wharf.

He saw the bustling crowds in the commercial district.

A satisfied expression appeared on his face.

All of this was proceeding perfectly according to the script of the old Head of Family.

War destroyed the old order, but also brought a vast supply of cheap labor. These penniless refugees, in order to survive, would willingly devote everything they had to the Wang Family.

And what the Wang Family gave them was not merely food and work, but a whole new ideology.

An ideology that took pride in loyalty to the Wang Family and considered becoming a member of the Wang Family the highest honor.

Under the influence of this ideology, they would gradually forget their homeland, forget their ethnicity; in their hearts there would be only one totem.

That totem was the Wang Family.

At that moment, a guard hurried forward.

'My lord, Lord Songpu has sent word that they are fast approaching Kyoto; he asks what your next move should be.'

Wang Meng lowered the far‑seeing lens, a cold smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

'Tell Songpu Longxin not to rush. First let the Yellow Turban Army and those loyalist daimyo under his command fight a few more days outside Kyoto.'

Let them shed more blood.

Wait until they have both suffered mutual defeat and are exhausted, then we will make our appearance.

The guard received the order and was about to withdraw.

Wang Meng called out to stop him again.

"Also, convey my order: have the 'Second Eastern Pacification Fleet' stationed at Tsushima Island get ready. Once the decisive battle in the capital begins, immediately blockade the entire Seto Inland Sea. This time, I don't want any big fish to slip through my net."