Chapter 802: Rumors Swirl, Bewildering the Liuren; a Lone Official Sets a Trap, Luring the Snake Out

On the third morning after the New Household Registration Law was sent out to each county in the name of Zongguan Fu, a strange thing began to spread in the Liuren settlement area of southern Xiazhou.

White Feather Letter.

No one knows where these letters came from; all they know is that they appeared like mushrooms that sprouted from the ground overnight, silently showing up beside the water wells of every Liuren village, in front of the grain‑grinding mill, and even in the door cracks of every household.

The letter paper is the roughest grass paper, folded into a triangle, and each envelope's seal is stuck with a white Jima.

There is not a single character on the letter.

It only depicts two things.

A Horizontal Blade dripping with blood.

A felt hat of the Grassland Turkic people.

At the entrance of Liujia Tun Village south of Qinggui County, a dozen Liuren crouch beside a water well, passing a White Feather Letter back and forth to examine it.

A middle‑aged Han man with a beard‑stubbled face grips the grass paper, his voice pressed down to a whisper, yet the panic in his tone cannot be concealed.

"My wife heard Aunt Zhang, who grinds the flour in the mill, say yesterday that the authorities' household registration inspection is not to register us for land allocation, but to draft us into the Suicide Warrior camp."

A young man crouching beside him widens his eyes.

"What is the Suicide Warrior camp?"

The middle‑aged man slaps the grass paper onto the ground.

"It means drafting us, the Liuren who fled from Qi State, into cannon fodder, dragging us onto the Grassland to fight the Turkic People to the death; only those who survive the battle will be eligible for land allocation."

The young man's face turns ashen.

"This… this isn't right, Chen Zhuguo said there would be a Three-Year Tax Exemption, and the Field Deeds already have Red Seals."

A woman beside them, holding a child, bites her lip and interjects.

"The Three-Year Tax Exemption is just to lull us into working peacefully; after the spring planting is done and the grain is harvested, they turn hostile and deny us. You never saw those aristocratic lords in Qi State do such things."

The murmurs in the crowd grow louder.

Some people's faces turn ashen, some shift from crouching to standing, as if ready to run at any moment.

An old man in a cotton coat patched all over squats at the outer edge of the crowd, a grass stalk clenched between his teeth, chewing it without saying a word.

When the surrounding noise becomes too loud for him to endure, he spits the grass stalk onto the ground and scans the surrounding faces with his cloudy old eyes.

"You're all so frightened, why don't you use your heads and think about who slipped these White Feather Letters into your door cracks?"

The middle‑aged man turns his head back.

"Old Zhao, you mean…"

The old man rises from the ground, tapping the well rim with his cane.

"If Chen Zhuguo really wanted to take you as cannon fodder, why bother with all this effort—land allocation, tax exemption, and handing out plow equipment? He could just tie you up with a rope and throw you into the military camp."

As soon as his words finish, a rapid footfall sounds from the direction of the village entrance.

Three Han men dressed in the locals' indigo‑blue short brown garments run from the field ridge outside the village, their faces exaggerated to the extreme, one even shouting while running.

"A disaster! All the Liuren north of Qinggui County's city have fled; I heard the officials are taking ropes to capture people, and those caught are put straight into cages and dragged onto the Grassland."

The words are like a red‑hot iron ball thrown into a pot of oil.

The crowd erupts instantly.

"Run, run quickly."

"Grab your things, run toward the hills."

Old Zhao opens his mouth to say something else, but his voice is completely drowned out by the clamor and panic surging from all directions.

The same scene plays out almost simultaneously that same day in over thirty Liuren villages across six counties of southern Xiazhou.

White Feather Letters, coupled with carefully fabricated rumors and rumor‑spreading impostors posing as locals, strike from three angles, like three fires set at once on a pile of dry wood.

The panic spreads through the Liuren crowd at a speed faster than the spring breeze.

West of Qinggui County, at Zhangtai Village, Chu Ci and his five Cha Yi, on the second day of going down to the countryside to register households, run into the fiercest storm.

When he walks into the village, he is met with a scene of utter chaos.

The winnowing baskets and grain sieves on the grain threshing ground are overturned, several bundles of unthreshed wheat stalks lie scattered on the mud, trampled to ruin; the doorboard of the clay hut at the side, used for storing farm tools, is kicked open, and more than half of the hoes and carrying poles inside are missing.

Over three hundred Liuren gather at the center of the grain threshing ground, men, women, old and young packed into a black, dense mass, their expressions ranging from fear to anger.

On the outer edge of the crowd, a dozen robust young men clutch hoes and carrying poles, blocking Chu Ci and his five Cha Yi at the entrance to the field.

Chu Ci halts his steps.

He glances at the hoes and carrying poles barred before him, then at the young men's faces, a mix of fear and exhilaration.

"Step aside, I'm going in."

The leading young man holds his hoe across his chest, his voice sharp from extreme panic.

"Don't come over, we won't register, we won't register anyone."

Another young man beside him grits his teeth and adds.

"You officials say one thing and do another—first you allocate land and promise tax exemption to coax us into work, now you're inspecting household registrations; are you planning to draft us as cannon fodder!"

Chu Ci is blocked at the entrance of the grain threshing ground in Zhangtai Village, with a dozen hoes and carrying poles held horizontally before him, each owner's fingers white with grip.

He does not retreat.

The five Cha Yi have already placed their hands on the hilts at their waists; the leader, Chen Wu, presses his voice close to Chu Ci's ear.

"Sir, the situation is unfavorable; withdraw first, return to the county seat and relocate the people."

Chu Ci's gaze passes over the hoes before him and lands on the three hundred faces in the center of the grain threshing ground.

Fear, anger, and a deliberately incited madness.

He has seen that look before.

Back in Qi State, whenever the aristocratic lords intended to seize the lands of the poor gentry, they first spread similar rumors, letting the tenant farmers rise in chaos, then, under the pretense of quelling disorder, they would legitimately confiscate everything.

"Do not withdraw."

Chu Ci thrust the household registration book in his hand into Chen Wu's bosom, pushed aside the Cha Yi blocking his way, and stepped toward the hoes lying across in front of him.

"Sir!"

Chen Wu reached out to grab his sleeve, but missed.

Chu Ci walked straight to the half‑person‑high stone mill at the edge of the Grain Grinding Field, stepped onto the rim of the mill groove and climbed up, standing atop the millstone.

The millstone rose more than three feet above the surrounding crowd; standing on it, his once‑white‑washed bluish‑gray robe fluttered and rustled in the wind.

The clamor of the Grain Grinding Field fell a notch the moment he stepped onto the millstone, and over three hundred pairs of eyes turned toward him in unison.

"Anyone who wants to kill this official, raise your hand."

When the words left his mouth, his tone was as flat as if he were asking about the weather.

The crowd froze for a heartbeat, then the noise surged again.

The young man wielding a hoe took a step forward, his voice rising to the highest pitch.

"Stop pretending to be clueless. You officials always cheat us—first promising tax‑free land division, now checking household registrations. Are you trying to draft us to die?"

Chu Ci lowered his head and looked at him.

"Who told you that checking household registrations is a scheme to draft you to die."

The young man's voice grew even louder.

"The White Feather Letter clearly shows a chopping knife, a Turkic People's hat; do you still need someone to tell you?"