Chapter 6: Tread the Heavens Asunder

The ointment worked quite well, but it was a bit expensive — three mace of silver for one scoop.

Applied to the affected area, it felt cool and refreshing, remarkably similar to Mayinglong.

It probably also had a disinfecting effect, because the swelling went down within half a day. Unfortunately, Zhao Han was always constipated; any straining would split the wound open again. He was laid up for several days, and ended up delivering a full tael and two mace of silver to the medicine shop.

The silver they had snatched from the marquis's house — a tenth of it was gone in an instant.

Ah, but no matter what, I still count as a man of unyielding spirit.

Grain prices in Tianjin were climbing higher and higher. Take steamed buns: in just a few days the price had jumped thirty percent. The Tianjin grain merchants were definitely price-gouging on the spot.

Zhao Han did not skimp on spending. Meat-filled buns, vegetable buns — he bought them in rotation every day.

Money could be earned again; his body had to be properly restored.

The brother and sister's complexions had improved a great deal. They could run and jump now, and no longer felt tired after walking a short distance.

Heaven have mercy — two malnourished children, caught in a heavy downpour, and yet they hadn't fallen ill. That counted as a stroke of luck amid misfortune.

Zhao Han was extremely cautious in everything he did. Each time he bought food, he never went to the same shop. But someone still marked him, simply because a mere child had been paying with bits of broken silver at the medicine shop for days on end.

"Go, quick!"

Zhao Han grabbed his little sister's hand. At a street corner, he suddenly quickened his pace, then dashed into another lane.

A hoodlum followed, only to find his target had vanished. He stood there stamping his feet and cursing in fury.

The brother and sister headed straight for the southeast part of the city. That was where the Tianjin Guard School and the Provincial Examination Hall were located — the place where Tianjin students studied and sat for exams.

No matter how much public morals had declined, scholars still had to keep up appearances. Riffraff and hoodlums dared not run wild near the Guard School.

Across from the Guard School was a bookshop.

The brother and sister crouched under the eaves eating. The bookshop owner did not chase them away, only told them not to get too close to the doorway.

Several Guard School students arrived together. They browsed inside for a while, then each left carrying newly purchased books.

Zhao Han stole a glance: the books in the students' hands were all novels.

An idea struck him at once. Perhaps he could earn money by telling stories — immortal heroes, martial arts, whatever; he could make up anything off the top of his head.

That night, they slept under the eaves of the bookshop.

"Second Brother, I'm cold."

In the middle of the night, his little sister shivered violently in his arms and clung tightly to Zhao Han for warmth.

Zhao Han had been woken by the cold too, and he cursed, "This damned weather — it won't leave the poor a road to live!"

It was only the beginning of the eighth month by the lunar calendar, yet a cold snap had suddenly swept in.

The two children's silk garments they had snatched from the marquis's house — Zhao Han had never dared take them out to wear. But at this moment, he could not care about that, and hurriedly made his little sister put them on against the cold.

But it was still freezing!

The brother and sister had no choice but to huddle together, curled up under the eaves, and somehow endured until daybreak.

They could not stay in Tianjin any longer. The temperature swing between day and night was already extreme. If they delayed heading south any further, they would certainly fall ill from the cold once autumn set in.

Setting aside his grand plan of earning money through storytelling, Zhao Han immediately set about preparing provisions.

He bought some dry rations, and also several catties of coarse grain, and even managed to buy a small amount of low-quality salt. The next day, the brother and sister left the city together.

…

Tianjin's North Dock lay northeast of the city.

And southeast of Tianjin city, there was also a South Dock.

Though the South Dock was not as bustling as the North Dock, it housed a "Most Critical" (the highest grade) post station — the Yangqing Water Post.

Several decades earlier, the Yangqing Water Post had been located further south in Yangliuqing Town, sustained by fiscal allocations from Jinghai County.

Far too many officials passed through the post station. Whether or not they were on official business, they would all flash their official tablets and eat and lodge for free — and they had to be served fine wine and good food, too.

A mere post station had become Jinghai County's single largest fixed fiscal expenditure.

So Jinghai County threw up its hands and quit. But a Most Critical post station could not simply be abolished, so the court had no choice but to relocate the Yangqing Water Post to Tianjin.

Tianjin was prosperous; it could still afford to maintain one post station.

Zhao Han planned to take the South Dock route and follow the Grand Canal all the way south.

But once they crossed the moat, he discovered that from the Yangqing Water Post all the way to the South Dock, and then extending out to the residential areas beyond the city wall, soldiers were posted everywhere.

After many days of continuous rain, the canal's water level had recovered, and the temporary wooden bridges had been dismantled. The starving people beyond the canal could no longer cross easily, and had dispersed one after another.

Yet the starving people west and south of the city seemed to be growing in number, with only a single moat holding them back.

After the rains, many of the starving had in fact chosen to return home, borrowing at usurious rates to buy seeds and replant their crops. But when they returned to their places of household registration, what met them were officials pressing for grain, forcing them to hand over their taxes immediately. They had no choice but to flee back to Tianjin to escape the tax-collecting clerks.

The summer grain land tax had to be settled before the ninth month. The grandees of Northern Zhili were pressing hard, and the county and department officials could only grit their teeth and collect.

South and west of Tianjin city, over fifty thousand starving people had now gathered, so many that the terrified Tianjin officials and officers hurriedly dispatched troops to build defensive lines.

No one was allowed in or out, and the brother and sister found their way temporarily blocked.

Several more days passed. Unable to breach the defensive lines, the starving people began dispersing in groups.

Some chose to leave, going into the surrounding countryside to beg and scrape a living.

Some chose to hold out to the death. As long as they dragged things out until the ninth month, past the summer grain collection period, they would have nothing to fear from the officials upon returning home, and the taxes they owed would become "ledger arrears." After another two or three years, to make it easier to collect the next year's new taxes, the Emperor would of his own accord issue an edict "writing off the arrears."

The last portion of the disaster victims were truly too starved to move. They lay flat outside the Tianjin city walls, waiting to die.

Gradually, the security cordon began to relax. No one from outside could come in, but those inside could go out.

Zhao Han stood by the moat, gazing across at the condition of the disaster victims on the other side. He felt they should be able to pass through without trouble.

Those victims had no organization whatsoever — a tent pitched here to the east, a lean-to thrown up there to the west, the vast majority sleeping in the open. If danger arose, one only needed to kill to establish dominance: take down one or two, and the rest would all choose to back off.

Zhao Han pulled off the rag wrapped around the spearhead. Spear in one hand, his sister's hand in the other, his pack on his back, he crossed the bridge and went forth.

After advancing a few hundred paces, once the starving people saw the goods Zhao Han was carrying — and that his pack was bulging — several dozen of them gradually surrounded him.

"Little Sister, hold onto Second Brother's clothes and follow behind. Don't wander off," Zhao Han instructed.

Zhao Zhenfang was somewhat frightened. She hurriedly grabbed the hem of his coat and followed step by step.

Zhao Han advanced with his spear leveled, ready at any moment to kill and establish his authority. In these chaotic times, there was no room for the slightest womanish mercy.

After what he had been through in recent days, Zhao Han had long since adapted.

This was the late Ming, not the peaceful China of the twenty-first century!

The two siblings moved through a landscape filled with starving people. Countless numb or greedy gazes fell upon them, and he answered each with a fierce glare.

Unfortunately, no matter how fierce a child might appear, he was still a child without an adult to protect him.

A slightly sturdier famine victim stepped forward first and stopped in front of them. With ill intent, he asked, "You came out of the city — got anything to eat?"

"No," Zhao Han answered, his face expressionless.

The famine victim said, "I don't believe you. Open that bundle and let me see."

Zhao Han gave a cold laugh. "Come closer, and I'll show you."

The famine victim immediately stepped forward, not taking Zhao Han seriously in the slightest.

A bamboo pole with half a pair of scissors tied to it, held in a child's hands — what possible threat could that be?

As the distance between them shrank, Zhao Han suddenly thrust his spear forward.

Zhao Han had never trained in traditional martial arts and did not know how to properly wield a spear, but his bayonet technique was very smooth.

In that instant, before the man could even react, the scissors fixed to the tip of the bamboo spear pierced precisely into his throat.

Blood gushed out. The target crashed to the ground, his eyes filled with utter disbelief.

After more than half a month of eating well and resting, Zhao Han's strength was still modest, but his speed was faster than before.

Cries of alarm rang out all around. The famine victims who had been eyeing them like tigers swiftly backed away from Zhao Han, this little plague god.

The two siblings strode forward. No one dared block their way again.

Zhao Zhenfang looked down at the dead man's wound. The dripping blood frightened her badly, and her small hand clutched her second brother's clothes tightly as she walked on.

As they walked, three more famine victims blocked their path.

Zhao Han sneered and brandished his weapon. The scissors at the tip of the bamboo spear were still dripping blood. He stood in a standoff with the three men.

"Boss, this one's trouble. No point risking our lives," one of the famine victims urged.

The man addressed as "Boss" bared his teeth in a savage grin at Zhao Han, but in the end, he stepped aside and let them pass.

It was like a tiger or leopard hunting prey: the moment there was any risk of injury, they would choose a different target.

Once Zhao Han and his sister were far away, the "Boss" grew more and more frustrated as he brooded. He said, "There's no way to live like this. Never mind being pushed around by government troops — now we're even being cowed by a child. If we go back to the village, we've got no money to pay the summer tax. If we stay here, we starve to death. Might as well band together and pull off something big!"

"Just the three of us?"

"Who says only three? Thousands and thousands!"

…

Another day passed.

A master and his servant emerged from the city of Tianjin.

The master was a scholar, about forty years of age, named Fei Yinghuan. He wore a Confucian scholar's robe, had a lean, refined face and a handsome beard, and carried a folding fan in his hand, with a longsword hanging at his waist.

The servant was quite robust. His real name was unknown; he went by the alias Wei Jianxiong. Broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with a full beard, he carried a book chest on his back and had a wrought-iron staff slung horizontally at his waist.

The two men strode across the moat. The moment they crossed the bridge, their expressions turned grim.

Fei Yinghuan put away his folding fan, smoothly drew his scholar's sword, and continued forward with unhurried composure.

Wei Jianxiong took up his wrought-iron staff and swept his gaze across the surrounding famine victims. Wherever his eyes fell, those with ill intentions lowered their heads.

Only after they had passed through the famine victim encampment did Fei Yinghuan finally sheathe his sword. He turned back to gaze at the corpses strewn everywhere and sighed with sorrow: "When the realm prospers, the common folk suffer; when the realm perishes, the common folk suffer. Ah, the ancients did not deceive me."

Though Wei Jianxiong was a servant, he did not mince words. He warned, "Young master, now is not the time to lament the suffering of the world. We've run out of travel money. We need to get to Jinghai County at once, visit your friend, and borrow some silver. Otherwise, we'll have to beg our way back to Yanshan. This road is likely far from peaceful — we must be cautious in all things."

"I know. What rotten luck!" Fei Yinghuan's face was full of helplessness.

He had originally come to the capital for the metropolitan examination. Who would have thought he would not only fail to pass but also end up stranded and delayed in Tianjin on his way home? Then he had inexplicably fallen gravely ill, and all his silver had gone to doctors and medicine, leaving him now without even the money to hire a boat.

Fei Yinghuan, descendant of a renowned family, was now even shorter on funds than Zhao Han.

Two sturdy famine victims watched the two men's retreating figures and began whispering to each other:

"Boss, are we really just letting them go? They've got to have money and goods on them."

"The big job comes first! Are Brother Zhang, Brother Zhao, Brother Chen, and the others ready?"

"All ready."

"Remember, from now on, no one is to use their real surname or given name, so that one day the court can't dig up our ancestral graves. My name is He Who Treads the Sky!"

"Got it. From now on, I'm Shake the Mountain."

"Once we rise up, we can't stay in the Northern Metropolitan Region. We'll fight our way straight to Shandong. First, we sack Yangliuqing Town so everyone can eat their fill, then we attack Jinghai County. If we can take it, we take it; if not, we move on. The Northern Metropolitan Region is in drought — there's no grain. Shandong has more to eat."

"But I heard Shandong suffered disasters last year too."

"Then we go to Henan."

"Henan had drought the year before last, and floods the year before that. A lot of their famine victims came to our village to beg."

"Shut your mouth! So much useless talk. When the time comes, we'll find somewhere to go!"

"…"

Two li from the southern moat, several large vats had long since been set up. Someone moved through the crowd of famine victims, shouting, "He Who Treads the Sky is sharing out meat! Come quickly, all of you, and eat meat!"

After so many days of famine, what meat could there possibly be to eat?

The famine victims had long since guessed the truth, but on the verge of starvation, they could not afford to care. Quite a few of them had even been eating meat in secret all along — they simply had not done it openly.

Half a day later, the sharing of the meat broth was finished.

He Who Treads the Sky selected three thousand able-bodied men, along with several hundred of their family members, and surged southward in a mighty, chaotic wave.

The so-called able-bodied men were merely those who could still pick up a club and fight for their lives; the remaining famine victims had long been too starved to walk. They carried all manner of "weapons" in their hands — useful for battle and plunder when the moment came, and serving as walking sticks on the march.

Without those sticks to lean on, these men could barely even walk.

Zhao Han had already stirred the butterfly's wings. In the Northern Metropolitan Region in the first year of Chongzhen, a bandit chief calling himself He Who Treads the Sky had inexplicably appeared.

(Crying — the Penguin big boss actually flipped my sign. A White Silver Alliance reward, no less. I'm overwhelmed by the favor.)

(Also, I see old friends like Ding Boyue and others. Thanks too to Feng Sheng Shui Qi, Dao Yuan Fu Tu and Gui Mi Zhi Zhu, Shu You Ru Ci 12, and many more for their rewards. I won't list every name — there are so many, everyone's been incredibly generous.)

(End of chapter)