Chapter 210: Stories of Those Years

The Kong household naturally commanded great face in official circles, but for all the honor and prestige of the Duke for the Propagation of Culture, his actual substantive post was merely Magistrate of Qufu County — his reach was too short for a place several hundred li away. Moreover, even the authorities in the surrounding areas dared not meddle in this stretch of land, let alone anyone else.

As time dragged on, the Kong household considered abandoning this estate, yet some felt the area was sizable, with convenient transport and a crossroads where all directions converged — if farming was no good, doing business would still be fine. And so they found it troublesome to keep and a pity to give up, dragging it out for many years.

During those years, not a single grain of harvest could be collected from that estate. An unwritten rule even arose within the Duke for the Propagation of Culture's household: whoever was willing to go manage this Paoheyan estate could keep eighty percent of the harvest for himself, with the remaining twenty percent delivered to the Kong household — and this arrangement would hold for five years.

These were exceedingly generous terms, but the Kong household wasn't taking any loss either. Nothing could be collected anyway; if someone really could go and manage it, failure cost them nothing, and success was pure gain.

When Kong Jiuying first arrived at Paoheyan, he was just in his twenties, with a band of suspicious-looking "fellow villagers" in tow. He came and simply declared: this estate, I'll manage it now.

People later discussing the matter realized that when Kong Jiuying came to Paoheyan, he merely claimed he'd been dispatched to take charge — in truth he had no credentials whatsoever, and it was likely nothing more than a story he'd spun out of thin air.

But the people of Paoheyan had grown used to throwing their weight around and paid no mind at all to this newly arrived "estate head." By the time Kong Jiuying reached Paoheyan, it was already the autumn harvest season. He went door to door collecting rent. Some households put on pained faces and claimed they'd reaped nothing at all — those were the ones giving him face. Some shut their doors and refused to see him. Still others came straight out with clubs, staves, swords, and spears, and drove him off outright.

From beginning to end, Kong Jiuying wore a smiling face throughout. A few times, spittle landed right on his face, yet he didn't so much as furrow his brow. Some honest folk couldn't bear to watch and said this young fellow was having a hard time of it — they should hand over a bit of grain, at least enough for him to report back. But the honest and kindhearted were few; far more people laughed and jeered, calling the lad a coward who'd sooner or later go home crying. If he didn't know what was good for him, they'd set a fire at his lodgings and scare him off — might even scare the piss out of him.

The Paoheyan estate was truly not small. It held properties across several counties: Shan County and Cao County in Shandong, Xiayi in Guide Prefecture of Henan, and Feng County in the Southern Metropolitan Region. Kong Jiuying, genial and smiling all the while, made his way through the entire estate just like that.

After completing his rounds, Kong Jiuying issued a notice to every locality: those north of the Yellow River were to pay their due rent in full within three days; those south of the Yellow River, within five days.

Upon hearing this notice, a small number of estate households were stunned. The vast majority roared with laughter. A few honest folk thought to go and pay, but were dragged back by the others. Some even threatened them: nobody else is paying, so what are you showing off for? If you've got so much grain you can't finish it, bring it over to my place.

Thus it dragged on for a few days. Three days passed. Five days passed. Not a single person came to pay rent. Instead, quite a few estate households, armed with weapons, loitered around Kong Jiuying's lodgings, shoving and jostling the "fellow villagers" he'd brought with him. Neither side could hold their temper, and it erupted into a brawl. Kong Jiuying's people came out the worse for it, a few of them even drawing blood.

Having gained the upper hand, the Paoheyan estate households grew even more emboldened. That very day they laid down their words: if you know what's good for you, get lost fast — otherwise you won't be going back at all.

Those who came swaggering and brawling were all from the nearby villages. That very night, trouble struck three villages. In some households, torches were tossed into their courtyards; in others, torches were hurled onto their roofs. A courtyard fire could still be put out in time, but the roofs were thatched with dry straw, and in the parched season between autumn and winter, they caught fire the instant flame touched them.

Yet even knowing a fire raged outside, no one dared go out to fight it — because the thunder of hoofbeats roared, sounding like several dozen riders entering the village. A force of several dozen cavalrymen, whether official troops or bandits, held overwhelming dominance over villagers and estate households. No one dared go out and provoke them.

Some families were simply burned out to nothing. It wasn't that no hotheaded fool tried to go out — someone did go out, and then came a shriek of agony. Some heard the piercing whistle of arrows.

Only after the hoofbeats faded into the distance did everyone dare emerge to fight the fires. Fortunately, those setting the fires did not charge into the courtyards; even if the roof caught fire, the people at least were still unharmed. Once they came out and extinguished the flames, they also saw what had become of those hotheaded fools: shot dead by bow and arrow. The attackers not only rode horses, they even used bows — a level of force that even a county seat might struggle to muster. Everyone was chilled to the bone, and at the same time baffled, wondering when they had offended such a formidable power.

By the next morning, the bafflement only grew. Some had their courtyards burned, some had their houses burned, and some households remained completely untouched. What in the world was going on?

Matters can't withstand scrutiny. People quickly discerned the pattern. Those who had put on pained faces and made excuses, those who had shown sympathy — their homes were untouched. Those who shut their doors and refused to see him had their courtyards burned. Those who drove him off with clubs, staves, swords, and spears had their houses burned outright.

Then word came from all around: it turned out that last night, it wasn't just this one village that suffered — all four surrounding villages had met with calamity.

Anyone could guess who had done it. Yet no one could have imagined that the grinning young estate head, Kong Jiuying, possessed such methods. By all rights, at this point, these estate households and commoners ought to have yielded. But the estate households of Paoheyan had long grown lawless and unrestrained. It wasn't just by tough temperament and banding together that they thrived — many families had kinsmen and grown sons who had taken to the hills as bandits, or plied some shady trade. Having suffered losses and deaths, they meant to retaliate.

Those estate sons who had turned bandit or taken to shady dealings, upon hearing this news, did not hesitate. They gathered over two hundred men, promised their associates rich rewards, and called in some true desperadoes, preparing to avenge their fellow villagers. It wasn't that they were so righteous; rather, with the Paoheyan estate in a state of no one's control, they could reap considerable profit themselves. If someone took charge, it would be inconvenient at every turn.

So many bandits assembled made an impressive show of force. As they advanced, the villages along the way did not hold back either — cooking meals, boiling water, and some young men even grabbed their tools and tagged along to help, the very picture of one big family.

Kong Jiuying, it seemed, did not know to take shelter. He stayed right at the estate manager's lodgings, quietly waiting for this crew to come knocking.

These sons of Paoheyan never made it to his door. They were hit by a mounted troop midway — a full eighty-some riders, no fewer than ten of them able to draw bows and loose arrows, their skill with blade and spear all hard, solid technique.

The outcome was plain to see. Blood flowed like a river. Among the desperate bandits the estate sons had called in, a few men of broader experience spotted familiar faces among these riders. Their faces went white with terror, and they turned and fled without looking back.

After this battle, the people of the Paoheyan estate finally understood that a fierce dragon had come, one they could not overcome. Willing or not, they had to bow their heads and submit.

The land rents began to be paid up, village by village. This Kong Jiuying also knew not to push matters to the extreme. He collected only the current year's dues and paid no mind to all the arrears from years past.

Beyond the land rents, however, Kong Jiuying did one more thing: he ordered the bullies, demons, and snake-spirits of every village and market to hand over thirty percent of their monthly profits. Paoheyan had been lawless for so long. Because of the Duke for the Propagation of Culture, the authorities did not come to govern, and the Kong household itself could not control it. Many who had broken the king's law, smugglers and fences, all hid out here or used this place as a vital passage — after all, it was where three provinces converged.

The villagers had already been beaten into submission, but these salt brigands and hardened criminals still refused to yield. Yet before these men could even rally and stir up trouble, they suddenly fell silent and obediently went to pay up.

The reason for their submission only came out much later. Among the bandits the villagers had called in for help, a few had come from the hinterlands of Yanzhou Prefecture. Their original stronghold had been wiped out, and with no place left to hide locally, they had come here to scrape out a living.

The stronghold had been wiped out by government troops — but not through any official, organized encirclement campaign. Yanzhou Prefecture encompassed the Yimeng Mountains, a gathering place for bandits since ancient times, with no shortage of mountain strongholds. Though officials and outlaws are sworn foes, so long as the bandits committed no case too brazen or shocking, the authorities could hardly be bothered, and the two sides maintained this delicate, uneasy peace.

Yet around the ninth year of the Wanli reign, those mountain strongholds were wiped out one after another. Men and women, young and old, were slaughtered to the last, and their wealth was swept clean away.

At first, no one noticed. By the time they did, seven or eight strongholds had already been destroyed, over two thousand people were dead, and twenty to thirty thousand taels — or even more — in goods and coin had vanished without a trace. Those with expertise who went to inspect the ruins of these strongholds could tell it was the work of the same group.

So many lives, such brutal methods, and so much wealth — the outlaws of Yanzhou Prefecture began to stir in agitation. Some guarded cautiously; others joined forces to track the culprits down. After two more strongholds were destroyed, this mysterious force met its match before a stronghold of several hundred people.

According to the people of that stronghold, for the first two days they sensed something amiss outside — as if someone was spying on them. On the third day, at dusk, the gate guards were shot dead by arrows, and several dozen men on horseback charged the stronghold. Fortunately, there were many people at the gate at the time, and their courage was somewhat stouter. When the men fell, instead of fleeing, they shouted and hauled the stronghold gates shut. Had those riders charged inside, they would have been meat on the chopping block.

Once the gates were shut, a few archers climbed up and loosed arrows. Though they struck some of the enemy, the riders' archery was far superior. Anyone in the stronghold who showed their face was shot dead.

Seeing no advantage to be gained, the group soon departed. But having witnessed these men ride and shoot with such precision — and some even got a look at the arrows they fired — they finally determined the group's origin. In a place like Yanzhou Prefecture, only government troops possessed such capability, and specifically, the household retainers of some military officer.

Government troops turned bandits — and such formidable troops at that. The shocking news spread swiftly, known not only throughout the outlaw circles of Yanzhou Prefecture but even in several neighboring prefectures.

Every household prepared as if facing a great enemy. Some of the smaller strongholds and petty bandit dens even disbanded outright, or else went to seek refuge with larger powers. Because of this, the public order in Yanzhou Prefecture actually improved considerably.