Chapter Forty-Three: A Heart-Stirring Slaughter

Shangguan Chuanyun pondered the old man’s words. It seemed the southern lands had devolved into utter chaos, but what was this about the northerners distributing farmland? He turned to Wu Kaishan and asked, “Commander Wu, what’s happening in the north with the land distribution?”

Wu Kaishan replied, “Young master, General Zhenyuan is preparing to expand the army to resist the barbarians. As long as each household provides one soldier, they’re allotted five acres of land. It appears to be a garrison farming policy. They’re also building houses—residents can move in without paying everything at once, and in time, the house becomes theirs.”

“That’s right, exactly those kinds of houses!” the old man chimed in eagerly. “Anyone who goes can get a house. Pay a silver coin each month, and after decades, it’s yours.”

“Oh?” Shangguan Chuanyun was intrigued. This policy seemed remarkably advanced. This era was still plagued by demons and monsters, yet it was nearing its end. Though Daoist arts were manifest, the world was on the brink of turmoil—a time when, according to the principles of cosmic evolution, monsters would make their last desperate bid to seize territory from mankind.

From the perspective of fate’s calculations, soon a child of destiny would surely arise to bring closure to this age. The garrisoned farming system—Shangguan Chuanyun recalled hearing of such a policy in a dynasty from his previous life’s history. But this arrangement of moving in early and paying in installments for a house was rather novel; he remembered Wang Mang had tried something similar in the Han dynasty.

He found the northern system fascinating and made a mental note to have someone investigate it.

Seeing Shangguan Chuanyun’s apparent indifference, the old man grew anxious, knelt on the ground, and pleaded, “Please, young master, save us! If you don’t, we won’t survive the journey north!”

Thousands nearby watched, their eyes filled with desperate hope. Like a tidal wave, they knelt, crying out, “Save us, young master!” They pressed in, inching ever closer. Some, eyes red with hunger, stared at the carriage as if ready to pounce.

The guards grew tense. Shangguan Chuanyun felt his sword at his side tremble lightly—a warning. Clearly, passing through would not be easy. If the crowd surged, disaster might strike; he felt a headache coming on.

Should conflict erupt, thousands might rush forward, forcing their hand. But Shangguan Chuanyun would not slaughter them all—even wounded, many would not survive long. His own guards, coachman, and the two carriages would fare little better.

Yet the only way to help was to send word to the Jia Trading House; as long as they waited, food would not be an issue.

He weighed his options, quietly circulating his internal energy, removed the sword case, and opened a slit, ready for any emergency.

With so many people, some might harbor ill intentions, incite the crowd, and disregard consequences. If that happened, irreconcilable conflict would follow. Precautions were necessary.

“You must wait a while,” he said. “I need to send a message. Someone will come to distribute porridge.”

Suddenly, a voice rose from the crowd. “No! What if you leave and no one comes?”

“Yes, what then? He’s deceiving us!”

“You can’t abandon us!”

A commotion erupted as people rose, slowly advancing toward the carriage.

Commander Wu raised his blade and shouted, “Back! One more step and you die!”

The crowd halted, but continued to eye the carriage hungrily.

Shangguan Chuanyun glanced at the troublemaker, let out a cold laugh, and thought, One more chance for you.

He sensed the man’s words were sowing discord. He was merely passing through, with no obligation to ensure their survival.

When the crowd seemed to settle, he looked at the three before him. The old man kept his eyes shut, as if deaf to all. The burly middle-aged man glared at Shangguan Chuanyun with hatred, as if he were a mortal enemy. Shangguan Chuanyun found it baffling.

But the young martial artist appeared indifferent.

Shangguan Chuanyun realized the old man either lacked influence over the crowd, or was deliberately allowing them to speak as they wished. His feigned ignorance suggested he was determined to rely on Shangguan Chuanyun.

Everyone had their own calculations; if their aims aligned, so be it. If not, he would fulfill his duty and nothing more. They could act as they pleased, as long as his own interests were not infringed.

With this clarity, he addressed the old man, “I will contact someone to set up a porridge tent here. You may wait.”

The old man continued to rest with closed eyes.

The burly man glared with hatred, as if yearning to curse, but the armed guards deterred him. His gaze was full of venom, wishing to kill Shangguan Chuanyun with his eyes.

The martial artist remained unconcerned.

Shangguan Chuanyun turned to the coachman, “Contact the nearest trading house to establish a porridge tent.”

“Yes, young master.” The coachman responded, retrieved a pigeon from under the seat, wrote symbols on a slip of paper with charcoal, attached it to the pigeon’s leg, and released it.

With a flutter, the pigeon soared skyward toward Funnan County.

Suddenly, with a thump, the pigeon was struck mid-flight and fell. The coachman jumped up, grabbed an iron whip, and glared coldly in the direction the pigeon had fallen, his hand trembling.

Carrier pigeons were rare and valuable, entrusted to follow the young master’s orders. It was infuriating that one had been killed so soon, and right before the young master.

A man in the crowd lifted the dead pigeon and shouted, “They’re calling someone to kill us! Here’s the proof—ah!”

A flash of silver streaked by; blood spurted from his neck and he collapsed.

Panic swept the crowd. From the same direction, another voice yelled, “They don’t want to feed us! Those two horses are enough for us—ugh!”

Another flash of silver struck the speaker’s neck; he clutched the wound and fell.

“Da Zhuang!” the old man cried out, rushing to the fallen man.

“Big brother!” the burly man shouted, then turned on Shangguan Chuanyun with venomous hatred and lunged.

“Give me back my brother’s life—ugh…”

He barely advanced two steps before a flash of silver and the guards’ blades cut him down.

The old man, seeing this, howled, “Er Zhuang!” He ran a few steps, saw the guards poised with blades, and halted.

He called to the crowd, “Everyone, rush them! With those two horses, we won’t starve!”

Shangguan Chuanyun pointed a finger; a flash of silver struck the old man, then returned as a three-inch flying sword, resting quietly in the sword case.

The crowd froze, paralyzed with fear.

Shangguan Chuanyun stood and declared, “Hands on your heads, squat down. Otherwise, death without mercy.”

The crowd hesitated, but the guards pressed with their blades, shouting. One by one, they all crouched down, even the young martial artist before him.

Shangguan Chuanyun asked, “What is your name?”

The young man replied, “Young master, I am Li Hualong.”

The name struck Shangguan Chuanyun as familiar. He recalled seeing it in a collection of strange tales from his previous life. He shook his head, dismissing the thought; events would unfold as they would, not necessarily as the script dictated.

He regarded Li Hualong and asked, “I see you possess martial skill. Why are you surviving among refugees?”

Li Hualong sighed. “To tell the truth, young master, I have no choice. I am a villager from Lan Feng County, a hundred miles from here. I learned martial arts as a child, hunted in the mountains, and lived well…”

As Li Hualong finished his story, Shangguan Chuanyun understood: wolf demons from Black Wolf Mountain had invaded Lan Feng County, devouring the magistrate and his subordinates. Their dogs turned feral, roaming and eating human brains, ravaging the populace. Li Hualong was in the mountains at the time.

When he returned, he saw the wild dogs feasting on brains, corpses strewn everywhere. He hid among the dead bodies. One wild dog found him and tried to eat his brain, but Li Hualong struck its head with a stone, injuring it; the dog spat blood and fled. From the blood, Li Hualong recovered two four-foot-long fangs.

Fearing revenge, he fled, joining the refugee horde to hide among them. His martial skills attracted the old man and his sons, who treated him as an honored guest. But Li Hualong disliked their conduct; though all were refugees, they allowed their henchmen to dominate others.

These henchmen, when food was scarce, used dead refugees as rations. Some even suggested live humans as food to survive the journey north, but with the old man’s presence, they refrained.

After hearing this, Shangguan Chuanyun realized the dilemma: killing was easy, but the aftermath troublesome. The henchmen numbered in the hundreds; slaughtering them all was not timely, but without restraint, it spelled disaster for the refugees.

Refugees, by nature, lacked unity and dared not resist unless someone organized them. Only then could they become a force. For now, they were merely waiting to be slaughtered.