The people of Wang Family Village had spent more than two years following Wang Er across the land, drifting like leaves in a storm that never seemed to end. They had seen too much, walked too far, and eaten far too little for any of it to feel heroic anymore.
To their credit, under Wang Er's restraint, they had not turned into the worst kind of bandits. They had not gone around slaughtering civilians for fun, nor had they burned villages just to watch the flames dance.
But even if they had not done it themselves, they had seen it done.
And seeing it once was enough. Seeing it a hundred times carved it into your bones.
Everywhere the roving bandit armies passed, destruction followed like a loyal dog.
They tore down fences not because the fences blocked them, but because the fences existed. They burned down fortified homes not because they needed to, but because leaving anything standing felt like a personal insult. They smashed city walls and dismantled defenses with almost artistic enthusiasm, making sure that if they ever returned, there would be nothing left to resist them.
It was a system, in its own twisted way.
Destroy everything today so tomorrow's robbery would be easier.
Efficient. Brutal. Utterly brainless.
So now, when someone told them to build something instead of tearing it down, their minds did not reject the idea outright. They simply failed to process it.
They stood there in a loose cluster, staring at the half-built structures, the piles of wood, the scattered stones.
Nobody moved.
Nobody spoke.
A light breeze passed through, and for a moment they looked less like workers and more like a group of abandoned scarecrows waiting for instructions that would never come.
Bai Mao watched this for a few seconds, then felt his temper rise.
"What are you all doing, cultivating immortality through standing still?" he snapped. "Brother Wang Er said we're turning over a new leaf. We're going to be proper people now. Proper people work. Or what, you think virtue grows out of thin air?"
One of the villagers scratched his head. "I thought virtue comes from… not stealing?"
Bai Mao glared at him. "That is the beginner level. Now we are advancing to the next stage. Working without stealing. Try to keep up."
A few people chuckled weakly.
The tension broke.
Slowly, awkwardly, they began to move.
They had no proper tools, so the heavy work of chopping trees fell to Zhang Yuanwai's militia. The villagers took on whatever they could manage. Carrying logs, hauling stones, dragging branches, running back and forth like overworked ants that had just discovered the concept of employment.
It was clumsy.
It was inefficient.
But it was real work.
And for the first time in a long while, they were not destroying something.
They were building.
Bai Yuan stood at a distance, watching quietly, his folding fan resting against his palm. A faint smile tugged at his lips.
These people had followed Wang Er long enough to learn restraint. Compared to the usual "returning home bandit deserters," they were practically saints in disguise.
When Fan Shanyue's former men had been reformed, it had taken months before they stopped looking at every object like it might be worth stealing.
This group, at least, already knew how to hesitate.
That alone was progress.
Time passed.
Sweat began to drip.
Breathing grew heavier.
And then reality, as it often did, arrived in the form of hunger.
One of the villagers staggered under the weight of a log. His steps slowed, then faltered, and finally his knees gave way. He barely managed to lower the wood before collapsing beside it.
He pressed a hand to his stomach, his face turning awkward.
"Brother Mao… I'm hungry," he admitted. "No strength left."
Another voice chimed in from behind. "Hungry? I passed hungry a while ago. Right now I feel like my soul is lighter than my body."
A third man leaned against a pile of stones. "My legs are shaking so much, if I try to walk any further, I might accidentally invent a new martial art."
"Shaking Step Technique," someone muttered.
"Sounds powerful."
"Only works when starving."
A few dry laughs rippled through the group, but the laughter died quickly.
Hunger was not funny when it stayed.
These people had wandered for years. Even when they looted rich households or broke into county granaries, the food never lasted.
Wang Jiayin's army had over fifty thousand men. Fifty thousand mouths that did not care where the food came from, only that it existed.
A wealthy estate could feed them for a day. Two, if they were lucky.
A county granary could last a bit longer.
But grain did not magically refill itself. It came from taxes, and taxes came from people. And when the people had already been stripped bare, there was nothing left to collect.
So the granaries emptied.
Then the land emptied.
And finally, the people themselves emptied out, becoming shadows that moved from place to place, carrying hunger like a second spine.
They could never stay.
They could never build.
Because the moment they stayed, they would starve.
Bai Yuan looked at their drawn faces and sighed softly. He raised his head, glanced at the sky, and calculated the timing with quiet precision.
"Don't worry," he said. "Food will be here soon."
One of the villagers blinked. "Soon as in… today soon, or philosophical soon?"
Bai Yuan flicked his fan open with a crisp snap. "Soon as in you will not die of starvation before it arrives."
"That is a very comforting definition," the man replied sincerely.
And then, as if the world itself had decided to cooperate for once, the food arrived.
Magistrate Feng Jun appeared at the head of a large procession, bringing with him over a thousand people. Most of them were newly recruited laborers, drawn in by the promise of work-for-relief.
Three jin of flour per day.
The moment that wage had been announced, people had rushed to sign up with a speed that suggested hunger was an excellent recruiter.
Now they came in waves, pushing carts loaded with grain and cement from Gao Village.
Feng Jun did not waste time.
He raised his hand.
"Eat first," he ordered. "Then work."
The kitchen squad sprang into motion.
Clay stoves were assembled. Fires were lit. Water was drawn from the Yellow River. It was yellow, unapologetically so, but nobody complained. In times like these, if water did not actively resist being drunk, it was considered acceptable.
Flour was poured out.
Dough was kneaded.
And then the knives came out.
Heyang County had its specialty, and today, it was making a grand return.
San Chi Knife-Cut Noodles.
Cooks from San Chi Village lined up in formation, each standing before a pot of boiling water. One cook, one pot, one blade.
Left hand held the dough.
Right hand held the knife.
Slice.
Slice.
Slice.
Each movement was smooth, practiced, almost elegant. The noodles flew from blade to pot in perfect arcs, landing with a soft splash as if guided by invisible strings.
It looked less like cooking and more like a performance.
The Wang Family villagers stared, their expressions slowly transitioning from confusion to disbelief.
"In a disaster year…" one of them murmured, "…you still have enough flour to do this?"
"And enough mood," another added. "I cannot even find the mood to stand properly."
A cook turned, grinning broadly.
"Not long ago, we were worse than you," he said. "We were so poor even hunger pitied us. Then Gao Village came."
Another cook laughed as he worked, his knife moving without pause.
"I had not touched this craft in over three years. Thought I had forgotten it. Turns out my hands remembered better than my brain."
He kept talking.
The knife kept moving.
The noodles came out perfectly shaped, uniform, almost arrogant in their precision.
One of the villagers whispered, "He is not even looking."
Another replied, "At this point, the noodles are afraid of disappointing him."
Silence fell again, but this time it was different.
Memories surfaced.
Two years ago.
That night before everything changed.
They had followed Wang Er to Gao Village to steal water. Just one bucket. That was the plan.
They filled it.
Turned around.
And saw a mountain of flour.
At the time, they had been too stunned to understand what they were seeing.
Now, standing here, watching flour being used so freely, the truth slowly assembled itself in their minds.
Gao Village had never lacked food.
Not then.
Not now.
If they had stayed…
Maybe they would not have become what they were.
Maybe they would have been standing here as workers from the beginning, instead of crawling back as half-starved wanderers.
"…Brother Wang Er knew," someone said quietly. "He knew before we did."
A few heads nodded.
"He chose this road," another added. "We are just late to it."
"…Hope he comes back," a third voice said, softer than the rest.
At that moment, the first bowl of noodles was ready.
Feng Jun gave a subtle look.
The cook handed it to Bai Yuan.
Bai Yuan did not hesitate. He passed it to Bai Mao.
Bai Mao stared at the bowl, then used his chopsticks to pick up a single noodle. He ate it slowly, then handed the bowl to the next person.
"One each," he said.
No one argued.
The bowl moved from hand to hand.
Each person took one noodle.
Chewed.
Swallowed.
The taste was simple.
Flour. Water. Salt. Heat.
But inside that simplicity, something broke loose.
Relief.
Regret.
A strange, fragile hope.
By the time the bowl made a full round, more bowls were already coming out.
"Eat!" someone shouted.
"Everyone, eat properly!"
Soon, every one of the hundred-plus villagers had a full bowl in hand. Then the laborers received theirs.
More than a thousand people sat at the dock construction site, eating San Chi Knife-Cut Noodles with an intensity that made it look like a sacred ritual.
Slurp.
Breathe.
Repeat.
Faces softened.
Eyes brightened.
For a brief moment, no one was a bandit, a refugee, or a survivor.
They were just people eating hot food.
And that alone felt like a miracle.
"Finish up!" someone yelled. "Back to work after this!"
"Work hard!"
"If we do not build this place properly and block the bandits, the moment they land, everything we just got will disappear again."
This time, nobody needed convincing.
They finished their bowls.
Stood up.
And worked.
Not like people forced to survive.
But like people who had finally found something worth protecting.
Trivia
San Chi Knife-Cut Noodles
San Chi Village in Heyang County was historically known for knife-cut noodles made with flat blades, producing long, evenly thick strands. Such regional food traditions often vanished during prolonged famine—not because the skills were lost, but because survival left no room for craftsmanship. When stability returned, so did forgotten techniques. Briefly.
Work-for-Relief Systems
Using labor in exchange for food was a common emergency policy in late imperial China. It worked remarkably well in the short term and failed reliably in the long term, usually when officials mistook "temporary stability" for "problem solved."
Why Roaming Armies Never Built Anything
Construction ties you to a place. Armies that live by plunder cannot afford roots. History likes to call this strategy. Logistics prefers the word inevitable.