Li Zicheng led his unit as they scrambled up a small, jagged hillside, finally reaching the crest before collapsing in a heap. They couldn't climb another inch even if their lives depended on it. Every single man in his squad was gasping for air, their chests heaving with a rhythmic, desperate wheezing that echoed through the silence of the mountain.
The aftermath of Wang Jiayin's death had been a chaotic nightmare. The great rebel army had fractured into a dozen different splinters, scattering like glass shards across the four directions. The imperial government had immediately seized the opportunity, sending out units to hunt them down. Cao Wenzhao had simply picked a target at random to pursue with relentless, dogged aggression. Unfortunately for Li Zicheng, his luck had run dry; he was the one Cao Wenzhao had locked onto.
The chase had been so brutal and constant that Li Zicheng had been forced into a permanent state of flight. He hadn't had a spare second to pause and raid a village for supplies, which meant his grain stores were nearly empty. Without food, there was no strength, and even the act of running was becoming an agonizing struggle for survival. He knew with a heavy, sinking certainty that if this pursuit continued much longer, he would simply snap.
Peering down from the ridge, he watched Cao Wenzhao's vanguard preparing to enter the valley at the base of the mountain. Li Zicheng let out a long, ragged sigh.
"I never imagined that I, Li Zicheng, would draw my final breath in a place as desolate as this."
But then, something strange happened.
A messenger on a lathered horse galloped frantically from the rear of the imperial column, charging straight into Cao Wenzhao's main camp. A few moments later, the entire army ground to a halt. Instead of advancing into the mountains to finish the job, they began a disciplined, rapid about-face. They were leaving.
Li Zicheng blinked, his eyes wide.
"Wait... what? What just happened?"
His nephew, Li Guo, popped his head up from behind a rock, his face breaking into a look of pure, delirious joy.
"Uncle! He's retreating! Cao Wenzhao is actually pulling back! We're saved! Hahaha, look at them go!"
The members of the "Old Eight Teams" erupted into a frenzy of relief. On that mountain peak, hardened killers were weeping like children or laughing hysterically. One man even tried to bust out a celebratory dance, but after two clumsy steps, his empty stomach gave out and he face-planted into the dirt with a dull thud.
Li Zicheng watched the dust cloud from the retreating cavalry with narrowed eyes.
"Another rebel faction must have caused a massive stir somewhere else," he muttered, his voice full of hard-earned wisdom.
"Cao is rushing off to deal with a bigger threat. It's the old saying: the bird that sticks its head out gets shot first. Whoever made the biggest noise just became the government's top priority. We need to remember this, boys. From now on, the Old Eight Teams keep a low profile. We do not attract the attention of the imperial hounds."
"It's raining! It's actually raining!"
In the city of Puzhou, a farmer went screaming through the gates like a man possessed by a spirit. He lunged toward the groups of huddled refugees, his voice a raw, frantic shriek.
"The sky has opened! It's raining to the west!"
For a heartbeat, the refugees felt a surge of hope, but it was quickly replaced by a cold, cynical disbelief.
"How is that possible?" someone croaked. The drought had lasted so long that the very concept of rain felt like a cruel fairy tale.
But then a second farmer came running in, then a third, and then a dozen more. All of them were shouting the same impossible news:
"It's raining in the west!"
The dam of disbelief finally broke. A massive wave of refugees, who had been reduced to begging for scraps in the city, began to pour out of the western gate in a desperate, hopeful exodus.
To understand their excitement, one must understand the pride of Puzhou: cotton. The Annals of Puzhou Prefecture record that "in years without flood or river damage, the harvest of warm fluff is grand." In a good year, the cotton harvest here was legendary. Unfortunately, since the Great Drought had taken hold, the fields had produced nothing but dust for a very long time.
Now that the water was falling from the sky, the farmers were practically dancing. Many of them sprinted toward their homes, ignoring the fact that it wasn't exactly the optimal planting season. Just being in the fields and hacking at the softened earth with a hoe was enough to make them feel alive again.
It was during this frantic activity that the farmers spotted a curious sight.
Two burly laborers were carrying a sedan chair with practiced ease. Sitting on the slung poles was a man dressed in the refined robes of a scholar. Behind them followed a sizable retinue of people pushing several carts, all of which were covered with waterproof oilcloth to protect the contents from the light drizzle.
The group moved steadily along the narrow ridges between the cotton fields, ignoring the mud. The farmers immediately stopped their work. To people like them, anyone wearing scholar's silk and being carried by others was a "Great Lord", a man of power and danger.
Experience had taught them that when a Great Lord passed by, the smartest thing to do was to stand perfectly still with your head bowed. If you didn't show enough respect, the Lord might order his servants to beat you half to death just for the hell of it. The best-case scenario was for the Lord to keep moving and pretend you didn't exist.
But, as is often the case with bad luck, the sedan chair came to a smooth halt right in front of them. The cotton farmers shivered, their hoes trembling in their hands.
"My Lord... how... how can we serve you?"
The "Great Lord" spoke, and his voice was surprisingly gentle, lacking the usual sharp edge of aristocratic arrogance.
"I'm sitting in this chair, but not because I think I'm better than you. I have a weak constitution and a chronic lung condition. If I walk too much, I lose my breath, so these two kind brothers offered to carry me. Please, don't call me 'Lord'. My name is Zhao Sheng. You can just call me Mister Zhao."
The farmers didn't buy it for a second, this was definitely a Big Shot, but if a Big Shot told you a lie, you nodded and smiled.
"Mister Zhao!" they chorused, bowing lower.
"I heard from General Xing that this area is famous for its cotton," Zhao Sheng said, gesturing to the soil.
"Are these the fields you're working on?"
"Yes, sir," the farmers replied quickly.
Zhao Sheng tilted his head back, letting the light rain hit his face.
"It's already autumn, isn't it? Can you really get a cotton crop to take hold this late in the year?"
The farmers looked down at their feet, their expressions turning miserable.
"The best time to plant is in the fourth month, sir. The rain came so late that a real crop is impossible now. We're just... well, we were so excited about the water that we wanted to dig a little."
Zhao Sheng nodded slowly. While he was a scholar by trade, his knowledge of agriculture was extensive. This was the advantage of being a scholar from a poor background; furthermore, over the past few years, he had been the primary coordinator helping farmers across various regions, so his professional expertise in the field was top-tier.
A small, knowing smile played on Zhao Sheng's lips.
"Have you ever heard the nursery rhyme? Prepare the ground in winter's chill, next year's cotton will fill the till. Water the fields while the winter is slow, planting then is a breeze, you know. Winter plowing and winter soak, fewer bugs for the farming folk."
The farmers blinked in unison, looking completely bewildered.
"We haven't heard the song, sir... but we know a little bit about what it's saying."
Zhao Sheng nodded again. Farmers always had their own accumulated wisdom, but it was rarely systematic. They relied entirely on "gut feeling" and tradition, which wasn't exactly scientific.
"I know a few specialized methods," Zhao Sheng said, leaning forward slightly.
"Techniques that can guarantee your cotton crop next year will be the best you've ever seen."
The farmers looked at each other, their faces a mask of skepticism. They didn't want to call a "Lord" a liar, but a scholar teaching farmers how to farm seemed a bit rich.
Zhao Sheng chuckled, sensing their doubt.
"Tell you what. Let's sign a contract. You plant the cotton using the methods I teach you. If next year's harvest doesn't match the yield of your best historical year, I will personally pay out of my own pocket to cover the difference. However, if your yield exceeds your normal years, you must agree to sell all of the surplus cotton to me. Of course, my purchase price will be fair, the standard market rate, no less."
The farmers did a quick bit of mental math. The deal sounded... actually, it sounded incredible. There was zero downside for them. If the crop failed, they got paid anyway. If it succeeded, they grew more cotton, made more money, and didn't even have to worry about finding a buyer. It was a win-win scenario.
But there was still a lingering fear.
How can we trust this guy? What if he just disappears when it's time to pay?
As if reading their minds, Zhao Sheng smiled.
"We'll go to the Pujiu Temple. We'll have the Warrior Monk (Zhan Seng) act as our guarantor. We'll sign the contract right in front of the Buddha Himself. How does that sound?"
The farmers didn't even need to think about it this time.
"Deal!" they shouted in unison.