In the fourth year of the Zhizheng reign of the Yuan Dynasty (1344), the imperial court received two pieces of news at the start of the year.
The first was grim: the Yellow River had flooded, displacing hundreds of thousands along its banks in Shandong and Henan. Refugees filled the land. Even in a regime where commoners were often treated as expendable, rebellion was a constant fear—so repairing the river embankments became a pressing matter.
Surprisingly, two sharply opposed voices arose in the Yuan government: one insisting the embankments must be repaired, the other arguing they must not. From a modern perspective, this seems incomprehensible. Would they truly allow the Yellow River to change course and drown untold numbers? Yet Chinese history is filled with events that defy common sense, and this was one of them.
Objectively speaking, those who urged repairs were not necessarily loyal officials, and those who opposed them were not necessarily traitorous. The underlying reasons would remain hidden for seven more years.
At the forefront of the "repair" camp was Tuotuo, the celebrated Yuan prime minister—arguably the dynasty's last great minister. Honest, capable, and reform-minded, he oversaw projects such as compiling the History of the Song Dynasty. But his determination to push for the repairs unwittingly laid a dangerous time bomb beneath the Yuan regime—a fuse already lit, awaiting only the smallest spark.
The second piece of news concerned calamities along the Huai River: plague and drought. This, from the government's standpoint, was simpler. If people starved or succumbed to disease, they would cause no trouble. Still, appearances had to be maintained. Emperor Shundi would issue an edict for disaster relief; the Secretariat would allocate grain and silver; officials would, of course, skim their share along the way. By the time aid trickled down to the people, it was little more than husks and scraps.
Grateful memorials would then flow back to the emperor, laden with praise likening him to sage-kings Yao, Shun, Yu, and Tang. Reading them, the emperor would feel he had accomplished a great benevolent deed.
Thus, everyone in power was satisfied.
Everyone—except the people.
Zhu Yuanzhang was among the most bitterly dissatisfied.
In that year's famine, tragedy struck his family in swift succession: his father died on the sixth day of the fourth lunar month; his eldest brother on the ninth; his nephew on the twelfth; and his mother on the twenty-second.
If it were a diary, it would be among the most heartbreaking in history.
Zhu's hopes had been modest: a small home, a family of his own, and a peaceful old age for his parents, who had labored all their lives without harming others—just enough to eat.
Though poor, his family had been warm and close. His parents sometimes brought him small surprises from the fields: a bamboo dragonfly, a discarded pig's head—things even the landlords would not eat. This was his home, and now it was gone.
His sister was married; his third brother had married into another family; only his second brother remained. At seventeen, Zhu could do nothing but watch his loved ones die, powerless to save them.
The greatest agony in life can scarcely surpass this.
His only outlet was tears. But even weeping could not solve the next problem—burying his parents. He had no coffin, no shroud, no plot of land. He turned to his landlord, Liu De, pleading for a burial site, since his father had been Liu's tenant for life.
Liu refused coldly: "Your parents are dead—what's that to me? I fed you, didn't I?"
With no choice, Zhu wrapped the bodies in straw mats, laid them on door panels, and searched for a place to bury them. Yet though the world was vast, not a patch of land was theirs. At last, a kindhearted soul offered them a small plot.
Later, Zhu recalled: "My soul wandered in vain seeking my parents; my heart was shattered and desolate."
Why, he wondered, could parents who had worked the land all their lives not rest in it after death? Why did landlords, who never tilled the soil, live without fear of hunger? He could not dwell on the question—he had to eat to survive.
In desperation, Zhu prayed to every divine name he knew—from the Taoist Taishang Laojun to the Buddhist Tathagata Buddha. He asked only for a simple life with his parents and enough food to eat.
No answer came. His young heart grew cold. He began to understand: no one would save him but himself.
The embers of revenge took hold. Suffering forged him from fragile boy into resilient survivor.
Life as a Monk
Zhu chose the nearby Huangjue Temple, where he worked like a farmhand. Aside from his shaved head, life was much the same as before: little kindness, hard labor. Yuan-era monks could own land, marry, and even run pawnshops, but they still needed underlings.
The monks did not chant sutras, worship the Buddha, or even clean the statues—these chores fell to Zhu, the newcomer. He endured, serving as cleaner, storekeeper, and lamp-oiler, often while being scolded. The monks drank wine, ate meat, and left him to scrub the pilgrims' floor. At night, he sat alone in the woodshed, staring at the sky, thinking of parents he had known for too short a time.
Still—he had food, and that was enough.
Fate soon tested him again. Fifty days into temple life, famine struck, and all monks were sent to beg.
Begging meant knocking on strangers' doors for food. Monks had designated territories; relatives of the powerful got the wealthy areas, while Zhu was sent to the poorest regions of Huaixi and Henan—places hardest hit by famine.
There was little to beg, but here, fate's hand began to turn.
He walked everywhere—no carts, no animals—crossing towns, villages, and mountains. Every knock risked insult; not knocking meant starvation. Begging stripped away his last shred of dignity.
Which was more essential: dignity, or survival?
In losing everything, Zhu discovered his own strength.
Unlike most beggars, he learned as he walked. He studied the geography and customs of Huaixi, broadened his horizons, and met others hardened by misfortune—some would later be called "heroes." He embraced the teachings of Mingjiao, believing that when darkness covered the land, the great Maitreya Buddha would descend. Whether or not he truly believed, in his heart the real Maitreya may have been himself.
Most importantly, he transformed—from a helpless boy watching his parents die, to a man capable of enduring and confronting the society.
Hardship tempers the will. Many bow and break; others endure, trusting in eventual victory. Zhu Yuanzhang was of the latter kind.
When he returned to Huangjue Temple after three years of wandering, he was no longer a bewildered teenager, but a man who believed he could overcome anything.
Such transformation is rare in a lifetime. It begins in the heart. For most, the heart is the most fragile place, easily wounded by love lost, family gone, friendship betrayed. But for Zhu, nothing could hurt him more than what he had already endured. He had turned his greatest weakness into his greatest strength.
True strength is not wealth, learning, or beauty—it is the unbreakable heart.
As he prepared to leave the begging grounds of Huaixi and return to Huangjue Temple, Zhu looked back on the three years past, weighing all he had gained and lost. Then he gathered his few belongings and set out for home.
Perhaps I will return, he thought.