In the eleventh year of the Zhizheng reign (1351), the final straw broke the back of the Yuan Dynasty, sealing its fate.
The mystery from years before was now clear. Tuotuo's determination to tame the Yellow River had been well-meaning, but he failed to grasp the motives of his opponents—or the depth of corruption within the Yuan administration. He would soon taste the bitter fruit of that misjudgment.
When the court ordered 170,000 laborers to repair the river embankment, officials at every level were thrilled. The wages allotted by the emperor for the workers could be siphoned away; the rations set aside for them could also be withheld. Whether the laborers ate or not was of no concern to the officials—this was an opportunity for personal profit. Project funds could likewise be skimmed. After all, if the Yellow River flooded again, it would not drown the officials.
Those directly involved in river works profited handsomely. But those not assigned to river affairs found their own means to profit: the labor draft. Men were seized from villages under the pretext of working on the embankment. Those unwilling to go could pay their way out. If they had no money, their valuables were taken instead.
Tuotuo, an able administrator in theory, proved naïve in practice.
Then came the omen. In Shandong, workers unearthed a one-eyed stone figure from the riverbed. On its back was carved the prophecy: "When the one-eyed stone man stirs the Yellow River, the world will rise in rebellion." The words matched a song long sung among the workers. Superstition, deeply ingrained in the age, spread swiftly. Hearts stirred.
A few days later, in Yingzhou (modern Fuyang, Anhui)—a place where Zhu Yuanzhang himself had once begged for food—Han Shantong and Liu Futong rose in rebellion. Like many before them, they organized under a religious banner, this time the White Lotus Sect. And, as was tradition among peasant leaders, they adorned themselves with illustrious identities: Han Shantong, perhaps poor for eight generations, suddenly claimed the surname Zhao and royal Song lineage; Liu Futong styled himself a descendant of the famous general Liu Guangshi.
Their path echoed that of Chen Sheng and Wu Guang—uprising, suppression, resurgence. Yet despite the familiar pattern, their place in history was secure: in 1351, they became the first to raise the banner of revolt against Yuan rule.
It has always been easier to topple a dynasty than to build one. As the saying goes: "When a wall collapses, everyone pushes; when a drum is broken, everyone beats it."
The Yuan social order divided people into four classes. If a Mongol of the highest rank killed a southerner of the lowest, the penalty was merely a donkey. In some cases, even that was unnecessary. The Mongol aristocracy behaved as though they were guests in a foreign land, free to plunder at will, certain the "hosts" would endure whatever cruelty was inflicted upon them.
They miscalculated. When living like a dog becomes a luxury, rebellion becomes survival.
The fire was lit—and it spread fast.
Within a year, dozens of uprisings erupted, with millions joining the cause. Even the famed Mongol cavalry could not restore order. The Yuan Empire was like a rotted wall—one more kick, and it would crumble.
At this time, Zhu Yuanzhang was still in the temple, ringing the great bell. Despite his deep resentment toward the Yuan, he had no intention of joining the revolt. For an ordinary man, rebellion meant near-certain death if captured.
Many later accounts portray him as a born hero, springing into action at the first sound of revolt—seizing weapons and rushing to join the fight. But this is myth. The real Zhu Yuanzhang was cautious. He valued life. Once he chose rebellion, there would be no return.
True courage is not blind recklessness—it is knowing the risks, foreseeing the suffering, and still choosing to walk that path.
Zhu's quiet temple life was soon disrupted—not by rebels, but by Yuan officials. Unable to defeat the insurgents, they turned their wrath on civilians. Anyone could be branded a rebel and executed. This, more than anything, hastened the fall of Yuan rule.
Zhu faced a grim choice:
Stay in the temple, risking arrest and execution as a "rebel" fabricated by corrupt officials.
Flee, and live in constant danger.
Join the rebellion.
At first, he hesitated. Then came the letter.
It was from his childhood friend Tang He, now a captain in the rebel army. Tang invited him to join and share in the spoils of a new future. Zhu read the letter calmly, then burned it—he was not ready.
That evening, his senior brother brought alarming news: someone had learned of the letter and intended to report him.
Zhu was cornered.
Seeking counsel, he turned to Zhou Dexing—a name that would resurface often in his later life. Zhou had no direct advice but proposed a divination. The reading declared: "Escape and stay are unlucky, but staying put is dangerous." In other words, neither fleeing nor remaining was auspicious—rebellion offered the only hope.
Zhu thought of his parents, crushed under taxes and forced labor, their lives ending in misery. He had taken refuge in a temple merely to survive, yet now even that refuge was unsafe.
It was unbearable.
And so, he chose.
No one truly wished to fight. No one wanted to throw away their life. But when all other paths were blocked, rebellion became the only road forward. This is why, despite their flaws and ambitions, the peasant uprisings of Chinese history deserve recognition—they rose not from greed, but from necessity.
Tang He became Zhu Yuanzhang's first comrade-in-arms. He would follow Zhu through hardship and triumph alike—though neither man could have guessed, in that moment, just how far the journey would take them.