Nanyang, Henan Province.
If one followed the cracked earth northeast of the city walls, past fields that had long forgotten the meaning of green, one would reach the villages most devastated by the drought. Here the wind carried dust instead of scent, and the wells offered more echo than water.
Days earlier, the Prince of Tang had submitted a memorial to the court, reporting horrors that should never have needed ink to describe. Mothers eating their daughters. Families trading flesh for one more day of breathing. The Chongzhen Emperor, moved and shaken, had allocated three taels and five mace of silver for relief, along with tax exemptions.
Three taels and five mace.
Even a moderately corrupt clerk could misplace that amount without noticing.
Tax exemption meant nothing to people who had no harvest to tax.
The common folk of Nanyang were not living. They were waiting to die more slowly.
Fortunately for them, Gao Family Village did not believe in waiting.
Bai Yuan rode at the head of a small militia column, accompanied by carts piled high with grain and steaming food. He did not storm into villages like a conquering general. He entered them as though stepping into a scholar's courtyard, measured and respectful.
Most refugees who still had strength had already fled north to Luoyang, where factories swallowed labor and returned wages in silver and rice. Those who remained were the cautious ones, the wounded in spirit. They had been deceived by officials promising relief that never arrived, extorted by bandits who called themselves saviors, and squeezed by gentry who spoke of virtue while hoarding grain.
Trust, for them, had become more precious than food.
"Instructor Bai," a militia soldier called softly, pointing toward a crumbling hut. "There's a family inside."
Bai Yuan nodded and dismounted. He adjusted his sleeves, ensuring his robe sat properly before approaching the doorway. Soldiers could frighten villagers even when bearing gifts. Steel and hunger did not coexist comfortably.
He stopped at the threshold and spoke with gentle courtesy.
"Forgive the intrusion. We have brought food."
After a long silence, the door creaked open a finger's width. Sunken eyes peered out.
Bai Yuan gestured, and a soldier stepped forward with a wooden tray holding four white steamed buns, still warm.
"Please take these first. If it is not enough, more awaits in the village center."
He did not linger to watch them eat. He turned and walked away, giving them the dignity of privacy.
It was a simple method, but desperation has a smell, and steamed bread carries one too.
Within minutes, doors opened throughout the village. Thin figures emerged cautiously, clutching buns as though they might vanish. Hunger overcame fear. They ate quickly, scarcely tasting the softness against their tongues.
When they approached the village square, what they found seemed almost unreal.
Large cauldrons simmered over controlled fires. Militia members ladled porridge into bowls without impatience or insult. Grain sacks lay openly stacked. No one demanded payment. No one recited edicts.
The villagers stared.
Only when they saw children being fed first did suspicion finally loosen its grip.
The square filled with hesitant murmurs, then with the faint stirrings of hope.
Bai Yuan watched quietly. He did not preach. He did not boast of Dao Xuan Tianzun's benevolence. Kindness that required advertisement was rarely sincere.
A scout came running from the outer perimeter, breathing hard.
"Instructor Bai. An armed force has left Nanyang city and is marching toward this direction."
Bai Yuan's brows lifted slightly. "The Nanyang garrison?"
The scout hesitated. "There is scarcely a garrison left to speak of. The city fell to bandits not long ago. What remains are scattered remnants."
"Then who marches?"
"They carry a 'Tang' banner," the scout replied, still sounding uncertain. "And another large banner reads, 'Coming to the Capital to Serve the King.'"
Bai Yuan paused.
"Tang."
Understanding dawned almost immediately.
"The Prince of Tang. Zhu Yujian."
The realization brought more concern than relief.
"How many?" he asked.
"Approximately one thousand."
Bai Yuan exhaled slowly. "Alas. His Highness has allowed impulse to outrun prudence."
Not far away, the army in question advanced with dust rising around its boots.
At its center rode Zhu Yujian, Prince of Tang, thirty four years of age and very much aware of it.
He was not content to live as a decorative branch of the imperial tree. While other princes cultivated calligraphy or concubines, he cultivated arguments. He had sparred with ministers over succession principles within the clan, offended powerful men without hesitation, and even beaten two of his uncles with a stick during a dispute that had grown beyond words. One had died afterward. The other had survived, though not gracefully.
Such a man could not remain idle while the capital trembled.
He had petitioned the throne for permission to raise troops and defend the dynasty. The emperor had refused.
Most princes would have bowed and retreated.
Zhu Yujian had instead opened his own treasury.
If the dynasty belonged to the Zhu clan, then it belonged to him as well. If the emperor's caution endangered the ancestral temples, then someone had to act.
Behind him rode his personal guard, roughly two hundred men, well equipped and disciplined. The remainder were recruited fighters, martial artists, hardened vagrants, and sturdy peasants drawn by silver and fervor. They were not polished, but neither were they cowards.
The Prefect of Nanyang followed in a carriage, face pale with anxiety.
"Your Highness," he pleaded once more, "please reconsider. Marching toward the capital with private troops invites suspicion. Even if your heart is loyal, the precedent is disastrous."
Zhu Yujian did not slow his horse.
"I march to serve the king, not to rebel. My intentions are transparent."
"The principle is the danger," the Prefect insisted. "If every prince raises troops at will, the realm fractures. The court will interpret this as defiance."
"The Emperor is not blind," Zhu Yujian replied firmly. "He will recognize sincerity."
The Prefect nearly wept. "I beg you. Turn back."
"Enough," Zhu Yujian said, waving him aside. "If fear ruled every decision, our ancestors would never have founded this dynasty."
Before the argument could continue, commotion erupted ahead.
From a patch of woodland burst a ragged mass of men carrying mismatched weapons. Two banners flapped above them, one bearing the characters Meng Hu, the other Du Hu.
The Prefect gasped. "The bandit brothers. They command tens of thousands."
Zhu Yujian's eyes brightened instead of dimming.
"Heaven presents an opportunity."
He raised his hand without hesitation.
"Prince's Guard, forward. Strike them."
The front ranks surged.
Meng Hu stared in disbelief. "Why are the Prince's Guard outside the city?"
Du Hu blinked. "Since when do nobles leave their gates?"
They did not have time to debate further.
The two hundred core guards hit like a hammer. Their armor was sound. Their formations held. Blades flashed in disciplined arcs. The bandits, accustomed to bullying starving peasants and isolated caravans, found themselves facing trained resistance.
The first clash broke their front line.
Behind the guards, the rest of Zhu Yujian's men roared and followed, emboldened by the sight of bandits stumbling backward.
Dust rose thick as fog.
Steel rang. Men shouted. A few moments of genuine resistance flickered, then cracked.
Meng Hu felt his confidence dissolve. "Retreat!"
Du Hu needed no second urging.
What had been a threatening ambush dissolved into chaotic flight.
Zhu Yujian reined in his horse, watching the bandits scatter across fields they had once terrorized.
He felt vindicated.
"Even before reaching the capital," he declared, loud enough for his men to hear, "we have struck down vermin. This proves our march is righteous."
Behind him, the Prefect of Nanyang pressed trembling fingers to his temples.
He was no longer certain whether he feared bandits, Manchus, or the unpredictable courage of princes more.
In the distance, Bai Yuan observed the rising dust and narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.
The Prince of Tang had chosen action over obedience.
Whether that would save the dynasty or fracture it further remained a question history had not yet answered.