February 20, 1644. Pukou, North Bank of the Yangtze.
The vast Yangtze River acted like a colossal blade, slicing the world in two. On the southern bank lay the "dreamland" of Nanjing—a city of wine, silk, and soft whispers. But here on the north bank, in Pukou (the vital ferry hub that served as the gateway to the northern provinces), the very scent of the wind changed from the first step.
It smelled of scorched earth.
Shen Li had hired a one-wheeled barrow. The pusher was a grizzled veteran with only one eye, allegedly blinded years ago while fighting the Manchu "Tartars" on the Liaodong front—the frozen northeastern border where the empire's best legions had been ground into dust. He strained against the weight of Shen Li's heavy leather trunk, the wooden wheel emitting a bone-jarring screech as it hit the ruts of the official highway.
"Traveler, we shouldn't be heading north," the old soldier wheezed, his remaining eye clouded with a fear that went deeper than bone. "Once we pass Yangzhou and head toward Huai'an and Xuzhou... that's all 'No Man's Land' now."
"No Man's Land?" Shen Li pressed down her bamboo hat to block the swirling yellow dust.
"Those with money fled south long ago. Those without money starved. Those who remain... they've turned into wolves," the old man spat out a glob of grit-filled phlegm.
Three days later, they skirted the edges of Yangzhou.
In Chinese history, Yangzhou was the jewel of the East, immortalized by poets for its "misty flowers" and slender lakes. Now, the city gates were sealed tight with iron and timber. From the battlements hung a dozen corpses, swaying in the winter wind like macabre wind chimes. They were "rebel leaders" executed by order of the Governor—though in reality, they were likely just starving refugees who had tried to beg for a bowl of porridge.
Shen Li did not attempt to enter. She followed the banks of the Grand Canal—the world's longest man-made waterway and the lifeblood of the empire. But the canal was no longer a river of floating gold. Due to the catastrophic droughts of the Little Ice Age and the silt buildup from the wandering Yellow River, the water was so shallow that the stinking mud of the riverbed was visible. Countless stranded grain boats lay on the mud like giant dead fish, their wooden planks stripped bare by refugees to be used as firewood.
"Stop the barrow," Shen Li said suddenly.
The old man flinched, dropping the handles. "What is it, traveler?"
Shen Li jumped down and walked toward a patch of withered grass by the road. A body lay there—a refugee woman by her clothing. Strangely, the corpse had not rotted; instead, it had turned a bruised purple-black, with walnut-sized swellings at the neck and armpits.
Several bloated rats scurried in and out of the woman's sleeves. They didn't flee at the sight of humans; instead, they sat up on their hind legs, their blood-stained whiskers twitching as they emitted a menacing hiss.
Shen Li pulled a thick strip of cloth soaked in vinegar and herbs from her tunic and tied it over her nose and mouth. She handed a second one to the old soldier.
"Put it on," she commanded, her voice muffled and cold. "Do not touch the dead. Do not touch the rats. These are the messengers of the Grim Reaper."
"What... what kind of sickness is this?" the old man asked, his hands shaking.
"Pestis," Shen Li whispered the Latin word to herself before switching back to Mandarin. "The Plague. It is faster than any rebel's blade."
By the time they crossed into the district of Suqian, the official road had vanished. The highway had been systematically dug up—a desperate "scorched earth" tactic intended to slow the advance of northern cavalry. The government relay stations were nothing but blackened ruins. Occasionally, they saw skeletal figures huddled under dead trees, peeling the bark to eat.
When they saw Shen Li and the barrow, their eyes glowed with a feral green light. Like hungry wolves, they began to encircle her.
"Move."
Shen Li didn't draw her gun. Instead, she unsheathed a half-foot-long boning knife she had bought in a Nanjing smithy. With a flick of her wrist, the blade traced a vicious arc, precisely severing the tip of the lead refugee's wooden club.
"This trunk is filled with plague medicine. If you eat it, your intestines will rot," Shen Li lied with a chilling calmness. "Step forward if you want to die."
Terrified by her aura and the mention of poison, the refugees retreated, muttering curses as they scattered into the dust.
"Traveler... you are a hard one," the old man wiped cold sweat from his brow. "If we had fought back there, they would have eaten us alive."
"In the wars of the West, mercy is the ultimate luxury," Shen Li said, her expression unchanging. "Keep moving."
On the evening of the fifth day, an icy rain began to fall.
They took shelter in a ruined Earth God temple. As the old man went to gather damp wood for a fire, Shen Li checked her flintlock by the dim light. The barrel was clean, but the humidity had made the flint on the hammer feel sluggish. She wiped every part with a piece of deerskin, her movements as gentle as a lover's caress.
Suddenly, a scream erupted from outside. It was the old man.
Shen Li's eyes sharpened. She snapped the frizzen shut, hid the pistol in her sleeve, and pressed herself against the crumbling window like a cat.
Through the rain, she saw five cavalrymen on scrawny horses surrounding the old man. They wore the "Mandarin Duck" battle jackets of the Ming border guard, but their hair was disheveled and their faces were etched with brutality.
"Old man, what's in the barrow?" the lead soldier barked, lashing the cowering Zhang with his whip. "Gold? Silver? Where's that little scholar who hired you?"
"Officers... it's medicine... poison..." Zhang wailed.
"Poison? I think you're planning to kill us and keep the loot!" the soldier laughed, drawing his saber. "Good. We need a guide. We'll take the cart and eat the old man for meat!"
Shen Li sighed. She didn't want to waste her strength killing government soldiers, but the world was forcing her hand.
She didn't rush out. Instead, she pulled a thumb-sized glass vial from her tunic—a "product of alchemy" she had brewed in the basement of the Nanjing church: Concentrated Sulfuric Acid.
She pushed open the temple door and stepped out. "Stop."
The five soldiers turned, seeing a slender, masked "scholar" standing in the rain.
"Ah, the master shows his face," the leader sneered, pointing his saber at her. "Kid, be smart. Open the trunk, and I'll give you a quick death."
Shen Li didn't speak. She simply threw the glass vial into the puddle at the horse's hooves.
CRACK!
The glass shattered. The concentrated acid reacted violently with the water, generating a sudden burst of heat and a cloud of acrid white smoke. The puddle erupted like a boiling cauldron, splashing acidic spray onto the horse's legs.
The horse let out a blood-curdling shriek. Maddened by the pain, it reared up, throwing the soldier into the mud. Before he could crawl away, the panicked animal's hooves crushed his ribs.
"Sorcery! It's sorcery!" The remaining four were terrified. In this superstitious age, a person who could make the earth smoke and water boil was more frightening than any firearm.
"Leave," Shen Li said. Her flintlock was now in her hand, the black muzzle pointed directly at them.
The soldiers didn't wait. They dragged their wounded comrade onto a horse and galloped into the darkness, screaming in terror.
Shen Li walked over and helped the old man up. "Can you still walk?"
The old soldier looked at her with a fear deeper than any he had felt for the bandits. "Traveler... what are you? A person or a ghost?"
"I am a doctor," Shen Li said, holstering her weapon. "I specialize in treating the diseases of a dying world."
The old man dared not ask another question.
That night, he developed a high fever and refused to go any further. Shen Li gave him two silver coins and told him to hide. From here on, she would have to walk alone.
Shen Li hoisted the heavy leather trunk and lashed it to her back with thick hemp rope, looking like a pilgrim carrying a cross. She walked alone across the desolate wilderness, the muddy frozen earth beneath her and crows circling above.
In the distance, a low rumble like thunder echoed. It was the Yellow River—the "Sorrow of China," a fierce, unpredictable boundary that now roared between her and her only path north.
Shen Li stopped and took a swallow of strong spirits from her canteen. The spicy liquid burned down her throat, chasing away the chill.
"This is Huai-bei," she whispered to the empty plains, her voice swallowed by the wind. "Eight hundred miles to Beijing. But only one step to hell."