All of you have eaten my fine horse—how could I possibly let you do so without good wine to go with it? Wouldn’t that be an insult to my steed?
I’ve heard that if one eats the flesh of a prized horse without drinking wine to accompany it, the body will surely suffer. Hurry—go fetch so wine and let these heroes warm their bodies…
Zhu Ping’an and Li Shu’s words were like a brilliant ray of sunlight breaking through an icy wilderness, instantly warming the six burly n seated opposite them. These n, who had endured endless displacent, hunger, and bitter cold along the road, felt warmth for the first ti in far too long.
Of course, n who had weathered so many storms did not imdiately place their trust in Zhu Ping’an and Li Shu. Instead, their gazes shifted in unison toward one of their number—a man who clearly seed to be their leader, soone they trusted deeply.
That leader was powerfully built, his fra broad and solid. A long scar cut across his face, and one of his arms was wrapped in a rough strip of cloth, hastily tied. Dark blood still seeped through the fabric, not yet dried. Sitting there, he resembled a longbow drawn to the full moon—taut with stored strength, radiating a fierce and fearless aura. Yet despite the scar on his face, he gave off an impression of honesty and straightforwardness, a kind of rough sincerity.
“You really won’t pursue the matter of us stealing your horse?” the leader asked, staring straight at Zhu Ping’an. His voice was deep and hoarse, scraping like wagon wheels grinding across sand.
When that gaze fell upon him, Zhu Ping’an felt a thin sheen of sweat form on his back. It was the unsettling sensation of being watched by a black bear in the mountains—keen, alert, and dangerous. Those eyes were just like a bear’s: vigilant and probing. Zhu Ping’an knew instinctively that if he hesitated even for a mont, this man would sense it.
“Of course not,” Zhu Ping’an replied, nodding firmly, his expression open and sincere. “A horse is nothing more than livestock. How could it ever compare to a human life?” Then he glanced at the others and added lightly, “Don’t just stare at —turn the at over. I can already sll it burning.”
Zhu Ping’an’s calm composure, and the genuine sincerity shining in his eyes, gradually eased the restless tension in the n opposite him. Their agitation slowly subsided. After Zhu Ping’an finished speaking, the leader studied him for another two breaths, then gave a slight nod to the others. Only then did Zhu Ping’an see them finally let out the breath they’d been holding.
Remove AdsEspecially when the bun-faced little maid ca trotting over with a jar of fine wine, and Zhu Ping’an set the clay jar before them, the last traces of wariness vanished entirely.
They had stolen soone’s horse. Not only did the owner refuse to hold it against them, he even offered them wine. For n who had suffered the bitterness of exile and flight, this kindness struck straight to the heart. Zhu Ping’an’s character alone completely won them over, filling them with gratitude. The murderous thoughts that had briefly arisen when they first saw the three—thoughts born purely of self-preservation—had long since dissipated like smoke.
After all, stealing and eating horse at was a grave cri in the Great Ming. Horses were essential in dealing with the northern nomads, and the court valued them imnsely. For stealing and slaughtering such a fine steed, if the owner reported them to the authorities, they would be facing at least several years behind bars.
Once trust and gratitude took root, the danger naturally dissolved. Only then did Zhu Ping’an learn their story. In truth, it was precisely because these n were fundantally decent that they could be moved so deeply by his goodwill.
“We were originally hunters,” the leader began, his voice quieter now, “living at the foot of Yunng Mountain, several hundred li north of here. Our days used to be good. Streams ran through the mountains all year round—clear, sweet water you could drink straight from the flow. Along the banks grew vast reed marshes. During the busy farming seasons, we tilled the land. When things were slack, we went into the mountains to hunt or into the water to fish. From childhood, we’d trained our strength, and our ancestors passed down a bit of boxing and martial skill. Every trip into the mountains brought us a harvest. The reeds could be woven into mats and sold—never rich, but we never lacked food or clothing. Even natural disasters never truly touched the lives our ancestors had lived for generations.”
As he spoke, the n gnawed on horse at and drank their wine, expressions of deep nostalgia creeping onto their faces. Their eyes softened as mories of their forr lives resurfaced.
“But last year,” he continued, his tone darkening, “the northern Tatars ca down from the northwest and invaded toward the capital. Our mountain village was caught up in it—and just like that, our lives were destroyed.”
Hatred twisted their faces as the words left his mouth.
“So your hos were destroyed by the Tatars?” the bun-faced little maid asked softly, her round face filled with sympathy.
“Hmph—the Tatars?” One of the n let out a cold laugh, grinding his teeth. “We brothers answered the governnt’s call and went to the battlefield. We even killed a few Tatars ourselves! But in the end, it wasn’t the Tatars who destroyed our hos—it was our own people!”
Firelight flickered across his face, illuminating a mix of regret and seething hatred.
Killing the innocent to claim rit.
For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, those four words surfaced imdiately in Zhu Ping’an’s mind. From the man’s words and expression, his suspicion was almost entirely confird. He let out a quiet sigh.
Li Shu, seated close beside him, wore an indignant expression as well. As clever as she was, she had clearly reached the sa conclusion.
Only the little bun-faced maid looked utterly confused. Why hadn’t the Tatars destroyed their hos? How could their own people do such a thing? It didn’t make sense—how could one’s own side destroy one’s own village?
“When the army conscripted the able-bodied n from our village,” the leader went on, “they promised three taels of silver for every enemy head taken. We grew up hearing stories of Yue Fei and the Yang family generals. We couldn’t stand the northern barbarians killing and burning right outside our doors. And honestly, taking enemy heads paid better than hunting. So the young n of our village went to fight for the army. We risked our lives and killed several Tatars. When we went to claim our reward… not only did we receive no silver, we were beaten with military rods instead.”
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“That alone we could endure,” he said bitterly. “After the Tatars were driven off, we even stayed on with the army, standing guard for several more months. When we finally returned ho…”
As they spoke, every one of their eyes reddened. A bloodshot sheen glimred in their pupils. Their fists clenched tightly, knuckles white, teeth grinding with an audible creak.
What followed was a tale so horrifying it made one’s blood run cold, as if an invisible hand were squeezing the throat.
The young n who had braved arrows and blades, serving as cannon fodder to drive off the Tatars, returned ho full of joy. They expected to be welcod like hunters returning from the mountains—by their wives, their children, warm smiles and familiar voices. Instead, reality greeted them with a sight that pierced straight through the heart: a charred village, and the cold, lifeless bodies of their families.
The few survivors told them what had happened.
After the Tatars withdrew, the garrison commander, a centurion nad Zhao Daying, reported his achievents to the county magistrate. The magistrate asked, “Without Tatar heads, how can rit be reported?” Zhao Daying replied calmly, “Heads are easy to obtain.”
And so Zhao Daying unleashed his troops, slaughtering villagers and taking their heads to claim false rit. Soldiers ard with blades stord into the village, chasing down fleeing residents, shouting, “Borrow your heads for a mont!” To secure rewards and silence witnesses, they massacred over thirty households—sparring not even infants. Of the entire village, only one elderly man survived, saved by chance because he had gone out to fetch water.
Zhao Daying then reported that he had beheaded fifty-nine bandits, including thirty-six won and children. Every head was shaved with knives, made to resemble the Tatar hairstyle.
The young n, upon learning the truth, naturally refused to accept it. They went to the county office and beat the drum to cry out their injustice—but officials protected one another.
The final verdict declared that the village had been destroyed by bandits. Zhao Daying was instead praised as a hero who had driven off the Tatars. The young n of the village were convicted of slandering their superior officials, sentenced to one hundred strokes of the rod and imprisonnt.
Of all the village’s able-bodied n, only these six managed to escape. Even then, Zhao the Centurion sent n to hunt them down relentlessly—until it led to this very day…
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