Volume One: The Shaobing Song

Chapter 001: Prologue

In the year 1279 AD, the Song dynasty fell.

Henry Carter carried the young emperor into the sea, with hundreds of thousands of officials and civilians following. From then on, Chinese civilization entered its darkest era.

In the autumn of 1351 AD, the sesame peddler John Thompson refused to remain a slave. He raised the banner of revolt, captured the county seat of Xiao County in one strike, and gathered tens of thousands of starving people.

The commoners of Xiao County were poor, with no natural defenses in any direction.

The Mongol Yuan army was about to arrive at any moment, and the rebel army’s provisions had run out.

With no other choice, John Thompson gathered all the remaining rations and made several baskets of shaobing. He announced to all the soldiers: they were about to launch an attack on the strategic town of Xuzhou, seeking life in the face of death. Those willing to go with him should step forward and take two shaobing as rations for the battle. Those who wished to survive by any means could take one shaobing and leave on their own.

“My name is George Foster, I have a big stomach—one shaobing isn’t enough!” As soon as he finished speaking, a burly man stepped forward, grabbed a shaobing in each hand, and devoured them ravenously.

“So what if we die? In these times, who can live to forty?” The impoverished scholar Samuel Clark smiled, picked up two shaobing, and followed behind George Foster.

“I—I can’t talk much, I—I’m just afraid of being hungry.” The village rascal Walter Green grinned cheekily, rushed forward, snatched two shaobing, and stuffed them tightly into his chest, afraid someone would steal them.

“I’ve grown up this much, and only in these few days have I felt like a real person!” The porter Philip Reed thought for a moment, then shouted with all his might.

“To die! To die with dignity!” The coffin-carrying The Bolton Brothers waved their arms, rushed forward to grab shaobing, tears streaming down their faces as they stuffed their mouths.

“To die! To die! To die with dignity!” The crowd surged, countless men in tears, reaching their hands into the basket of shaobing.

In the blink of an eye, the soldiers around Thompson grew from eight to eight hundred, eight thousand, and even more.

The shaobing in the baskets were long gone, but the men behind Thompson kept gathering.

Even though most of them only had wooden sticks and stones in their hands.

They knew this journey was a near-certain death, but they went anyway.

In the decades that followed, their blood was shed across the land of China.

Most of them never lived to see victory with their own eyes.

But with their blood and lives, they wrote a proud “person” character between heaven and earth.

A left stroke, a right stroke!

Chapter 002: Possessed by a Ghost

“All wards and alleys, kitchen knives must be handed in immediately. Anyone caught hiding even an inch of metal will be punished as a traitor, and the whole neighborhood will be held responsible—!” The archer Mr. Sullivan, accompanied by seven junior jailers, announced loudly as he passed, causing chickens and dogs to scatter and chaos everywhere. (Note 1)

He was a well-read scholar. Although forced by circumstances to work as a minor official, he still disdained to do such street-shouting himself. So he strolled with his hands behind his back, pretending to take a leisurely walk through the sewage-filled alleys. The junior jailers under his command, understanding their master’s pride, deliberately lagged dozens of steps behind, banging their gongs thunderously, “Dang—dang—, all wards and alleys, kitchen knives must be handed in immediately. Anyone caught hiding even an inch of metal will be punished as a traitor, and the whole neighborhood will be held responsible—! Dang—dang—”

The message was clear enough, but there were always one or two clueless commoners who would timidly poke their heads out from behind filthy, broken doors and ask with a forced smile, “Mr. Sullivan, Mr. Sullivan! Didn’t we just pay the knife-sharpening fee the other day? Why do we have to hand in our kitchen knives again?!” (Note 2)

When faced with such oblivious people, Mr. Sullivan would immediately frown, look up at the evening glow, and reply loudly, “That’s not something you should be asking me! Hah! If you’ve got the guts, go ask the prefect yourself? Who knows, maybe he’ll be so impressed by your candor that he’ll give you a license to carry a knife, and you won’t even have to pay the sharpening fee anymore!”

The person being scolded would immediately blush and add meekly, “I—I was just asking, that’s all! No need to get so angry, sir! Alright, alright, please don’t glare at me. The kitchen knife, the kitchen knife is already out for you! Here, take a look at the number on it!”

“Hand it over to Charles Morgan and Edward Harris!” Mr. Sullivan still refused to look directly at the person, flicked his sleeve, and continued striding forward with his head held high.

Among the seven junior jailers behind him, two burly men immediately rushed out. They snatched the kitchen knife from the scolded commoner without even looking at it, tossed it into a sack, and then kicked the person back inside, “Why so much nonsense? Don’t you see our master is busy? If we don’t finish collecting from these twenty-some wards in the southwest of the city before dark, are you going to answer to Arthur Baker?!”