Chapter 31: Zhao Village Under Attack

Chapter 31: The Zhao Village Raid

The incident at Wang Family Village had already instilled terror in the people of Zhao Village, and the subsequent news only escalated their fear.

First, authorities interrogated the survivors from Wang Family Village and discovered two bandit corpses, confirming their origin from Banpo Village. When officials were dispatched to Banpo Village, they found it completely deserted. Not only were there no crops in the fields, but even the wild grass had withered.

It turned out that Banpo Village was originally a settlement of refugees who had fled Liangzhou over thirty years ago. They had eked out a living by growing potatoes and sweet potatoes, relying on a single mountain spring. The recent drought, however, had caused the spring to dry up, making even drinking water scarce, let alone cultivating crops.

Even so, this dire situation hardly justified the entire village resorting to banditry. Coincidentally, rumors of marauding soldiers passing through the area had recently reached the ears of these desperate people, who had lost all hope of survival.

Some of those who had fled thirty years prior were still alive. Having traversed multiple provinces, they were no strangers to bloodshed. They saw an opportunity to exploit the chaos caused by the passing soldiers—to first plunder gold, silver, and grain, then disguise themselves as refugees and escape elsewhere.

"Next time, we must send people to buy some good land. We can’t just settle in another remote, barren valley," said the leader of Banpo Village, squatting on the ground as he swatted a mosquito and plucked a tender blade of dogtail grass to chew. Sensing a hint of sweetness in the grassy flavor, he squinted with delight and declared, "So we have to pull off one more score. None of you should back out now. Although we’ve heard that Zhao Village has organized training, they’re just inexperienced farmers who’ve never seen blood. All we need to do is make a show of force, and we’ll scare them to death."

The group was hiding on the outskirts of the Great Green Mountain behind Zhao Village. To avoid alerting anyone, they dared not light fires for cooking and could only nibble on dry bread. Then, they caught the scent of meat stew wafting up from the village below—a rich, thick broth simmering over a large fire, its aroma carried by the wind for miles.

The sound of over a hundred people swallowing their saliva in unison was unnerving. The leader’s motivating words had only stirred a few; most still wanted to flee as soon as possible with their looted silver and grain. But the aroma of the meat stew was more enticing than any speech. Over a hundred pairs of eyes suddenly fixed on the leader, and his son, standing behind him, voiced everyone’s thoughts: "We strike tonight. We want meat."

Though they said "tonight," they actually moved before sunset. If they waited until full darkness, most of them wouldn’t be able to see.

The sky was red with sunset clouds, seemingly foreshadowing a bloody slaughter. Most people in Zhao Village had already started their supper. Eating before dark and going to bed early saved lamp oil—a habit passed down through generations.

However, Scholar Zhao’s household was not so frugal. They lit lamps early because Scholar Zhao needed to study in his library, preparing for the autumn exams later in the year.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, and a voice called, "Master, the meal is ready." Scholar Zhao frowned at the sound—it was his daughter-in-law’s voice.

He opened the door, his expression stern. He was a man of great authority at home, and his daughter-in-law was accustomed to his demeanor. She lowered her head and repeated meekly, "Master, dinner is ready."

As he walked forward, Scholar Zhao asked discontentedly, "Why are you calling me today? Where is Wencai?"

"Your son is unwell and needs to rest in bed," his daughter-in-law replied cautiously, following behind him.

Scholar Zhao was set in his ways but not foolish. He quickly deduced the reason for his son’s illness, but instead of calming down, he grew even more displeased. "Everyone else training is full of energy, but he’s the only one who can’t get out of bed after just two days. Useless."

Hearing her husband criticized, the daughter-in-law didn’t dare talk back. In this household, the father-in-law ruled, and anyone who defied him would face consequences.

True to form, Scholar Zhao paid no attention to her response and grumbled to himself, "I wonder if that Zhao An fellow made up the story about the matter at Wang Family Village. He never does anything proper—he doesn’t seem like a good person." Then he added, "Let him enjoy his pride for a couple more days. Tell Wencai to endure a bit longer. We’d better believe it and be safe, than not believe it and be sorry."

Just as Scholar Zhao was about to sit down at the dining table, he heard the frantic, rapid beating of a gong outside. The rapid rhythm was exactly what he had discussed with Zhao An and Liu Huan the previous night—the signal for the patrol to alert the village of an enemy attack.

While Scholar Zhao was still wondering if the patrol was playing a prank, three people suddenly rushed out from his paternal cousin's house next door. He ran outside but only caught a glimpse of their retreating figures—likely his cousin and two nephews.

By then, his son, Zhao Wencai, had also limped out of his room. "Father, should we go out and see what’s happening?"

Scholar Zhao’s lips trembled slightly. He desperately wanted to tell his son to bolt the door and hide inside. But as the village chief of Zhao Village, he knew that if he didn’t step forward now, whether anything happened or not, he would lose all authority forever.

Despite his fear, he straightened his back and said to his son, "Grab your wooden staff and bring me a kitchen knife. We're going."

By the time Scholar Zhao, trembling, reached where the loudest shouts were coming from, the fighting was already over.

In fact, even before the patrol sounded the gong, they had already engaged in a skirmish with the first wave of attackers from Banpo Village. Almost on instinct, upon seeing people charging out of the forest, they formed two lines, gripping their wooden poles with sharpened tips, and launched a countercharge.

The Banpo Village bandits were armed only with sickles and kitchen knives. Their courage to raid Zhao Village came solely from a desperate, bloody-minded courage born of hunger. When they charged headlong into the village defenders, they were impaled through the chest and abdomen, letting out agonized screams. Those behind them snapped out of it a little, but before they could figure out how to respond, the second line of defenders stepped forward and charged again.

The second charge wasn’t as smooth as the first—only the leftmost defender managed to stab an enemy in the thigh. The bandits, now realizing their disadvantage, began to flee, scattering in all directions like a burst flood.

The bandit leader, however, was a man of authority. Seeing his men retreat, he roared, "There are only a few of them! Surround them! Kill—!"

The patrol members, who had charged with their wooden stakes, were initially dazed. They had acted on instinct when they saw the enemy approaching—a muscle memory formed through days of training. Following their drills, after striking their targets, they dropped their stakes.

Then, three of them unfastened the wooden shields on their backs and held them up, while seven others drew long-handled billhooks, forming a modified "Mandarin Duck" formation. A disorganized mob facing trained militia was no match—the outcome was a foregone conclusion.

However, being outnumbered eventually posed a problem. Human stamina is limited, and after cutting down a few bandits, the defenders began to tire, breathing heavily.

It was only then that one of the shield bearers remembered the small copper gong hanging at his waist. Seizing a moment when the formation rotated, and no enemy was in front of him, he quickly struck the gong.

Even if they hadn’t sounded the alarm, several nearby households had already heard the fighting. They were initially panicked and unsure how to alert the rest of the village. Upon hearing the gong, an elderly woman remembered what to do and stopped her strong daughter-in-law from rushing out with her son. "Bring out our iron pot and start beating it too!"

As the sound of gongs and pots clanging echoed from all directions, accompanied by the distant shouts of villagers rushing out, the bandits—who had once tasted success—suddenly came to their senses. Zhao Village was not like Wang Family Village, a flock of helpless chickens. They were armed and dangerous—a beast lying in wait.

Realizing they stood no chance, half the bandits turned and fled into the forest, ignoring their leader’s shouts. The entire group had disintegrated.

Zhao An arrived at the scene before Scholar Zhao and his son, but by then, all he saw were figures fleeing into the mountains. Those who had followed him to the scene immediately wanted to give chase, but Zhao An stopped them. "Don’t chase them! It’s dark—easy to get lost in the mountains."

Though he shouted as loudly as he could, many were too hot-blooded and headstrong to hear him and continued pursuing the bandits. Left with no choice, he hurried over to the patrol members who were exhausted and had sunk to the ground, grabbed a gong, and struck it vigorously. "Everyone, assemble now!"

This was a command they heard daily during training. Those who had been swept up in the chase finally halted, realizing they had already entered the dark, dense forest. Looking around, there was no sign of the enemy—only the faint sound of hurried footsteps fading away.

Once everyone had gathered, Zhao An had torches lit and ordered several strong women who usually helped him with cooking to prepare a meal. Then, he checked each person who had participated in the fight for injuries.

To his relief, aside from one shield bearer dislocating his arm and one pursuer spraining his ankle, no one was seriously hurt. While a dislocation could lead to complications, the fact that no one was bleeding was a good thing. In an era without antibiotics, even a minor wound could turn fatal from infection.

Zhao An breathed a sigh of relief, but the others grew increasingly excited. As more villagers arrived, the chatter grew louder.

Zhao An felt it necessary to temper their excitement. Gesturing to the bandits lying on the ground—some wailing loudly, others weeping softly—he said, "Everyone else, disperse. Members of the guard, step forward. In pairs, carry these prisoners to the training ground."

Only then did the crowd notice the dozen or so bandits moaning in pain on the ground. They weren’t dead yet, but their blood had stained the soil beneath them. Finally, some grew fearful and ran home pale-faced.

Whether excited or afraid, most people followed Zhao An and the guard to the training ground. Only Scholar Zhao and his son remained behind, staring at the trampled sweet potato field.

Zhao Wencai asked, "Should we ask Zhao An to compensate us for our sweet potatoes?"

"No need," Scholar Zhao replied, covering his chest as he looked at the blood on the ground. "From now on, you must train more seriously."

He was afraid—afraid of blades cutting into his own flesh—and no longer dared to oppose Zhao An.

Author's Note:

Dear passing angels, please *bookmark*, *bookmark*, *bookmark*!