Chapter 64

Chapter 64

These words stunned everyone.

What?! Conscription?! Not for border wars during times of conflict—but conscription solely within Qingzhou Prefecture to drive out refugees?

Li Dahe and the others exchanged bewildered glances. Why? Why them? What about the imperial court? What about Qingzhou’s local officials? What about the garrison troops stationed there? Where had they all vanished? Why should ordinary civilians be ordered to drive out refugees?

They had never heard of such a thing!

Even if Qingzhou truly had no troops left, couldn’t the court redeploy soldiers from elsewhere? How could civilians possibly be sent into battle? This wasn’t a final stand for national survival!

“Why? Why is this happening?” Er Lai’s father voiced the question burning in everyone’s mind. He anxiously ground his buttocks against the stone slab. “Why conscript *us*? Isn’t driving out refugees the officials’ duty? Why must *we* do it? We don’t know how to fight! This is sending us to our deaths!”

“When trouble arises, officials vanish; when there’s no trouble, they reappear.” Zhao Sanwang clicked his tongue and snorted coldly. “Isn’t this just sending us to die?”

They had risked their lives carving out a path to survival—and now, after merely two days of peace, the court was conscripting them to drive out refugees.

Were refugees really so easy to drive out? In the past, he might not have taken them seriously—just a ragged, pitiful mass of homeless souls struggling to survive, no different from beggars: starving, freezing, so weak he could fell three with one hand. He wouldn’t have given them a second thought.

Unless it was a massive refugee movement—hundreds or even thousands strong, overwhelming by sheer numbers—then there’d be no handling them. But such large-scale migrations occurred only when a region suffered catastrophic natural or man-made disasters, forcing entire families to flee for survival.

Like the northern snow disaster years ago—or last year’s earthquake in Xinping County. The former happened long ago; news took two years to reach them. Refugees from there couldn’t possibly have traveled this far—it was too distant. As for the latter, almost no survivors remained; entire families were wiped out. Even if a few lived, officials relocated them to neighboring towns. In such catastrophes, homes and fields were utterly destroyed—rendering the land uninhabitable.

Let alone spawning a refugee wave.

The court would never permit such large-scale refugee movements. Even amid natural disasters—where human effort proved futile—Qingzhou officials refused to let refugees enter cities. Once inside, refugees would resort to arson, slaughter, and looting to survive—seizing grain, homes, and land. What kind of commoner could endure such desperate flight? Truly decent people would perish en route, reduced to bleached bones.

Once chaos erupted—with one side weakening and the other strengthening—the court would hold officials accountable. Their careers would end; they might even face execution and clan extermination. Thus, officials despised refugees—especially those fleeing toward cities under their jurisdiction. It was a nightmare: accept them, and where would they settle? Reject them, and the refugees wouldn’t leave. Mountains offered countless paths; refugees would find a way through any barrier to survive. That’s how they ended up in villages.

And once refugees incited unrest, ordinary people couldn’t survive. Chaos would spread, the court destabilize, and “divine omens” would appear across the land—followed by wave after wave of rebel armies.

Everyone wanted to be emperor—so war was inevitable. And once war broke out, the world would descend into utter chaos. In such chaos, profit-driven merchants would act swiftly: grain prices would soar, salt prices rise, cotton prices climb… For basic necessities—food, clothing, shelter—the mere skyrocketing price of grain alone could push ordinary people to the brink. They would either join rebel armies, flee as refugees, or become hidden households.

The Zhao family’s ancestors had done just that—fleeing to the remote mountain village of Wanxia to escape disaster, their descendants multiplying to this day.

It could be said that as long as officials—especially the emperor—retained any sense, they would never allow such a thing to happen. Yet strangely enough, damn it, Qingzhou Prefecture *had* indeed become a refugee nest. Not only had the court failed to dispatch heavy troops to suppress the refugees, but it had also allowed this malignant force to grow unchecked. Now, to make matters worse, it had played this terrible card: conscripting militia!

He didn’t know about others, but when Zhao Sanwang heard the news, his first thought was that the wretched Daxing Dynasty might as well collapse outright. He stole petty trinkets daily but never neglected farming—paying grain taxes, poll taxes, and all manner of exorbitant levies punctually each year. He was a perfectly law-abiding commoner—yet the court permitted refugees to enter villages and oppress them. Had he not escaped swiftly—and had his home held anything valuable—he might have ended up dumped in a cesspit, dying without a clean death.

Enlist? Ha—don’t even think about it!

“What are your thoughts?” Zhao Sanwang turned to them, speaking with the bravado of someone who had nothing left to lose. “I’m the only son in my family, so the conscription quota will naturally fall on me. We’re all close here, so I’ll be blunt: I refuse to go to my death. There are cellars in the mountains—so at worst, I simply won’t come down. I’ll take my belongings and become an unregistered hunter. Even if wild wolves tear me apart, at least I’ll die in familiar territory. I’m fine with that.”

“If we enlist, who knows what might happen? We might be shoved to the front as cannon fodder—used as human shields or to fill mass graves. Either way, it’s death. I’d rather die on my own familiar land.”

He wasn’t afraid of death—but he didn’t want his soul to lose its way home, unable to find the path back.

“My family isn’t willing either,” Wu Dazhu muttered. His family had three brothers. After their mother died, he and his younger brothers divided the household—a rare amicable split in the village, with no conflicts whatsoever. They discussed everything openly. Now, with separate households, each family would have to provide one person. The children were still too young—and even if grown, could they, as fathers, watch their sons march to certain death? If the sons couldn’t go, then the fathers would have to. His second brother lay bedridden with a knife wound on his back, while his sister-in-law handled all domestic and external duties. If *he* were conscripted, he likely wouldn’t survive the journey.

As for himself—truth be told, he wasn’t willing either.

His brothers weren’t clever; aside from brute strength, they were of little use. When fighting refugees alongside Uncle Zhao and others, they simply obeyed orders. Being surrounded by familiar faces gave them a better chance of survival. Surrounded by strangers—with their limited wits—they might be shoved forward to block blades. They certainly wouldn’t last three days.

Zhao Quan felt somewhat tempted. If he enlisted, he’d become a soldier. If he possessed the skill to fight his way up and earn a title, his family’s status would transform entirely—and he could secure a better life for his wife and son.

But similarly, if he enlisted—what would become of his wife and son? His parents were dead. Even with Yong Zi and others helping care for them, life in the village would likely be harsh. His son was lame; his wife lacked resolve. Their fields would rely entirely on the two of them—exhausting them half to death.

Besides, Yong Zi also fell within the conscription range. His family had only an elderly father and a young child.

After much thought, he shook his head. “My family can’t do it either.”

Zhao Yong quickly shook his head too. “Er Lai is still young. I can’t leave him. The family can’t manage without me. My family can’t do it either.”

Zhao Daniu felt the same. Both his parents were alive, and the household remained undivided. If conscripted, either he or his second brother would have to go. He didn’t want to go—and his second brother probably didn’t either. Since Quan Zi, Yong Zi, and San Wang were all unwilling, his family naturally wouldn’t agree either.

Then there were Zhao Song and Zhao Bai. Perhaps because Old Man Zhao’s generation had too many sons, their own generation mostly consisted of single sons in single households. Knowing full well that going meant certain death—who would willingly go? The two brothers vigorously shook their heads, both declaring, “We’re not going either.”

Widow Li’s family had only two young children, so she needn’t worry about this matter. For this small meeting, Zhao Sandi hadn’t even notified her.

Finally, only Old Man Zhao and Li Dahe remained. The two elders exchanged glances—meaningful, unsettling looks.

“I know your family definitely won’t go serve as those damned soldiers—but can we truly hide in the mountains and become hunters? Abandon our ancestral homes? Abandon our fields? Even if we band together with many people—surviving temporarily without fear of wild beasts or starvation—once we abandon everything and hide in the mountains, there’s no turning back!” Li Dahe spoke earnestly. “When the world stabilizes, we’ll become unregistered black households. Going to town to buy coarse salt would be nerve-wracking—fearing arrest. Arranging marriages for our children would also be difficult. This step cannot be taken lightly!”

Who could say there were no hunters in these mountains behind them? They simply didn’t interact with villagers below under normal circumstances, nor did they intermarry with the village. Even if they took wives or married off daughters, it was a one-time transaction—with no further contact.

In the early days of Wanxia Village, impoverished families married off daughters—two hides and five taels of silver as bride price—to hunters deep in the mountains. Once the daughter left home, she could never return to her natal home until death.

Avoiding conscription wasn’t actually difficult. As long as you were determined to abandon everything and hide deep in the mountains, nothing would happen.

But similarly, for the rest of your life—and for your descendants—you could only be unregistered hunters, never setting foot outside the mountains, bound to the forests, dwelling against the mountains, surviving by the mountains.

Old Man Zhao neither wanted to be a hunter nor be conscripted. This was the ultimate reason his family couldn’t decide.

Being a hunter offered no future. Though being a farmer offered little future either—at least with a travel permit, you could go anywhere. With money, you could buy anything. Your daughter could marry into a good family; your sons and grandsons could marry well. There were visits with relatives during festivals, land to farm, fields to till—spring sowing, summer growth, autumn harvest, winter storage. That was the proper life for commoners.

What was being a hunter? A lifetime confined to the woods. Your house had to be sturdy—or bears and tigers might break in. One careless move, and you could end up with nothing left of your bones. He was an old man with half his body in the grave; it didn’t matter much to him where he was. But what about his daughter, son, and grandson? They couldn’t do it. They were still young; they couldn’t hide in the mountains their whole lives.

Now they were caught in a dilemma.

Enlist—and the one who goes would most likely die.

Hide in the mountains—and future generations would be unseen black households.

Old Man Zhao laid out all these points—the good and the bad—explaining the pros and cons. Finally, he said gravely, “If we flee, we have nowhere to go but into the mountains. But once we enter the mountains, we’re hiding. How long can we hide? The conscription targets the entire Qingzhou Prefecture. Men from all surrounding villages will be taken. If we hide today and come down tomorrow, will the families of those conscripted feel it’s fair? They’d probably turn around and report us to the Village Head—and soldiers would come to arrest us the next day.”

He finished with a long sigh. During his two days in town, he had sensed a superficial peace and prosperity that felt unreal. With Yu Linlang gone, chaos in Tongjiang Town was inevitable—and it might worsen. Were refugees good-natured people? If they hadn’t dared act up before Yu Linlang, once she left, their suppressed anger might unleash doubly upon Tongjiang’s people.

Now Qingzhou Prefecture had been riddled like a sieve by refugees. He didn’t believe the government could spare many troops to go to the countryside to arrest people. Once the conscription notice arrived, the Village Head would likely learn of it first—as he did every year with spring sowing, autumn harvest, tax collection, and corvée labor—by notifying each village and assisting county officials dispatched downward.

Old Man Zhao had an idea: they had to start with the Village Head. But to start with the Village Head, they couldn’t bypass the village…

Ultimately, for something as major as conscription—unless you decisively abandoned everything and hid deep in the mountains as hunters—as long as you sought a way out and wished to live in the village, you had to get past the village. Everyone was in the same boat; there was no reason for your family to enjoy all advantages while others suffered ruin—and kept your secret.

After a long silence, Li Dahe suddenly said, “I have an idea. Do you want to hear it? It would allow us to hide in the mountains during conscription—and come down after the soldiers leave. It wouldn’t offend the villagers—and could get us past the Village Head.”

Old Man Zhao immediately turned to look at his old brother. Damn—could they be thinking the same thing?!

The others also turned sharply to look at him, their gazes growing increasingly intense. Wu Dazhu couldn’t help urging, “Uncle, speak quickly!”

Li Dahe cleared his throat and said slowly, “Actually, it just occurred to me. Aren’t we still in a hurry to go down and bury the dead? I was thinking—maybe we temporarily *don’t* bury them. Our village has suffered such a great disaster; there’s no reason to hide it! As the old saying goes, ‘The crying child gets the candy.’ After such a major incident, if we don’t take the initiative to go and cry, who would know the suffering we’ve endured?”

“This is what I’m thinking: in previous years, when the county conscripted for corvée labor, the Village Head also went house to house notifying people. Our village has lost many people this time—look, the bodies are still lying in the sheds, so it’s not fake. Conscription is a major matter. Refugees can be avoided—but no one can avoid the court’s official documents. This time, because everyone wasn’t united, we suffered a tremendous loss at the hands of the refugees. If we don’t band together for this conscription, we’ll truly have no way out.”

“We’ll go down and discuss this with the villagers, explaining the severity. Have the Village Elders send someone to notify the Village Head, saying our village has suffered a great disaster—dozens died from refugees entering the village—and that only the elderly, weak, women, and children remain. Ask them to bring people to help with the burials. As for us—including all the men in the village—every single one will hide in the mountains. Wives and children can be brought along. Later, when the Village Head counts the bodies and finds they don’t match the village population, have the Village Elders say the villagers were terrified by the refugees and didn’t dare come down. The mountains are vast and high; they won’t be able to find anyone.”

Li Dahe spoke until his mouth was dry, constantly licking his lips—revealing how nervous he was: “Not finding us doesn’t mean we’re dead. As long as they can’t *prove* we’re dead, the Village Head won’t dare cancel our household registrations with the county. As long as we endure past the conscription—and come down later—we can live as before. Even if the Village Head asks, we’ll just say we didn’t know what happened below—and didn’t know about the conscription.”

As long as conscription continues in the villages below, they will remain "hiding" in the mountains.

Unless times become peaceful or conscription ends, they will not "come down the mountain."

The bodies they fished out of the village are now the best proof of those drifters' brutality. More importantly, the conscription notice hasn't arrived yet, and the Village Head is unaware of it. By calling him over early, it'll be obvious to anyone that their village has suffered a great disaster. Then, if conscription happens, bringing this up might make the Soldiers less eager to draft from their village, since it's a small village, and larger villages would have more men anyway.

In the matter of conscription, their real threat isn't the Soldiers, it's the folks from neighboring villages, especially the Village Head.

Luckily for them, their Wanxia Village is remote, with difficult mountain paths. Who would willingly come here for no reason? And with no outsiders around to see, pulling this off is very possible.

However, for this plan to succeed, the most crucial part is that the entire village must be united, working together to keep outsiders in the dark.

"Well? Does this plan work or not?" Seeing everyone silent, Li Dahe nervously swallowed.

Old Man Zhao slapped him on the shoulder, his old eyes full of admiration, and suddenly stood up. "Let's go!"

"Where to?" Li Dahe winced in pain—this old man really had some strength!

Zhao Quan, Zhao Yong, and the others exchanged glances and stood up together.

"Down the mountain for a meeting, protect the bodies, and notify the Village Head!"