Chapter 105

Chapter 105

On the way back to the village, another man was on the verge of death, and Zhao Dashan carried him for the final stretch.

Just as they reached the village entrance, the man caught his last glimpse of his family. Old Man Zhao didn’t even have time to rush home and ask his daughter to scoop a ladle of water from the Immortal Land—hoping it might keep the man alive one more night. The man turned ashen, as if all his blood had drained away, then let out a final, ragged breath.

“My boy!!” His mother wailed—then choked, her eyes rolling back as she stiffened and collapsed.

“Auntie Li!” Fortunately, someone nearby caught her just in time, preventing her head from striking the ground.

Witnessing this, everyone felt as though their chests were caving in.

A crowd gathered at the village entrance, each person scanning frantically for their own loved ones. Those who spotted their sons injured shouted for family members to come carry them home. Neighbors helped the badly wounded back, weeping all the while. Choked sobs mingled with cries and shouts, weighing down every heart like a ton of bricks.

This expedition had cost the village three lives—and that was only because Old Man Zhao had stacked the odds in their favor. Otherwise, no one could predict how many more would have fallen. Back then, tempers had flared hot and fierce. The weather was already scorching, and the men were parched as dried-up weeds by the roadside—one spark, and the whole field would ignite. The situation had spiraled completely out of control.

Hardly anyone emerged unscathed. Countless men lay motionless on the ground, bodies piled atop one another, people stepping over each other in desperation. Puddles of water mixed with blood sent chills down everyone’s spines.

Besides those who died outright, many were injured—some gravely, others less so. The searing heat made wounds prone to infection and festering. Without prompt treatment—and if fever set in—it could easily claim another life.

Thinking this through, Old Man Zhao turned to Zhao Shanao and the other elders and said, “It’s sweltering outside. Everyone should go home first—especially the injured—to rest. Boil whatever cooling herbs you have at home and drink a large bowl each. For those still bleeding from cuts, gather some herbs, crush them, and apply them directly to the wounds. I’ll head home and check whether I have any medicinal powder to patch them up for now.”

He knew he had both medicinal powder and herbal wine at home—but he was stingy with the best of it. The hemostatic powder Aunt Jinyu had given him worked most effectively, yet he hesitated to part with it. Still, he could spare a bottle of the powder he’d purchased from Ping’an Clinic for the most critically wounded. The village couldn’t afford to lose another soul—if they did, no one would be left!

Yet he still needed to consult his wife. If she refused, he’d simply claim he couldn’t locate it.

This time of year, although roadside weeds were all scorched dry by the sun, bitter mugwort still grew abundantly near the deep woods. When crushed and applied to wounds, it stopped bleeding remarkably well—the villagers routinely used it for knife or hoe cuts on hands and feet.

“Yes, yes, yes!” Zhao Shanao nodded rapidly. He, too, was dazed and shaken—especially terrified of facing the families of the deceased. Hearing Zhao Dashan’s words, he forced himself to steady his nerves, parted his cracked lips, and hoarsely relayed instructions to the crowd: “Take your loved ones home first. I’ll return later to sort out the details. Just one thing—don’t worry. Let the injured rest easy. The village will assign people to fetch water and irrigate your fields. As for those who died—don’t fret about coffins; the village will cover them. We’ll pool grain for the funeral feast, dig the graves, and carry the bodies into the mountains. Rest assured…”

At these words, the bereaved families burst into loud, anguished wails—finally releasing the pent-up anguish that had been crushing their chests.

Before setting out, they’d steeled themselves. After all, inter-village water battles had *always* ended in bloodshed. Deaths and injuries were simply bad luck—no one to blame.

They’d simply never imagined that bad luck would strike *their* homes.

It was fortunate the village stood ready to shoulder all responsibilities afterward. At least their loved ones hadn’t died in vain—the village acknowledged their sacrifice.

Zhao Quan and Zhao Yong were also injured—one had a deep gash on his arm, the other a jagged cut on his thigh from a sharp rock, the flesh torn and inverted, dried blood crusts clinging to their clothes. Ripping the cloth away made their faces blanch with pain. Wu Dazhu and Zhao Sanwang bore numerous minor cuts but nothing serious. Though they’d fought hardest, they’d also drawn the luckiest lot.

As for Zhao Song and Zhao Bai—being younger kin—Old Man Zhao always kept an extra watch on them. Without even checking their clothes, he knew neither had sustained life-threatening injuries.

The brothers Man Cang and Man Liang had fought in the river, hauling stones and sandbags, with Zhao Ertian and others guarding their backs. The two got along well, covering for each other and dodging underhanded tactics. They’d suffered little in direct combat—but rolling around in the river had left them covered in painful scrapes from sharp rocks—agonizing, yet not fatal.

Everyone was utterly exhausted, too spent even to speak—only wanting to go home and rest.

Seeing this, Old Man Zhao didn’t detain them. Instead, he told the village elders, “I’ll draw water from the old well later. Ask around—has anyone drawn water today? If not, tell everyone not to come out and queue up. It’s too hot. I’ll have Xiao Wu and the others deliver a bucket to each household.”

Zhao Shanao quickly turned to ask the villagers. Learning no one had drawn water yet—everyone too preoccupied worrying about the men fighting—he nodded: “Go ahead and draw it. Call more people. Don’t let Xiao Wu and the others do all the work.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Old Man Zhao waved dismissively and led his sons home.

The village entrance buzzed with activity—but Wang stayed put. The sun made her dizzy. She dragged a stool beneath the eaves and peered toward the road. Spotting her husband and the others returning, she promptly patted her daughter. Zhao Xiaobao swallowed the pear in her mouth, waved her tiny hand—and a half-basket of dripping-wet wild pears materialized beside her. Soaked in the stream, they were ice-cold—perfect for this sweltering weather.

“Dad, you’re back! Come eat some pears!” She picked the largest one from the basket and handed it to him.

“Oh, my little Bao—how did you know Dad was thirsty? What a thoughtful daughter you are!” Old Man Zhao strode over, took it, and felt its coolness instantly. Without even shaking off the water, he stuffed it into his mouth. One bite—and juice burst forth, soothing his parched throat. “Nothing compares to the pears my little Bao grows—not even the finest water!”

He pulled up a stool and sat down. After a few bites, only the core remained. Too tired to rise, he extended his hand—and his obedient daughter immediately placed another pear in his palm.

The entire family sat beneath the eaves, eating fruit.

Once their thirst was quenched and their throats eased, Old Man Zhao—prompted by his wife—recounted the day’s events. Upon hearing that several villages had indeed banded together against them over the conscription issue, Wang sneered, echoing the elders’ sentiments: “Blame *us*? On what grounds? If we hadn’t eliminated those refugees, could they possibly have lived in peace? Not to mention distant places—take Yu Family Bend, right next to us. If *we* couldn’t escape, do you think *they* could?”

“Such talk is unreasonable and pointless—a flimsy excuse for their shameless act of cutting off our water, trying to cloak their beastly behavior in human decency. They imagine themselves standing on high moral ground, pointing fingers and cursing us. How absurd!”

When people lose all sense of shame—even ghosts pale in comparison!

Old Man Zhao sighed: “It’s probably tied to the drought, too. Everyone’s anxious, bottling up rage with nowhere to vent.”

There was a dam upstream. In theory, during a severe drought, downstream villages should receive some water to survive this crisis. Yet strangely, the dam managed floods—not droughts. He, Zhao Dashan, was an uneducated peasant who knew nothing about water conservancy. When he asked others, none could explain. No expert was reachable. All they knew was that during heavy rains, sluice gates opened to release floodwater—but during droughts, even as downstream crops withered and died, not a single drop was released.

Yu Family Bend, Peach Li Village, and the others could do nothing about the heavens—so they seized an excuse to vent their fury on *them*.

But they hadn’t anticipated their village would prove a hard stone—not a soft egg. Bullying them would come at a steep price. The village heads of those settlements were likely already regretting their actions. Sunset Glow Village had lost three men—but the five allied villages had lost far more. And with the wounded, if they failed to recover over the next few days, the death toll would climb further still. When the village head returned from the county seat, trouble would surely escalate.

Speaking of the village head, Old Man Zhao had nothing good to say about him. A narrow-minded, venomous man—eight times out of ten, *he* was responsible for the crisis escalating to this point.

“No place to vent their anger, so they take it out on us? Do they really think we’re soft persimmons to squeeze at will?!” Wang fumed. She volunteered, “Give the village a bottle of medicinal powder. Let bygones be bygones. We’re united now—save as many as possible.” As for the peaches? Forget it. They were too precious. Even to save a life, it would depend entirely on *who* it was. If Man Cang or Dazhu faced life-threatening injuries, she’d ask her daughter. For others, only the medicinal powder would suffice—to stop bleeding and reduce inflammation. As long as fever didn’t set in, holding on for a few days would see them through.

Old Man Zhao nodded. After resting briefly and regaining his strength, he stood, scooped up his daughter, and called to his grandsons hiding indoors: “Come with me to draw water from the old well.”

Then, lowering his voice, he murmured to his wife: “Keep it discreet. I’ll have Xiao Bao fill the buckets with stream water—one per household, no more. After all, it’s water from the Immortal Land, blessed by immortals. Let’s treat it as our last resort. Hopefully, a few more sips will save their lives.”

Wang nodded: “Keep close watch on Xiao Bao. Don’t take your eyes off her. The well is dangerous—don’t let her get too near.”

“I know.”

The old well was covered by a thick wooden plank. Moving it produced a distinct sound. The nearest house happened to belong to Zhao Shanao—the old man had upheld integrity his entire life. With him guarding the well, no one dared steal water—and no one worried he’d abuse his position.

It was nearby, yet still some distance away. Old Man Zhao shifted the plank aside, pretending to draw water—while Xiao Bao secretly filled the buckets with stream water. He didn’t know where the stream water originated. He only saw her dip her finger into the bucket—and streams of water flowed down it, as if the stream itself issued from her body. Yet upon closer inspection, a tiny gap remained between the water and her finger—mysterious beyond explanation.

“Xiao Bao, are you sure our little stream won’t run dry?” Old Man Zhao voiced his paranoia—fearing the Immortal Land’s stream might vanish. If that happened, their entire family would be doomed.

The bucket filled. Zhao Xiaobao withdrew her chubby finger and signaled her father with her eyes. Old Man Zhao hurried over with another empty bucket. She dipped her finger in and declared solemnly, puffing out her cheeks: “Dad, the stream will *never* run dry!”

“Dad, you’ve asked *so* many times.”

Old Man Zhao felt reassured—and relieved. Pretending to be hurt, he teased, “Xiao Bao, are you tired of Dad? Then I won’t ask again. Don’t grow tired of Dad.”

Zhao Xiaobao dreaded this act most. It was strange—her mother said it gave her goosebumps. Not wanting to rub her arms, she simply turned her face away from her father’s weathered features: “Dad, I’m *not* tired of you. You can keep asking—I’ll keep answering.”

Teasing his daughter lifted Old Man Zhao’s gloomy mood considerably.

When Zhao Xiaowu and the others arrived with a group of children to collect water, Old Man Zhao handed each child a bucket—and repeatedly admonished them: “Not a single drop must be spilled! Be careful! Water is scarce in this drought—half a bowl can save a life. Be extremely careful. No fooling around on the way. If I find out anyone spilled water, I’ll tell your grandparents *and* parents!”

“We won’t spill!”

“That’s right—we won’t spill! Grandpa Da Gen, don’t tattle on us!”

“I brought a shoulder pole—I can carry water steadily! Mom and Dad praise me!”

The village children clamored noisily—even Zhou Datou and his gang, who usually clashed with Zhao Xiaowu. According to Zhao Xiaowu, he’d deliberately summoned *them* precisely because they didn’t get along. He refused to exhaust himself delivering water to *their* homes. If they wanted water, they could come fetch it themselves. If not—they’d go without.

Old Lady Zhou had originally intended to come herself—but upon learning Old Man Zhao had dispatched the children, she knew better than to cross him. Too frightened to ask why, she immediately shoved her reluctant eldest grandson out the door—terrified that delay would cost them their share.

Empty buckets were left behind; full ones carried away—and delivered door-to-door.

Zhao Xiaowu took charge of organizing the distribution, ensuring no household was overlooked. He understood perfectly why his grandfather was doing this—so whenever he encountered someone, he stressed: “Grandpa says let the injured drink first. Don’t hold back. If they can drink, give them as much as possible.”

This was naturally interpreted as: *Drink while you’re still alive—leave no regrets.*

The families of the gravely wounded broke into tears—and used water dippers to force-feed the wounded.

Water was now the most precious thing on earth. No one thought of saving it. Everyone poured it straight into the mouths of the injured.