Chapter 13

The dampness in the air grew heavier, and the oppressive atmosphere pressed down on everyone like an invisible stone weighing on their hearts.

In front of the granary, an increasing number of refugees gathered.

Amid the chaos, the crowd maintained a strange kind of order. Most wore tattered clothes; some were even barefoot, their feet coated with mud and frostbite.

Hunger and fear intertwined, dulling their expressions into numbness and confusion.

Zhang Yanli stood atop a hastily constructed platform, clutching a freshly written set of regulations.

He spoke as clearly as possible, yet the refugees below showed no response. They stood scattered, their eyes shifting restlessly, occasionally whispering to one another with unmistakable unease.

Zhang Yanli scanned the crowd, took a deep breath, and raised his voice to repeat, “Those who build the embankments will receive extra rice rations daily; after the work is completed, participants will be prioritized for land allocation and farming!”

His voice cut through the air but fell like leaves drifting into a deep pond, stirring only faint ripples.

The refugees’ reactions were cold—no cheers, no movement. A few young men in the back muttered doubts, while most, especially the elderly, women, and children, dared not speak, their gazes evasive and their bodies shrinking back.

Unsure, Zhang Yanli shouted louder, “...I, as your official, promise you!”

A promise.

Whispers spread swiftly, their tone growing harsh.

Some lowered their heads, attempting to slip away but reluctant to forgo the thin gruel promised for the night; many remained silent, but needless to say, who among the refugees dared trust the promises of officials?

In front of him, guards gripped long spears, fully armed. Though stern, their faces betrayed unease—the sheer number of refugees made them uneasy; these desperate souls were like cornered beasts, ready to riot at the slightest provocation.

Zhang Yanli’s fingers tightened around the scroll. Learned and well-read though he was, the books had not told him what to do in moments like this.

Suddenly, the clear sound of hooves broke the heavy silence from afar.

“The Emperor is here!” someone whispered, voice trembling yet carrying a flicker of hope.

“The Emperor?” another bit his lip, jaw quivering.

“Why would the Emperor come here... Are you mad?” murmurs filled with anxiety and panic.

The crowd instinctively parted, creating a narrow path. With an almost subconscious reverence, all eyes turned toward the source of the sound. A squad of guards swiftly cleared the way for a massive jet-black warhorse in the center.

“The Emperor has arrived!” the lead guard announced loudly, his voice sharp and commanding.

Instantly, the murmurs ceased.

The restless crowd seemed pressed down by an invisible hand, falling silent. Frozen for a moment, they then knelt without hesitation, overwhelmed by profound unease.

“Your Majesty!” voices rose in waves, disorganized but steeped in genuine reverence and fear.

What was an Emperor?

The Emperor was the mandate of Heaven, the true dragon son of Heaven, an incarnation of the divine not to be offended. In their humble imaginations, the Son of Heaven should always sit enthroned in the celestial heavens, never to appear in such filthy and chaotic places.

So when a young woman dressed in black and red official robes, her gaze calm as it swept over the crowd, appeared here, it forced them to revise those ingrained beliefs.

Chu Yingzhao surveyed the kneeling masses. The complex emotions stirring faintly within her were masked beneath a calm facade.

She paused silently, then spoke in a voice quiet but unyielding, “Rise.”

Her words were soft yet each syllable rang out clearly.

Among those kneeling, some looked up in surprise, hesitant and confused, hardly believing the command was meant for them. Still, many remained prostrate, fearful to move rashly.

Chu Yingzhao tightened her grip on the reins. The warhorse lifted its foreleg with a crisp neigh. Her voice cut through again, colder and more authoritative this time: “I said, rise!”

This time, the people began to move, trembling as they slowly rose, heads bowed, reluctant to meet the gaze of the black figure on horseback. The guards flanking her held sharp eyes, silently maintaining order without hostility.

Chu Yingzhao turned her horse’s head and slowly advanced toward the granary.

The strong horse’s steps were steady, each hoofbeat like a heavy drum pounding in the ears of the crowd.

The refugees retreated to either side in fear and respect, their eyes fixed longingly on her.

Some instinctively reached out to touch the black warhorse but hesitated and withdrew before contact; others mustered courage, stretching their arms straight out, fingertips nearly brushing her robe’s hem.

Chu Yingzhao sensed these faint gestures but did not look back, her gaze steady ahead. Her silhouette stood tall and sharp as a sword, her garments shimmering subtly in the breeze.

In the end, none of the outstretched hands made contact—only a silent sigh remained in the air.

The people's arms slowly fell, yet their eyes burned with intensity, as if merely gazing upon their sovereign could draw out a spark of hope.

“Why is the Emperor... a woman?” in a corner beyond her hearing, a scholar-like man croaked, disbelief thick in his voice.

Immediately, someone nearby retorted with displeasure, “The Emperor is the Emperor—what difference does it make if male or female?”

“But, but...” the first man seemed about to protest further but was cut off by a harsher voice, “Did you drink the gruel she gave? If so, shut your mouth!”

Silenced, the doubter shrank back, voicing no more.

At the crowd’s center, the Empress had reached the granary’s gate. The rusted iron and two lifeless refugee bodies hanging nearby remained starkly visible.

Chu Yingzhao reined in, her gaze sweeping the scene, noting every expression and movement. She did not speak immediately but stood firmly on a dirt mound, as if surveying her battlefield.

After a moment, she cleared her throat and spoke softly yet with an undeniable force.

“Today,” she began steadily, “I have come for the embankments.”

The crowd fell silent.

“You may distrust the court, but you have all farmed the land your whole lives,” Chu Yingzhao continued, her gaze resolute as it swept the assembly. “The clouds are thick and low; a storm is surely coming—a flood that these embankments cannot hold back. Whether this is alarmist or not, the judgment lies with you.”

“If the flood destroys this place, your villages, fields, and roads will be lost without exception. What then? Will you have time to flee? How far would you escape? Where would you go?”

She paused briefly, her tone calm but firm. “Now, you have another choice: to reinforce the embankments and fight the flood together. Each of you who works will receive extra grain rations. When this is over, I will grant you land to farm and live on.”

An unusual stillness fell. Some eyes showed fear, others flickered with struggle.

“What I speak of,” she raised her hand and pointed directly to the ground beneath them, “is this very land you stand on. Furthermore, for those who help build the embankments, no agricultural taxes will be collected for the first two years; for those unable to participate but who remain here, taxes will be waived for one year.”

Her words sparked hushed conversations. More heads lifted to meet her gaze, eyes gleaming with yearning and urgency.

“If this plan succeeds, I will lend you seeds this year at no interest,” Chu Yingzhao’s eyes swept each person like a blade, her voice heavy with resolve. “I am your sovereign; my word is law.”

The refugees were utterly stunned.

Some whispered, “Will they really... give out land? Really?”

“The Emperor has opened the granary!” a middle-aged man said bitterly, as if venting years of resentment toward landlords and officials all at once. “It’s those officials who have evil hearts! The Emperor is just deceived... but that is the Emperor!”

“But reinforcing embankments means death—if people die, then what? And if this is just a trick to send us to work, to be fed only one meal after, beaten afterward...”

Someone objected, only to be glared down fiercely: “Nonsense! Would the Emperor care to gamble with our worthless lives?”

Chu Yingzhao said no more, turning her horse slowly away from the granary gate. The crowd fell silent, the sound of hooves striking the earth now starkly clear.

Her figure receded, like morning mist dissolving in the soft light of dawn.

No cheers, no cries—only bowed heads and mixed expressions.

Their eyes followed the Emperor’s departing silhouette, yet none dared speak. Only the faint sounds of breathing lingered, as if something was quietly brewing, suspended in the still air.

Zhang Yanli stood by a table near the granary, head bowed as he inspected documents the government had prepared long ago. The ink and brushes lay ready, but no one stepped forward. Eyes hidden beneath lowered faces flickered faintly like dark currents in a dried well—empty yet faintly shimmering.

He did not urge anyone on, seemingly certain this quiet waiting would eventually yield some response.

Suddenly, a gaunt figure stepped forward from the crowd—an elderly woman.

Her steps were slow, legs trembling, but she reached the table. With muddy hands, she carefully dipped a brush in ink, then shakily pressed a crooked, withered fingerprint onto the paper.

“Xu Ba,” she said.

As Zhang Yanli’s brush moved, a subtle tremor seemed to ripple through the once-stunned crowd. Low voices whispered; people nudged one another, but no sound rose above a murmur.

Next, a pale-faced old woman holding a child as thin as kindling pushed forward. She said nothing, only glanced at Zhang Yanli, her eyes void of plea or trust, only near-desperate silence.

She lowered her hand and left a print on the paper, murmuring her name so softly it was barely audible before turning away like a leaf trembling in the wind.

Gradually, the crowd stirred.

As if an unseen floodgate opened, the weary figures surged toward the table from all directions, like a river finally finding its outlet, quietly converging into a tide. No cheers, no hope—only silent brushings of clothing and quiet, restrained breaths.

Their steps were slow and heavy, dragging bodies too broken to bear it, yet they pushed on with all their might.

Heads bowed, inching closer to the table. Some clumsily gripped pens, others pressed blurred prints inked on their fingers.

The uneven, crooked characters filled the pages like their fates—broken and humble, yet in this moment revealing a faint, resolute defiance.

Like a solemn ritual.

They had nothing left to give.

Except these shattered bodies, scant labor, and nearly dried-up trust.

This was all they could offer.

Zhang Yanli gazed at the rough fingerprints in the scent of ink, silent as a stone statue.

His eyes reddened slightly, but he said nothing.

The shadows before the table grew thicker, the piles of paper higher. The overlapping marks resembled countless intertwined fates, blurred and indistinct.

Their eyes still held caution and fear. Those hollow eyes stared at the pages as if glimpsing some vague future.

...If they truly still had a future.