"You'll really pay us?"
That single question struck Zhu Cunji harder than any insult could have. He had stepped forward with what he believed was magnanimity, intending to raise wages in public view so that he might bask for a brief moment in gratitude and perhaps patch the small, unspoken emptiness that followed him like a shadow. Instead of admiration, he was met with suspicion. Instead of cheers, doubt.
For a young man who had grown up surrounded by rank and ceremony, the reaction felt strangely humiliating.
He stomped his foot on the deck and leaned over the rail, his voice ringing across the river.
"What kind of person do you think I am? Do I look like someone who would cheat you out of a few coins? Take a proper look at me. I am the most..."
Before he could finish, Zhu Yujian darted out from behind him, clapped a hand over his mouth, and dragged him down to the deck with surprising force.
"Lower your voice. Do you want the whole river listening?"
Zhu Cunji froze, then blinked as reason returned to him.
"Oh. Right."
Zhu Yujian released him and spoke more calmly. "In times like this, loud declarations are useless. If you want trust, offer advance payment."
Realization dawned on Zhu Cunji's face.
"Right. Advance payment."
He sprang up again, fished out a silver ingot weighing at least five liang, and tossed it toward the shore with exaggerated flair.
"Five liang upfront."
The ingot landed with a dull thud near the boatmen's feet. None of them moved. They stared at the silver as though it might explode.
"It is not fake, is it?"
Zhu Cunji swayed slightly and collapsed onto the deck, staring at the sky as though the heavens themselves had betrayed him.
Zhuge Wangchan laughed without restraint, though there was more understanding than mockery in his expression. Zhu Cunji simply did not comprehend the instincts of men who had survived by caution all their lives. Those at the bottom of society were not accustomed to unexpected generosity. Good fortune did not fall from the sky. If something descended from above, it was usually trouble.
Without further comment, Zhuge Wangchan signaled a few logistics soldiers. They leaped ashore, retrieved the five liang ingot, and returned to the ship to bring out several strings of copper coins. When they came back to the riverbank, they placed the coins directly into the intermediary's hands.
"The money will remain with your people. You pull the boats, and you will be paid according to what you pull. The gentleman just now was not wrong. Small boats, one hundred ten wen. Medium boats, two hundred twenty wen. Large boats, three hundred thirty wen. We thank you for your effort."
Copper coins spoke a language that silver could not. They were heavy, tangible, immediate. Even if poorly cast, they could still purchase grain.
The hesitation dissolved almost instantly. Cheers rose from the riverbank as the boatmen shouldered their tow ropes once more, their earlier wariness replaced by renewed vigor. Muscles tightened, feet braced against stone, and the long line of vessels crept forward through the current with steady determination.
As their spirits lifted, so too did their voices. A chant began, rough yet rhythmic, carried by breath and effort rather than artistry.
"Feet push stone, heave ho.
Hands scoop sand, heave ho.
Bare backs strain, heave ho.
Climb higher, heave ho."
They might not have been skilled with rhetoric, but song required no education.
From the decks, the militia soldiers watched in silence, some of them feeling an unfamiliar heat rise behind their eyes. A few instinctively rolled up their sleeves, as though compelled to jump down and share the burden.
Zhuge Wangchan's voice stopped them.
"Hold your positions. Why do you carry those flintlock rifles? If rebels attack at this moment while you are busy pulling ropes, will you run back to retrieve your weapons? And if you are too late, what then?"
The reminder settled heavily. Reluctantly, the soldiers resumed their posts, rifles in hand, eyes scanning the forested slopes and jagged cliffs lining both banks of the Yangtze.
There are many ways to defend a nation. Some stand in the front lines with guns. Some manage supplies in the rear. Some transport provisions through treacherous terrain. Others labor in workshops, refining weapons and tools. The crucial thing is not glory but responsibility.
With the tireless effort of the boatmen, the fleet gradually made its way through the formidable Three Gorges and continued westward toward Sichuan.
The sharp crack of flintlock fire shattered the air at Yunyang County.
At the northern gate, waves of rebels surged forward in chaotic fury, convinced that the city's defenses were thin. Their scouts had confirmed that only one thousand militia garrisoned the county, and boldness born of desperation pushed them into a reckless assault.
What they met instead was Cheng Xu.
As the general commander of the Gao Family Village expeditionary force into Sichuan, Cheng Xu had dispatched his four principal generals, Flat Rabbit, Zheng Gouzi, Gao Chuwu, and Zheng Daniu, each leading a thousand men to secure surrounding counties. He himself remained in Yunyang with one thousand troops, anchoring the defense.
The rebels had expected weakness. They collided with discipline.
A militia soldier steadied his aim and fired. A rebel fell before he had even grasped what had happened. The soldier worked the bolt swiftly, the angled mechanism ejecting spent residue and fragments of burned paper from the chamber before a spring fed a fresh round into place. He raised the rifle again and pulled the trigger, only to find it stubbornly unresponsive.
"The cartridge residue has jammed the breech."
His frustration broke into his voice.
The squad leader beside him did not soften his tone.
"Were you not drilled on emergency procedures? If it jams, step back and clear it. Do not shout."
Chastened, the soldier retreated several paces and cleared the obstruction with practiced hands, while others seamlessly filled the gap in the firing line.
Bolt action rifles loaded with paper cartridges were prone to jamming, especially under sustained fire. Yet even if several hundred weapons functioned properly, their combined force was overwhelming against opponents armed with blades and spears.
The rebels never reached the walls. Bodies littered the ground before the low ramparts of Yunyang, and what remained of the attacking force retreated in disarray toward the mountains.
Cheng Xu considered pursuit only briefly before dismissing the idea. The mountains of Shu were vast and treacherous. One thousand men entering them in search of scattered rebels would vanish without leaving a ripple.
He turned back toward the city and felt his brow tighten.
Yunyang was overcrowded with refugees, pressed shoulder to shoulder in every street and courtyard. County towns in that era were modest in size, often stretching only two li along a single wall. Under ordinary circumstances they felt sufficient, because farmers lived dispersed across the countryside. Now, driven by rebellion, those same farmers had flooded into the town.
The sudden swell in population had driven grain prices upward at an alarming rate.
Cheng Xu could do little but wait anxiously for the logistics fleet.
At that moment, the embroidery of Dao Xuan Tianzun upon his chest spoke.
"Cheng Xu. Go to the riverside. The logistics team has arrived."
Joy flashed across his face.
"They are here."
When Dao Xuan Tianzun delivered news personally, doubt had no place.
He hurried to the southern gate overlooking the rushing river, where a vast flotilla of cargo boats was steadily approaching the county. The sight stirred a deep relief within him that no battlefield victory could quite replicate.
"The shipping route is open."
Orders spread quickly through the city.
"Dockworkers needed to unload grain. Strong men, come. Wages are good."
Refugees who had feared starvation surged forward, desperate not only for food but for work that restored dignity.
Soon, great quantities of supplies were carried ashore, and the militia began distributing hot gruel to the waiting crowds.
In Yunyang County, beneath walls still stained by smoke and blood, the scent of gunpowder gradually mingled with the humble fragrance of boiling grain. It was not triumph, nor was it peace, but it was something far more precious in troubled times.
It was stability returning, one bowl at a time.