Brother Wang walked at the front. His two buckets were the first to fill.
He threaded the carrying pole through the handles, hoisted the heavy buckets onto his shoulders, and turned to leave. His movements were painfully slow, every muscle tense. He had to turn carefully to avoid spilling even a drop. In this year of devastating drought, spilling water was like spilling blood.
But as he completed his turn, the sight behind him stopped him cold.
At some point, a strange mound had appeared behind him. A hill made entirely of small, white, round clumps.
Brother Wang's mouth fell open. The carrying pole slipped from his numb fingers, and the buckets crashed to the ground with a dull thud. Their precious contents spilled into the dry earth.
A nearby villager gasped.
"Damn, Brother Wang! How could you drop them? That's two full buckets!"
His voice cracked with pain as he stared at the wet patch in the sand. He looked as though he might drop to his knees and scoop the muddy remains back into the buckets with his bare hands.
Brother Wang remained frozen. Finally, he forced out a few stiff words.
"Everyone... look... behind us..."
The villagers around the pond turned one after another.
The first man froze. The second turned and went rigid. Within moments, the entire group stood motionless like statues, every eye fixed on the impossible white hill that had materialized from thin air.
One villager opened his mouth to shout, but Brother Wang lunged forward and clamped a hand over his mouth.
"Quiet!" he hissed.
The villager snapped back to his senses and began breathing heavily. They were trespassing in Gaojia Village. If they made too much noise and got caught, they would rather die than suffer such humiliation.
Brother Wang approached the white hill and picked up one of the spheres. He raised it to his nose and inhaled cautiously.
"This... is damn flour," he whispered. "I can't be mistaken. It smells like wheat flour, except the grains are massive. Maybe it clumped together because of moisture?"
Another villager quickly nodded.
"Right. It has to be flour. Earlier, I caught the scent and thought my hunger was making me hallucinate."
Brother Wang frowned and scanned the darkness.
"But how did it appear?"
"I didn't see anything," one villager said.
"Neither did I," another added.
"I was drawing water the whole time."
Brother Wang clenched his jaw.
"There's only one explanation. Someone from Gaojia Village placed it here while we weren't looking."
The villagers exchanged bewildered glances.
"Brother, are you sure? Are the people of Gaojia Village really this kind?"
"Where would they get so much flour during a famine?"
"And why would they clump it into balls like this?"
"Even if they had extra, why would they give it to thieves like us?"
"And secretly, in the dead of night..."
Brother Wang scanned the surroundings again. The night offered no answers. Not a single shadow moved.
After a moment of hesitation, he raised the flour ball to his mouth and bit into it.
He immediately grimaced. The dry, raw powder filled his mouth and throat, its texture unpleasant. He nearly sneezed and coughed, but forced himself to swallow.
"It really is flour," he confirmed in a low voice. "Fresh, high-quality wheat flour."
He paused.
"They knew we came to steal water, yet they chose not to expose us. They spared our dignity. Out of pity for our suffering, they left this food behind."
The villagers fell silent.
After a long moment, Brother Wang spoke again, his tone firm.
"Pour the remaining water back into the pond."
The villagers stared at him in shock.
"Use the buckets for the flour instead," he continued. "Take as much as you can carry. Not a single grain must be wasted. Be even more careful than before. If anyone spills flour, I'll personally beat him to death."
Despite the harsh threat, several villagers let out weak, bitter laughs.
"Brother Wang, you don't need to threaten us. If we spill even a little, we'll beat ourselves to death!"
Without hesitation, they emptied their buckets back into the pond. But they did not immediately begin collecting the flour. Their buckets were still wet, and any moisture would ruin the powder.
So they held the empty buckets up in the air, waving them vigorously to let the night wind dry the wood. Only after making sure they were bone-dry did they approach the flour hill.
Working with trembling reverence, they filled their buckets to the brim. Then they lifted them onto their shoulders.
Every step afterward was cautious beyond measure. They moved more slowly than a father carrying his newborn child, terrified that even the slightest stumble might send a flour ball tumbling into the sand, lost forever.
At last, they reached the edge of Gaojia Village.
Once they were safely outside, Brother Wang slowly set down his load. He turned toward the sleeping village, clasped his fists, and bowed deeply. It was a gesture of profound respect, one usually reserved for benefactors.
"I, Wang Er, will never forget this kindness," he said solemnly. "One day, I will repay it."
He did not know who had helped him. He assumed it was a noble soul from the village, someone too humble to reveal themselves to a thief. But the debt was real.
---
Above the box, Li Daoxuan heard every word.
Only now did he finally learn the man's name.
Wang Er.
The name stirred something deep in his memory, sending a chill down his spine.
Frowning, Li Daoxuan turned to his computer and reopened the historical database he had been studying for days. His fingers flew across the keyboard, searching: Shaanxi Famine, 1627, Chengcheng County.
Finally, he found it.
In Luchao Jiwen, he read:
"In the inaugural year of Chongzhen, Shaanxi suffered a great famine, leaving thousands of li barren. Wang Er of Baishui gathered followers, smeared their faces with black ink, stormed Chengcheng County, and killed the magistrate."
Another text, Liehuang Xiaoshi, described the events in vivid detail:
"In the Dingmao year of the Tianqi reign, Shaanxi was struck by catastrophic drought. Zhang Yaocai, Magistrate of Chengcheng County, oppressed the people with brutal tax collection. A man named Wang Er secretly gathered several hundred desperate souls on a mountain and ordered them to smear their faces with ink. Wang Er roared, 'Who dares to kill Magistrate Zhang?' The crowd answered in unison, 'I dare!' This was repeated three times. Emboldened, they breached the city gates. The guards, paralyzed by fear, offered no resistance. They charged into the county office and executed Zhang Yaocai. Thereafter, they encamped in the mountains, marking the beginning of the rebellion."
Li Daoxuan leaned back, his heart pounding.
Historians regarded Wang Er's uprising as the spark that ignited the Late Ming Peasant Wars.
This was not some ordinary bandit. This was the man whose actions would set off a chain reaction that eventually helped bring down the Great Ming Dynasty. Figures like Li Zicheng and Zhang Xianzhong came later, following in his wake.
And right now, standing inside his diorama box, was the young, hungry, indebted version of that historical figure.
Li Daoxuan slowly closed the browser tab. When he looked back at the box, Wang Er and his companions had already vanished into the darkness beyond the glass walls. All that remained were footprints and a patch of scraped earth where the mound of flour had once stood.
Li Daoxuan let out a long sigh.
"So it begins. If history says you are the spark, then the flames of rebellion will soon reach Gaojia Village. We will meet again, Wang Er."
His gaze shifted toward the fragile, rundown huts inside the box.
Once the war began, this peaceful village would inevitably be dragged into the chaos. Rebel and imperial armies would march through Shaanxi, followed by stragglers and looters.
As long as he remained awake and watching, he could protect them easily. With a flick of his wrist, he could crush entire battalions.
But he could not remain vigilant forever. He needed sleep. He needed to work. And whenever he stepped away, they would be defenseless.
The custom Hakka Walled House would not be ready for another month.
But Wang Er's uprising was already looming. The attack on Chengcheng County could happen at any time.
He could not afford to wait.
With that realization, Li Daoxuan began scanning his room, searching frantically for anything that could provide immediate protection.
His eyes landed on a clothes rack, where a piece of rusted iron sheet curled upward.
Scrap metal.
His mind raced. Could he forge armor? Swords? Spears?
He shook his head. Even with steel weapons, these forty-two starving peasants had no training. Against disciplined soldiers or hardened rebels, individual bravery meant nothing.
They needed structure. They needed walls.
His gaze drifted farther and landed on a colorful pile of objects beside his desk.
LEGO bricks.
A slow, wicked smile spread across his face.
Plastic interlocking bricks. Modular. Strong. Lightweight. Easy to assemble into tall, thick walls overnight.
Until the Hakka fortress was ready, this toy would have to serve as their rampart.