The people of Wang Village had followed Wang Er for more than two years, drifting north and south like loose leaves.
Under his restraint, they had not burned villages or slaughtered families. That alone already placed them above average.
But restraint did not mean innocence.
They had seen everything.
Wherever a roaming army passed, order died on schedule. Fences were pulled down, manor walls burned flat, city fortifications dismantled brick by brick. Not out of hatred, but efficiency. A broken town was easier to rob the next time.
Destruction was reusable. Construction was not.
So when Bai Yuan told them they would be building something, more than a hundred people simply stood there, staring, like men asked to swim uphill.
Bai Mao was the first to lose patience.
"What are you frozen for?" he barked. "Wang Er-ge means we're turning legit. Legit people work. You ever seen a good man who doesn't?"
That logic was hard to argue with.
Reluctantly, bodies began to move.
They had no proper axes or saws, so the actual tree-felling went to Zhang Yuanwai's men. Wang Village folk carried logs, hauled stones, and did the kind of work no one writes poems about. It wasn't glorious, but it counted.
Bai Yuan watched them for a while.
They worked badly, but honestly.
Which, historically speaking, was already rare.
He exhaled quietly. Compared to other "returned bandits," these people were almost gentle. The last batch he had seen—those under Fan Shanyue—had needed months before they stopped flinching at sudden sounds.
Time passed. Arms grew heavy.
One man stumbled under a log, barely keeping his balance. He set it down, pressed a hand to his stomach, and looked up with embarrassment.
"Mao-ge… I'm starving. Got no strength left."
Others echoed him.
"Me too."
"Whole body feels empty."
They weren't lazy. They were just used to hunger.
A roaming army could seize grain, sack a county granary, eat well for a few days. Then the math always failed. Fifty thousand mouths emptied storage faster than locusts. Granaries didn't refill themselves. Taxes came from people—people who had already been stripped clean.
So armies kept moving. Hunger was mobile. So was violence.
Bai Yuan looked at their faces, sunken but patient, and glanced at the sky.
"Relax," he said. "Food's coming."
Right on cue, it did.
County Magistrate Feng Jun arrived personally, leading over a thousand men. More than half were hired laborers, recruited from the city under the same method Gao Family Village favored: work-for-relief.
Three jin of flour per day.
The offer spread faster than rumors. Within moments, a thousand men had appeared—hungry, willing, and suspiciously motivated.
They came with carts of grain, carts of cement, pushing them all the way to Qiachuan Wharf. Feng Jun exchanged a few quiet words with Bai Yuan, listened, then waved his hand.
"Eat first," he ordered. "Work after."
The cooking teams moved immediately.
Earth stoves were built. Pots set. Water drawn from the Yellow River—muddy, yellow, and absolutely fine. In this era, water that boiled was already a luxury.
Flour was kneaded. Dough prepared. Knives raised.
Heyang County had a specialty: San Chi knife-cut noodles.
Flat blades. Long strips. Even thickness. A skill guarded stubbornly by San Chi Village.
The cooks lined up, one per pot. Left hand dough, right hand blade. Noodles flew straight into boiling water like obedient soldiers.
The scene was… excessive.
The Wang Village people stared.
"In a famine year," someone muttered, "you're doing this?"
A San Chi cook laughed without stopping his hands.
"Not long ago, we were starving too. Thank Gao Family Village."
Another chimed in, grinning. "I hadn't cut noodles in three years. Thought the skill was dead. Turns out it was just unemployed."
He talked while cutting, never missing a beat. Muscle memory didn't need hope.
The Wang Village folk exchanged glances.
Two years ago—before the uprising—they had gone to Gao Family Village to steal water. After filling one bucket, they turned around and found a small mountain of flour behind them.
Back then, they hadn't understood.
Now they did.
If they had stayed…
If they hadn't chosen the road…
They didn't finish the thought.
They only hoped Wang Er would return alive.
The first bowl was ready.
Feng Jun nodded. The cook handed it to Bai Yuan.
Bai Yuan laughed, passed it straight to Mao-ge.
Bai Mao took a single noodle, tasted it, then handed the bowl onward.
One noodle per person.
They chewed slowly.
The flavor was simple. Clean. Heavy.
This was what fullness tasted like when it wasn't stolen.
Soon, bowls multiplied. Noodles poured out endlessly. Every Wang Village man received a bowl. Then the hired laborers.
Over a thousand people sat at the wharf, eating.
No speeches. No slogans.
Just faces lit by relief.
"Eat up," someone shouted.
"After eating, work hard."
"Yes. Work hard."
Because everyone understood the rule, even if no one said it aloud:
If this place wasn't built strong enough, someone else would come ashore.
And hunger would return—armed.
The noodles were hot.
Which meant time was short.
Trivia
San Chi Knife-Cut Noodles
San Chi Village in Heyang County was historically known for knife-cut noodles made with flat blades, producing long, evenly thick strands. Such regional food traditions often vanished during prolonged famine—not because the skills were lost, but because survival left no room for craftsmanship. When stability returned, so did forgotten techniques. Briefly.
Work-for-Relief Systems
Using labor in exchange for food was a common emergency policy in late imperial China. It worked remarkably well in the short term and failed reliably in the long term, usually when officials mistook "temporary stability" for "problem solved."
Why Roaming Armies Never Built Anything
Construction ties you to a place. Armies that live by plunder cannot afford roots. History likes to call this strategy. Logistics prefers the word inevitable.