Xing Honglang spent a few minutes catching up with the Sunjia Village survivors, but she had to pivot to business fast. This wasn't the time for a high school reunion. Looking around Pujiu Temple, she could see the place was packed with refugees from every tiny village for miles.
It was a classic story: the bandits had pillaged their way through the countryside, and the peasants had huddled together in the temple just to feel like they weren't alone in the dark.
If she could get this entire crowd to Gudu Ferry, her labor shortage would vanish overnight. But talking to nine hundred terrified people was a nightmare. She needed a middleman—someone who already held their trust.
"Who's in charge of this temple?" Xing Honglang called out.
"Amitabha." A middle-aged monk, gripping a heavy wooden staff, stepped forward. "I am known as Monk Zhan. How can this poor monk assist you, Benefactress?"
"Monk Zhan?" Xing Honglang raised an eyebrow. "As in... 'Fighting Monk'?"
The monk looked a little sheepish. "I had a bit of a temper in my younger days. I enjoyed... physical conflict. I chose the name back then as a mission statement. Now that I'm older, I've tried to change it to something more peaceful, but everyone's used to it. It stuck."
"Fair enough," she said. "Master Zhan, do these people listen to you?"
The monk sighed, looking at the weary faces in the courtyard. "The people have suffered a great calamity. They're lost and looking for a hand to hold. I've had to step up and give orders just to keep them from falling apart. Heavens above..."
"How many people are in here?"
"About eight or nine hundred."
Xing Honglang didn't mince words. "Can your temple feed that many?"
Master Zhan's face fell. "Of course not."
"Then what's the plan?"
"Plan?" The monk wiped sweat from his shaved head. "I haven't had a second to think about a plan. The villagers came screaming to our gates, and the bandits were right behind them. I've been so focused on not getting everyone slaughtered that I completely forgot about the logistics of dinner... You asking that question is actually making me very nervous."
Nine hundred people. What were they going to eat? Master Zhan could already see the tragedy unfolding—desperate people doing desperate things.
"Master Zhan," Xing Honglang said, "do me a favor and talk to them. I have a way to keep them fed. Gudu Ferry needs workers—we have grain to move and a fortress to build. Anyone willing to work gets three full meals a day and a daily wage of three catties of flour."
The monk's eyes lit up like lanterns.
But then he paused, pressing his palms together. "Amitabha. Benefactress, that sounds like a miracle, but what about the ones who can't lift heavy bags? The elderly, the women, the children with no men left to support them? They can't build a fortress."
"They can cook," Xing Honglang countered. "Feeding an army of workers is a job in itself. If they cook, they eat. Three meals a day, guaranteed."
Master Zhan's eyebrows shot up. "You shouldn't joke about this. These people are scared, hungry, and exhausted. If they walk three miles to your dock and find out there's no food, it'll break them. Besides, if you have that much grain, won't the bandits come for you next? It sounds dangerous."
Xing Honglang stood tall. "I'm Xing Honglang. In the underworld, my word is gold. I have enough grain at that dock to feed this crowd ten times over, and I have extra to sell. As for security? I have an army. Let the bandits try."
Master Zhan looked serious. "You're a salt smuggler. Your men aren't exactly government soldiers, are they?"
"You think the government is more reliable than me?" she shot back.
Master Zhan went silent. "These people fled to my temple because they refused to join the rebels. If they go to your dock and work for a smuggler... aren't they technically becoming outlaws too?"
"Most bandits don't feed you; they force you to go out and rob others," Xing Honglang explained. "I feed my people. I don't want their hands stained with blood; I want them stained with honest sweat. If they have to choose between starving as 'good citizens' or eating as 'smugglers,' they'll choose me every time."
"And when the government comes to wipe you out?"
"The Imperial Court usually goes for the head of the snake," she said. "If the soldiers kill me, the peasants can just go back to their villages. They won't be the targets."
Master Zhan stared into her eyes for a long, quiet moment. "I've met a lot of people in my time. You don't look like a liar. Fine. I'll trust you this once."
He gathered the villagers and gave them the pitch.
Coming from a monk, the offer sounded like divine providence. They might not have trusted a salt queen, but they trusted the Master of Pujiu Temple. Within minutes, the heavy, suffocating atmosphere of the temple began to lift.
People who had lost everything just hours ago found a spark of hope. They started packing what little they had left, ready to move.
It still took some courage. At the temple gates, people hesitated, peering out for any sign of a bandit ambush.
But the coast was clear.
Zao Ying's cavalry trotted back from the north, her laughter echoing across the hills. "The trash is gone! I chased them until they were out of breath and used their backs for target practice. They won't be coming back today."
The villagers let out a collective breath.
Master Zhan hoisted a small bundle onto his back and grabbed his staff. "Move out! Even if you're tired, keep those legs moving. We're leaving the temple. Get to Gudu Ferry before dark!"
The mass of people began to flow out onto the road.
Even the ones who were skeptical about working for a salt smuggler didn't dare stay behind. When nine hundred people move, you move with them.
It was a form of coercion, in a way. Master Zhan knew it, but 'friendly coercion' was a hell of a lot better than the alternative. Better to be drafted by a smuggler than slaughtered by a bandit.
The pace was slow. Zao Ying's cavalry spread out, shielding the flanks like sheepdogs guarding a massive, fragile flock.
Luckily, the road was quiet. The three-mile trek took nearly four hours with the elderly and children in tow, but as the sun began to dip toward the horizon, the ragged thatched roofs of Gudu Ferry finally came into view.
And then they saw it.
Two massive ships sat in the water—a warship and a cargo vessel.
Master Zhan stared at the warship, specifically the cannons glinting in the twilight. His heart skipped a beat. *A simple salt smuggler? No way.* This kind of firepower didn't belong to a small-time criminal. There was a real power behind this woman, someone using her as a front.
But the villagers weren't looking at the cannons. They were looking at the bags.
Thousands of grain bags were piled high on the cargo ship. A crew of dockworkers was already unloading them, sweating and smiling. Even though they had been at it for hours, the ship was still half-full.
After a moment of stunned silence, nine hundred voices erupted into a cheer that could be heard for miles.
Trivia :
1.The "Two-Meal" Survival Strategy
In the Ming Dynasty, "Lunch" was a fairy tale. Most peasants lived on the 9-and-4 system: a bowl of grain at 9:00 AM to start the day, and another at 4:00 PM to survive the night. Since candles and oil were for the rich, the sun was the clock. When the light died, you slept to save calories. Xing Honglang offering three meals is effectively extending their lives by four hours a day.
2. Why "Three Catties" of Flour is a Fortune
To a modern person, 4 lbs of flour is a heavy bag from the grocery store. To a Ming peasant, it's freedom.
The Math: An active laborer needs about 3,000 calories. Coarse, hand-ground flour has roughly 1,500 calories per catty.
The Reality: Three catties isn't a meal for one man; it's a family's daily survival. By paying this much, the village ensures that if the father works, the grandmother doesn't starve. It's the ultimate recruitment tool: they aren't hiring workers; they're buying the loyalty of entire bloodlines.
3. Salt: The "Battery" of the Human Body
Why does everyone fear and respect a Salt Smuggler like Xing Honglang? Because calories are the fuel, but salt is the spark.
Without salt, muscles don't contract and the heart doesn't beat correctly.
In a world of manual labor and sweating under the sun, a salt deficiency leads to cramping, fainting, and death.
A smuggler who controls the salt and the grain is, for all intents and purposes, a god. They control the biological "batteries" of every person in the province.
4.The "Smell of Life"
We underestimate the sensory impact. In a famine-stricken area, the air smells like dust, rot, and smoke. The moment those cargo ships opened their hatches at Gudu Ferry, the air would have been filled with the sweet, powdery scent of fresh wheat. To a starving person, that smell is more intoxicating than the finest perfume. It's the smell of not dying today.