Censor Wu Shen felt as if someone were splitting his skull open with a dull chisel.
His head throbbed.
Thirty thousand people—old men, women, children—were now crammed into the small county town of Hequ like beans poured into a cracked jar. They weren't soldiers. They weren't rebels anymore. They were dependents.
And dependents, inconveniently, still needed to eat.
For one unguarded moment, an extremely un-Confucian thought flashed through Wu Shen's mind:
Wang Jiayin, you shameless bastard. When you rebelled, why didn't you bring your wives and children with you? Why dump them on me? Am I supposed to raise them for you?
The thought escalated.
If we just killed them all…
He froze.
That line of thinking belonged to generals, not scholars. It was strictly forbidden territory for a man who had memorized the sages since childhood. Wu Shen inhaled deeply, strangled the thought in its cradle, and put his official face back on.
No. These people had to be resettled.
And not here.
They were all from Shaanxi. If he dared suggest settling them in Shanxi, Governor Song Tongyin would immediately sour. Once cooperation collapsed, these thirty thousand souls would be dumped into some desolate ravine, given no land, no grain, and left to starve politely.
Then what?
They'd rebel again.
And this time it wouldn't even be embarrassing rebels—just old men, women, and children waving hoes and sticks. Suppressing that would make the court look like a butcher shop. Kill them again? Send up thirty thousand severed heads of the helpless?
Wu Shen shuddered.
If that happened, the Emperor would explode—and Wu Shen's head would roll first.
"There's no choice," he muttered. "They must go back to Shaanxi."
Which immediately brought one place to mind.
Chengcheng County.
A place that, recently, had begun performing miracles.
"…But would Chengcheng really accept thirty thousand mouths that can't fight, can't farm yet, and can only eat?" Wu Shen sighed.
"Report!"
A subordinate rushed in.
"Your Excellency! Shaanxi Judicial Commissioner Shi Kefa seeks an audience!"
Wu Shen's headache vanished.
"Shi Kefa is here?" he exclaimed. "Excellent! Invite him in—quickly!"
Moments later, Shi Kefa entered.
Twenty-nine years old—an age brimming with ambition but not yet dulled by compromise. His official post was Judicial Commissioner of Xi'an, Shaanxi. On paper, his job involved trials, prisons, and rituals.
In reality?
He had spent most of his tenure doing one thing:
Relief.
Because starving people became criminals faster than paperwork could be stamped.
Shi Kefa had learned early that preventing crime was far easier than judging it. A true judicial official, he believed, should be like a master swordsman—so skilled that he never needed to draw his blade.
The instant Wu Shen saw him, his eyes reddened.
"My dear Shi!" he cried, as though greeting a long-lost cousin. "You've come at exactly the right moment!"
He grasped Shi Kefa's hands tightly.
"These thirty thousand displaced families from Shaanxi must be escorted back. If the official handling this pockets even a fraction of the funds, they will rebel again. I can only entrust this matter to you."
Shi Kefa straightened, expression calm but resolute.
"Your Excellency, if I embezzle even one copper coin of relief funds, may I be reborn as a paving stone in my next life—trampled endlessly by the common people."
Wu Shen exhaled in relief.
"Good. Only you can put my heart at ease."
He waved. A chest was brought forward.
"Take this silver. Escort the people back to Shaanxi and hand them over to Magistrate Liang Shixian of Chengcheng County."
Shi Kefa opened the chest—and sucked in a sharp breath.
"…Your Excellency," he said carefully, "this is… at most three thousand taels."
Wu Shen nodded.
"Yes."
Shi Kefa hesitated.
"Three thousand taels… for thirty thousand people?"
"For travel expenses," Wu Shen said. "Only travel expenses."
Shi Kefa blinked.
"And after arrival?"
Wu Shen looked away, expression heavy.
"There will be no funds for that. Nor could you manage it even if there were."
He sighed.
"I brought one hundred thousand taels to Shaanxi. Hong Chengchou demanded twenty thousand immediately for overdue military pay. After relief here and there, I have less than fifty thousand left. These three thousand—I scraped them together with clenched teeth."
Shi Kefa's scalp went numb.
Wu Shen squeezed his hand again.
"Everyone else would steal this silver. Only you won't."
Shi Kefa bowed deeply.
"I understand. I will do my utmost."
Soon after, Shi Kefa departed—leading one thousand soldiers and thirty thousand displaced souls toward Chengcheng County.
The fastest route should have been by river.
But the upper Yellow River was violent, the currents unruly, and the court lacked sufficient transport boats. Thirty thousand people couldn't be moved that way.
So they walked.
From Hequ to Taiyuan.
From Taiyuan to Pingyang.
From Pingyang to Hejin.
Across the Yellow River at Dragon Gate Ferry.
Then through Han City and Heyang—finally reaching Chengcheng.
Hundreds of miles.
Shi Kefa knew it would be brutal.
But fear had never been his habit.
Days later, they reached Taiyuan Prefecture.
Their provisions were gone.
Children cried. Elderly collapsed. Women clutched empty bowls. The mood frayed like rotten rope—one spark away from chaos.
Shi Kefa had no choice but to enter the city and buy grain.
At the granary, he learned the price.
Eight hundred copper coins per dou.
His temples throbbed.
At that price, three thousand taels would barely buy fifty thousand catties of grain—laughably insufficient for thirty thousand people traveling hundreds of miles.
Still, he pressed on.
Invoking his authority, arguing, negotiating, grinding teeth—he forced the price down to seven hundred copper coins per dou. He spent fifteen hundred taels, buying just over twenty thousand catties of grain.
Enough for one meal.
One half-full meal.
But it worked.
Restlessness subsided. Hunger quieted. People remembered they were human again.
Then they marched south.
Along the way, they dug roots, gathered wild greens, stripped bark from trees—boiling everything together with scraps of grain. They pinched every coin until it screamed.
After several hundred miles—
The grain was gone.
"Your Excellency," a subordinate reported grimly, "our supplies are nearly exhausted. We must buy more."
Shi Kefa frowned.
"Which city is next?"
"Pingyang Prefecture."
Shi Kefa's heart sank.
Pingyang.
Recently attacked by ten thousand rebels of the Southern Camp Eight Great Kings. Brigadier General Li Huai had barely held the city. Only reinforcements under Shi Jian—now promoted to Commander—had saved it.
Grain prices there would be—
He sighed deeply.
"Pingyang has just tasted war," he said softly. "Grain will not be cheap."
He looked at the endless column of people behind him.
"…What are we to do?"