The small train rattled onward, carrying Shi Kefa—and his increasingly fragile worldview—straight through the heart of the land.
It passed town after town within Heyang County, crossed cleanly into Chengcheng County, cut straight through Zhengjia Village without slowing, and finally steamed toward Gao Family Village like it owned the road.
Shi Kefa stood by the window the entire way.
He forgot to sit.
Outside, the world unfolded in green.
Not the desperate green of weeds clawing for life, but thick, confident crops—rows upon rows of farmland breathing with abundance. The drought that had ravaged so much of Shaanxi might as well have been a bad rumor here.
The fields were alive.
Grain stalks stood tall. Leaves were full. The soil was dark and worked, not cracked and begging.
As expected… Shi Kefa thought grimly. Heyang and Chengcheng were spared.
Then he saw something else.
Reclamation.
The yellow earth plateau—once barren, once written off as hopeless—was being carved open by plows and human will. New farmland stretched outward in blocks so large they made the horizon nervous.
Corn.
So much corn.
He recognized the crop immediately—he had seen it near Xi'an—but never like this. Here, the cornfields didn't politely exist.
They conquered.
Endless rows marched across the plateau, leaves rustling in the wind like an army drilling in formation.
Shi Kefa sucked in a breath.
Just from what he could see—just this slice—the yield was already in the tens of thousands of jin. And beyond that?
Uncountable.
"No wonder," he murmured, voice low. "No wonder…"
Even if another three hundred thousand refugees arrived—
They could feed them all.
The train slowed.
With a final hiss of steam, it rolled into Gao Family Village's Number Two Station.
Shi Kefa stepped down.
And froze.
Waiting for him on the platform was a young woman dressed in white, red trim embroidered along her sleeves like living flame. She stood straight-backed, composed, eyes calm but sharp—clearly someone accustomed to command.
Beside her was a crowd.
Scholars in plain robes. Soldiers standing at ease. Officials whose faces were hidden behind masks.
It was… an odd combination.
Shi Kefa felt the hairs on his neck rise.
"Oh?" he said cautiously. "You're waiting for me?"
The woman smiled.
"We're waiting for Master Shi," she said, "and for these vulnerable families."
Her voice was gentle. Her words were not.
Shi Kefa inclined his head. "And you are?"
"I am Gao Yiye." She smiled again. "Saintess of the Dao Xuan Tianzun Daoist Sect. I convey Dao Xuan Tianzun's messages to the mortal world—though lately, He's been visiting so often that my role feels… somewhat redundant."
Shi Kefa's eyes widened.
The shock lasted only a moment before discipline snapped into place.
He bowed deeply.
"At Dragon Gate Ferry," he said solemnly, "I personally witnessed Dao Xuan Tianzun's descent. He bestowed a great bridge across the Yellow River—turning an impassable abyss into a thoroughfare. Even the elderly and infirm crossed safely. Such benevolence… shakes heaven and earth."
Gao Yiye nodded.
"Yes. We already know."
She gestured lightly to the side.
"Over there. It's playing now."
Shi Kefa followed her gaze—and stopped dead.
A massive object stood nearby.
A Divine Mirror.
So large it felt less like an artifact and more like a declaration.
Villagers crowded around it, pointing and shouting as moving images replayed endlessly across its surface.
The bridge.
The golden hand.
The impossible descent.
Someone yelled, "Look! Dao Xuan Tianzun jumped off the bridge!"
"There's a rope!" another cried. "That looks fun!"
"Fun my ass—what if it snaps?"
"Then you fall into the Yellow River!"
"…How often do you replace that rope?"
"Replace it if it breaks!"
Silence.
On the screen, Shi Kefa suddenly saw—
Himself.
Wide-eyed. Awestruck. Rushing across the bridge like a country bumpkin visiting the capital for the first time.
At one point, he even closed his eyes, smiling foolishly as the river wind whipped his sleeves.
Shi Kefa's soul nearly left his body.
Gao Yiye laughed softly. "You see? We've known Master Shi for several days now."
He stood there, stunned into immobility.
"…So that's how it is," he muttered.
Gao Yiye turned back to him.
"Please entrust these families to our care," she said. "You may rest—or explore Gao Family Village at your leisure."
Her tone remained polite.
"And Dao Xuan Tianzun said: Master Shi is a Jinyiwei centurion. Your duty is to gather intelligence and report to the Emperor."
Shi Kefa stiffened.
"So feel free to observe," she continued lightly. "Gather whatever you wish."
Then—
"But when you report it," she added, smiling, "Dao Xuan Tianzun advises you to think carefully."
His heart clenched.
"Think carefully… lest I what?"
She tilted her head.
"Master Shi understands the court better than we do. What may be reported. What must not. And what consequences follow."
She paused.
"Dao Xuan Tianzun does not wish to interfere. He only hopes you will avoid… bringing unnecessary trouble to the court and the Emperor."
Shi Kefa inhaled sharply.
The court and the Emperor.
Not Gao Family Village.
Not the Daoist Sect.
Just those few words—and the meaning split wide open.
This wasn't a warning.
It was a knife pressed gently against the ribs.
She's threatening me.
The realization ignited fury in his chest.
Then—
The golden hand flashed in his memory.
The bridge.
The scale.
The impossible certainty of it all.
The anger… drained away.
Anger didn't solve problems.
For the weak, anger was called impotent rage.
I, Shi Kefa, am not that kind of man.
He straightened, jaw tightening.
Facing such an opponent, what could he do?
Fight?
Die?
He searched his mind.
Found nothing.
Against Dao Xuan Tianzun's terrifying might, the only response was martyrdom.
And he was not afraid of that.
More than a decade later, he would die defending Yangzhou—fighting the Qing to the last breath.
Death did not frighten him.
What frightened him was—
Bringing unnecessary trouble to the court and the Emperor.
He lifted his head.
"Very well," Shi Kefa said solemnly. "I will observe carefully. What to report—and what not to—I will judge for myself."
Before Gao Yiye could respond, the masked military official beside her let out a soft chuckle.
"Master Shi," the man said, voice amused, "since you serve in Xi'an as a Jinyiwei centurion, you must know Chengcheng County's former Inspector."
Shi Kefa frowned. "Cheng Xu?"
"Indeed."
Shi Kefa's tone hardened. "A braggart who fabricated military reports. Executed by the Jinyiwei long ago."
The masked official chuckled again.
"Is it possible," he asked gently, "that he wasn't executed for falsifying reports… but because he once aligned himself with the Eunuch Party?"
Shi Kefa stiffened.
"After all," the man continued, "why did so many other commanders who fabricated reports survive—while only Cheng Xu died?"
The question landed like a hammer.
Shi Kefa stood frozen.
A long time passed.
Finally, he exhaled.
"…Factional struggles," he said quietly. "Even I… am powerless before them."
The train station hummed behind him.
And Gao Family Village waited.
Trivia :
The Jinyiwei (锦衣卫): Who and what were the Jinyiwei?
The Jinyiwei were the Ming dynasty's imperial secret police, intelligence service, and political executioners—all rolled into one institution.
They answered directly to the Emperor.
Not the Grand Secretariat.
Not the Ministry of Justice.
Not the Censorate.
Just the Emperor.
That alone made them terrifying.
Were they powerful?
Yes—extremely. At their peak, they were arguably the most powerful internal security force in imperial Chinese history.
Their powers included:
Arresting anyone, including officials of higher rank
Conducting investigations without court approval
Interrogating suspects privately
Using their own prison system
Bypassing normal judicial procedures entirely
If a Jinyiwei officer showed up at your door with an imperial token, legal technicalities stopped existing.
Were they cruel?
Yes—but with nuance.
The Jinyiwei were infamous for:
Torture during interrogations
Fabricated charges (especially during factional purges)
Forced confessions
Political executions disguised as criminal cases
Their prison, the Zhaoyu Prison (诏狱), was notorious. People entered alive and often left as corpses—or not at all.
That said:
Cruelty wasn't random. It was usually political.
They were tools, not free agents.
Their brutality waxed and waned depending on the Emperor.
Under paranoid or authoritarian emperors (like Zhu Yuanzhang or Zhu Houzhao), they were monsters.
Under restrained rulers, they were more like a feared intelligence bureau.
Why were they created?
The founder of the Ming dynasty, Hongwu Emperor (Zhu Yuanzhang), was deeply paranoid.
He:
Rose from poverty
Distrusted scholar-officials
Believed bureaucracy would betray him
So he created the Jinyiwei as:
Personal bodyguards
Internal spies
A counterweight to the civil bureaucracy
In other words:
They existed because the Emperor didn't trust his own government.