Li Zicheng dragged his men up a low hill—then stopped.
They couldn't go any farther.
Every single person behind him was bent double, gasping like fish hauled onto dry land. Some collapsed outright, faces pressed into the dirt, limbs twitching from exhaustion.
Since Wang Jiayin's death, the once-massive rebel host had shattered like a dropped bowl. Bands scattered in every direction, each trying to save itself. Government troops pursued them mercilessly, and Cao Wenzhao—perhaps bored, perhaps unlucky—had picked one target at random.
That target was Li Zicheng.
From that moment on, the chase never stopped.
Day after day, Cao Wenzhao's Guanning cavalry pressed closer, forcing Li Zicheng to flee without pause. There was no time to raid villages, no chance to seize grain. Their provisions dwindled until there was nothing left but dry mouths and hollow stomachs.
Without food, strength drained away.
Without strength, even running became agony.
Li Zicheng looked down the slope.
Below, Cao Wenzhao's troops were regrouping, clearly preparing to push into the mountains and finish the hunt.
Li Zicheng let out a long, bitter sigh.
"I never thought," he said hoarsely, "that I Li Zicheng would die in a place like this."
At that moment, a rider burst from the rear of Cao Wenzhao's formation, galloping hard. He plunged straight into the command group.
Not long after—
The government troops stopped.
They didn't advance.
They turned.
And they left.
Li Zicheng froze. "…What?"
His nephew, Li Guo, poked his head out from behind a boulder. His eyes widened—then lit up like lanterns.
"Uncle! They're retreating!" he shouted. "Cao Wenzhao is pulling back! We're saved! Hahaha—we're saved!"
The mountaintop exploded with sound.
The remnants of the Old Eighth Squad cheered, laughed, cried. Some wept openly. A few tried to dance—managed two steps—then collapsed again, too weak to stand.
Li Zicheng watched the dust trail fade as Cao Wenzhao's forces disappeared.
He exhaled slowly.
"Another rebel force must have caused serious trouble," he said. "Something big enough to force Cao Wenzhao to turn back."
He paused, eyes darkening.
"As the saying goes—tall trees draw the strongest winds. The louder you are, the faster the government notices you."
He looked at the men around him.
"Remember this. Our Old Eighth Squad survives by keeping its head down. Quiet. Careful. Never be the loudest."
"It's raining! It's raining!"
Inside Puzhou City, a farmer burst through the western gate, face wild with disbelief, screaming at the refugees crowding the streets.
"It's raining in the west! Real rain!"
For a heartbeat, hope flared—then died.
"Impossible," someone muttered.
The drought had lasted too long. People no longer believed rain existed.
Then another man ran in.
Then another.
One after another, voices rose.
"It's raining in the west!"
This time, disbelief broke.
Refugees who had been begging for food surged toward the western gate, pouring out of the city like a flood in reverse.
Puzhou had always been famous for one thing:
Cotton.
The Puzhou Prefecture Gazetteer recorded it plainly:
"When floods do not linger and the river holds its course, the land yields abundant warm fibers."
In good years, cotton here was gold.
But the drought had strangled the fields for so long that cotton had vanished from memory.
Now, with rain falling at last, farmers rejoiced like madmen. They ran for home, for fields, for hoes—ignoring seasons, logic, and exhaustion. Even scratching the soil felt like hope.
Along the edge of the fields, under a light drizzle, came an unusual procession.
Two strong porters carried a sedan chair. Resting against its poles sat a man dressed as a scholar. Behind them followed several carts, carefully covered with oilcloth.
The farmers froze.
A scholar.
A sedan chair.
Servants.
An esteemed gentleman.
Such people were trouble.
Farmers lowered their heads, hands clasped, hearts pounding. If the sedan passed, all was well. If it stopped—
It stopped.
The chair halted directly before them.
Fear rippled through the group.
"E-esteemed sir…" one farmer stammered. "D-do you… need something?"
The man spoke gently.
"I ride in a sedan not because I am noble," he said, "but because my health is poor. Walking too much leaves me breathless. These men are merely helping me."
He smiled faintly.
"Do not call me 'sir.' My name is Zhao Sheng. 'Mr. Zhao' will do."
The farmers didn't believe a word of it.
But when great men lied, small people listened.
"Mr. Zhao," they said hurriedly.
Zhao Sheng gestured to the fields. "I hear this area is famous for cotton. These are cotton fields, yes?"
"Yes," they replied.
He glanced at the sky. "It's autumn now. Can cotton still be planted?"
The farmers shook their heads. "Cotton is best planted in April. This rain came too late. We're just… happy. Scratching the soil feels better than nothing."
Zhao Sheng nodded.
Despite his scholar's robe, he clearly understood farming. Years of travel, of working with peasants, had left him with more practical knowledge than most officials ever gained.
He smiled.
"Have you heard this rhyme?" he asked.
Plow deep in winter's cold embrace,
Cotton next year will fill the place.
Irrigate when frost still lies,
Planting comes with little price.
Winter plow and water deep—
Few pests, rich cotton yours to keep.
The farmers blinked. "We… haven't heard it. But we know some of what it says."
Zhao Sheng nodded. "Experience without method," he said mildly. "That's common."
He continued calmly, "I know techniques that can greatly increase your cotton yield next year."
The farmers exchanged glances.
Suspicion lingered.
Zhao Sheng chuckled. "Let's do this properly. I'll sign contracts with you. You farm using my methods."
He raised one finger.
"If your harvest next year doesn't match your usual income, I will compensate you."
Another finger.
"If it exceeds your usual yield, all cotton will be sold to me—at fair market price."
The farmers' hearts raced.
No loss.
Only gain.
Still… trust?
As doubt flickered, Zhao Sheng spoke again.
"We can go to Pujiu Temple," he said. "Let Master Zhan Seng serve as guarantor. We sign before the Buddha."
That ended the discussion.
"Agreed!" the farmers said in unison.
Under the falling rain, contracts were born—
and with them, the future of Puzhou Cotton.