West of Daning County lay a district that looked like it had already lost the argument with time.
No proper houses.
No intact walls.
Just crooked shacks leaning on each other like drunks after a losing night.
If Daning County had a place the poor were shoved into so the rest of the city wouldn't have to look at them—this was it.
When word spread that survivors had been found here, Cheng Xu, Xing Honglang, and the others hurried over. At the intersection, they ran straight into Ma Xianglin.
For a brief moment, both sides visibly relaxed.
They had all been bracing themselves for the worst—for a city that was nothing but silence and corpses. Finding living people felt like spotting green shoots after a wildfire.
No one said it out loud, but everyone was thinking the same thing:
Thank heaven someone is still breathing.
They went deeper.
From inside the crumbling homes, eyes appeared—wide, hollow, terrified. Faces peeked out through gaps in rotting doors, then vanished again like startled mice.
Ma Xianglin surveyed the district and sighed softly.
"This place was too poor," he said. "Even the rebels couldn't be bothered."
Cheng Xu shook his head. "They rob the rich and squeeze the poor. Poverty never stops bandits."
Ma Xianglin frowned. "Then how did this place survive?"
That stopped everyone.
No one answered.
Xing Honglang glanced sideways at Lao Zhu. "Go ask."
Lao Zhu nodded. From his satchel, he took out a steamed bun—still warm—and ducked into one of the shacks.
Moments later, he emerged, followed by a young woman clutching the bun like it was her last anchor to the world. She was eating so fast she nearly choked, crumbs falling everywhere.
Fear hadn't vanished from her eyes—but it had loosened its grip.
After all, if someone gives you food, they're usually not planning to kill you. Usually.
She swallowed hard and whispered, "Sirs… do you… want to ask something?"
Xing Honglang tried to soften her expression.
"The rebels," she said carefully, "didn't kill you?"
Unfortunately, Xing Honglang's idea of "gentle" still carried the air of someone who had personally crushed bandit skulls an hour ago.
The word kill seemed to echo.
The woman's face drained of color.
They think we surrendered.
They think we cooperated.
They're going to settle accounts.
She stopped chewing, backed away, and began trembling.
Zao Ying stepped in quickly. "Sister Xing, you scared her. Let me."
She smiled—truly smiled.
"Don't be afraid," she said softly. "We don't eat people."
"Ah!"
The woman retreated even faster.
Everyone fell silent.
After a beat, Zhang Fengyi stepped forward.
"Don't be afraid," she said calmly. "We're just asking."
She didn't look fierce. She didn't look kind either. She looked… ordinary. Like someone's aunt.
The woman finally stopped retreating.
Behind them, Xing Honglang and Zao Ying slowly clenched their fists.
Their expressions clearly said: Later.
After several moments of reassurance, the woman finally spoke.
"This area…" she whispered, "was occupied by a rebel leader called Chuǎng Wang. He said we were too poor to rob."
She paused, then added hastily, "He didn't kill anyone. He didn't force us to join. His men guarded the outside, so other bandits didn't come in."
A murmur rippled through the group.
Wang Er and Bai Mao exchanged glances.
Wang Er nodded slowly. "That fits. Chuǎng Wang isn't fond of senseless killing."
Bai Mao agreed. "Among bandits… he's strange."
Perched on Gao Chuwu's shoulder, the puppet Dao Xuan Tianzun reflected quietly.
At this point in time, Chuǎng Wang isn't Li Zicheng yet. He's Gao Yingxiang.
History had little to say about Gao Yingxiang's character. Others were infamous, praised, or cursed—this one simply… existed.
A man so unremarkable that even history forgot to hate him properly.
In novels, this was called a "blurred face."
Not because the man lacked substance—but because the author hadn't figured out how to frame him.
Yet here he was.
A bandit who spared the poorest because robbing them wasn't worth the trouble.
Ma Xianglin exhaled.
"At least," he said, "he did one good thing."
He turned to the woman. "How many people survived here?"
She hesitated. "Maybe… a few thousand? We never dared leave our homes."
Ma Xianglin straightened.
"White Pole Soldiers! Call everyone out. Count them."
The soldiers moved immediately, knocking on doors.
Gradually, people emerged—thin, hollow-eyed, shaking.
Nearly three thousand souls.
They hadn't lit fires. Hadn't cooked. Had eaten raw grain and roots. When cold, they huddled together and endured it.
Ma Xianglin's chest felt tight.
He didn't know what to do.
Then he heard Cheng Xu ask, casually, "How much grain do we have left?"
Zheng Daniu grinned. "None!"
Cheng Xu snorted. "Your appetite isn't a unit of measure. Next."
Zao Ying raised her empty bag. "He's right. I'm empty too."
Cheng Xu shot back, "That's because your rations went into his stomach."
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
Bai Mao raised a hand. "I have one day left."
"Same."
"Most of us do."
Cheng Xu nodded and unfolded a map.
"Forty li to the Yellow River. One day's march."
He closed the map.
"Give all rations to the civilians. We'll walk hungry."
No hesitation. No argument.
Everyone nodded.
For soldiers like these, hunger for a day was nothing.
For the people of Daning County—
It was everything.