Chapter 42: Raising Arms in Fury for Her Sake (Part II)

After deceiving the outer city gate guards and leading his troops into the city, the very first thing Zhang Chi intended to do was to see for himself whether the body of Miss Wang truly hung before the Vermilion Bird Gate.

Zhang Chi and his companions entered through the northern gate, yet the Vermilion Bird Gate stood at the southern end of the city.

Jian Kang in the Jin dynasty still followed the city layout of Eastern Wu from the Three Kingdoms era, with the imperial palace at its center. In ancient times, the palace walls were called Tai City. From Tai City, it was two li south to Xuan Yang Gate, then another five li to the Vermilion Bird Gate. Thus, in order to reach the southern Vermilion Bird Gate, Zhang Chi and his company needed to skirt the palace from the side.

Just north of Jian Kang lay Zhong Mountain, and the Qing Creek flowed from those hills, winding its way through the city. After passing through the northern outer gate, Zhang Chi and his men followed the eastern side of the palace along the banks of Qing Creek, heading southward.

Wuyi Lane, neighbor to the Vermilion Bird Gate, stretched from the east of the city down to its southern reaches. It was home to the great houses of the imperial clan and noble families. The Five Pecks of Rice Sect had only just entered Jian Kang, and had never witnessed such grandeur as the capital. No sooner had they breached the city than the soldiers scattered in all directions, looting and pillaging, creating utter chaos.

Following the creek, Zhang Chi’s group soon arrived outside the Jianchun Gate on the eastern face of the palace. There, a column of about a thousand men was heading straight for Jianchun Gate from the east.

But it was not a general who rode at the head of this force; instead, it was a man dressed as a Daoist priest.

Zhang Chi suspected he was a Daoist not because of his robes, but because of the Daoist hat atop his head. Yet the rest of his attire was a mismatched collection of silks and satins, no doubt plundered from who knows where.

The broad robes hung awkwardly on the man’s skinny frame, as if he were draped in a burlap sack despite their gaudy splendor.

And the men following him were equally ill-attired: no armor, no banners, no semblance of military discipline, not even proper weapons—just valuables plundered from the grand estates of the eastern city.

The Daoist, riding high, called out merrily, “Don’t get too excited yet, lads! Wait until we reach the emperor’s own house—then you’ll know what it means to see silver and gold piled like mountains!”

“Is the emperor’s house really wealthier than this?” asked a man riding beside him.

“But of course,” replied the Daoist. “You bumpkins have no idea. When we get there, be careful not to stare so wide-eyed that the gold and silver dazzle you blind. And toss away that useless scrap you’re carrying now—save your hands for the real treasures you’ll find soon.”

The crowd burst into hearty laughter, their spirits soaring, yet none could bear to part with their loot. In truth, these were ignorant peasants, incited by the Five Pecks of Rice Sect to rebellion, with no sense of what was truly valuable. They simply snatched whatever caught their eye, thinking, “If I must drop it later, I’ll do so for something finer.”

The Daoist watched his followers cling to their trinkets with disdain. “True country yokels,” he thought, “never seen a thing in their lives.” While he pondered, Zhang Chi’s column rounded the corner and the two parties met.

When two forces meet in such tight streets, one must yield for the other to pass. The Daoist looked up and saw Zhang Chi astride his white horse, and asked in a self-important tone, “Whose troops are you?”

No wonder he was suspicious—the Xie clan’s soldiers in the city had already been scattered, and only General Canghuai’s disciplined imperial guards would refrain from looting. But those had all gone to assault Tai City by now.

Forced to respond, Zhang Chi said, “We are General Canghuai’s new troops, ordered to patrol this area.”

“Nonsense!” the Daoist retorted. “General Canghuai’s men have all gone to attack Tai City, and still they struggle to breach it. That’s why we were sent to assist. If you’re truly under his command, why are you idling here?”

Impatient to reach the Vermilion Bird Gate, Zhang Chi did not wish to argue. “My mission is a matter of military secrecy. How can I discuss it with you? Move your men aside at once, so you don’t delay us in our urgent duty.”

The Daoist laughed coldly. “Don’t think I don’t know your game. You’re just cowards who feared the fighting at Tai City and decided to come here to make your fortune instead, aren’t you?”

Zhang Chi, eager to reach the gate, had long lost patience for such prattle. “Will you move, or not?” he demanded.

“You dare threaten me?” the Daoist shouted, enraged. “Even your General Canghuai would show me respect. Who are you to shout at me?”

Zhang Chi could endure it, but the younger Daoxuan could not. In a flash, he hefted his spear and swung it straight at the Daoist’s face. The blow landed with a sharp crack, breaking the Daoist’s nose and sending him tumbling from his horse with a thud.

Daoxuan knew well that a spear-thrust could kill, but some scoundrels deserved a more humiliating punishment. Striking him across the face felt far more satisfying than killing him outright.

The sudden violence stunned the Daoist’s followers into speechless shock. Zhang Chi, wasting no time, ordered, “Cut through them—no delays! We go straight to the Vermilion Bird Gate.”

Du Ximing, long ready, spurred his horse and charged, with the soldiers following in a wave.

These Five Pecks of Rice rebels, untrained and more adept at looting than fighting, were only about a thousand strong. How could they resist? In truth, they had no intention of fighting. At the first sign of assault, they scattered like frightened birds.

Zhang Chi watched their rout with resignation. So it had always been with peasant uprisings in history: great in momentum, doomed in the end—like the Yellow Turban Rebellion led by Zhang Jue at the end of the Han.

He did not pursue the fleeing rebels but led his men without pause toward the Vermilion Bird Gate.

Within the gate lay the government offices. In former days, the area bustled with fine horses, splendid carriages, and elegantly dressed courtiers. But now the scene was bleak and desolate. The body of Miss Wang hung high from the city tower, and there was none of the usual traffic at the gate—only a single man knelt before it, weeping bitterly.

This man was none other than the corpulent, large-eared noble of Huainan, Young Master Pei, hopelessly infatuated with Miss Wang.

“Master, the city is in chaos with these peasant rebels running amok. If your wailing aggravates the guards on the wall, they may come down and behead you!” warned Pei Fu, cautiously standing behind his young master.

Pei Lu was there as well, but seeing so many armed rebels atop the tower, he was shaking in terror, drenched in cold sweat, clutching at his master’s sleeve, wanting to advise him but unable to utter a single word.

But Young Master Pei would not be deterred. He wept and sobbed, gasping, “Miss Wang and I were meant for each other. Who would have thought she would go before me? What meaning has my life now? I might as well ask them to kill me too, so I can join her as a pair of star-crossed lovers even in death!”

Self-deception was Young Master Pei’s greatest talent, but his devotion to Miss Wang was genuine. Now that the Five Pecks of Rice rebels had stormed Jian Kang and executed Miss Wang to make an example, who else would dare weep for her at the gate guarded by the rebels?

Pei Fu and Pei Lu were terrified by his words, desperately trying to persuade him to flee to safety. Yet the more they pleaded, the harder Young Master Pei cried, until his voice was hoarse and he beat the ground with his fists, pounding them raw and bloody.

Zhang Chi and his companions hurried to the foot of the city wall. From afar, Du Ximing caught sight of the body hanging from the tower. Though he could not be sure it was Miss Wang, grief welled up in his chest. With a cry of “Miss!” he spurred his horse forward, dismounted beneath the wall, and dashed up the stairs.

Fearing that Du Ximing, in his anguish, might come to harm by charging ahead alone, Zhang Chi shouted, “Follow Brother Du up the tower—see what has truly come to pass!”

The guards atop the wall were mere peasants, more used to wielding farm tools than weapons, and certainly no match for a band of men driven by righteous fury. Du Ximing led the way, storming the tower before the defenders could react. He rushed straight to the hanging corpse, and upon close inspection, it was indeed Miss Wang.

Du Ximing froze in place, unmoving even when a rebel swung a blade at him. The blow landed squarely on his shoulder, biting to the bone—not with the dull sound of flesh and blood, but with a sharp clang, as if striking metal or jade.

The rebel, seeing his blade had no effect, was struck with superstitious terror: could this be a god in disguise? He dared not swing again.

With tears streaming down his face, Du Ximing slowly regained his senses. He cast aside his spear, grabbed the rebel by the collar, and rained punch after punch upon his face—fifty, sixty times or more—until the man’s nose was smashed and his face a bloody ruin.

Zhang Chi, by contrast, appeared calm and untroubled. That was his way: the deeper his sorrow, the more placid his outward demeanor. As his men routed the rebel guards and recovered Miss Wang’s body, Young Master Pei approached Zhang Chi, still sobbing. “Master Zhang, with so many soldiers at your command, if you avenge Miss Wang today, there’s nothing I won’t do for you in the future—fire or water, I’ll go without a blink.”

But Zhang Chi paid him no heed. His heart was ablaze with fury, and he spoke with steely resolve, “They say when the Son of Heaven is enraged, corpses litter the land. I am no emperor, but today I will show the world what it means when a scholar is driven to wrath!”