Chapter 78: Chinese Do Not Eat Their Own (Part Two)

The sun had already set, and dusk passed swiftly. In the blink of an eye, darkness enveloped the land. The followers of the Five Measures of Rice sect had left the city, and Zhang Chi reined in his horse before Thunder Gate, gazing into the distance.

Dao Xuan, worried for Santong’s safety, asked, “Brother Zhang, what should we do?”

The court had just conquered Shanyin. After a brief reorganization, they would surely dispatch troops to pursue and suppress the Five Measures of Rice sect. Santong’s well-being was truly in peril.

“Pursue them!” Zhang Chi thought for a moment. Whether it was the Five Measures of Rice sect or the imperial army in Shanyin, neither gave him peace of mind. He was determined to keep Jiu Niang by his side: “Nightfall offers the perfect cover to rescue her. Dao Xuan, your martial skills are formidable—if we catch up to the sect, you must ensure Jiu Niang’s safety.”

Dao Xuan nodded and followed Zhang Chi eastward.

The two of them galloped at full speed, covering several hours’ distance, yet found no trace of the sect’s followers.

Once the sun had set, darkness deepened, and their vision shrank. Dao Xuan grew anxious, asking, “Brother Zhang, we’ve chased for so long, why haven’t we seen a hint of the Five Measures of Rice sect?”

Zhang Chi was equally bewildered. The world was vast—what direction should they pursue? Fortunately, he spotted a village ahead in the night: “Let’s ask around there. If the sect passed this way, we might find clues.”

It was a sound idea. The three, two riders, entered the village.

The world was rife with war; the people suffered bitterly. This village was no exception—crude and dilapidated. Zhang Chi looked around from horseback, but paid no mind to the ground beneath him: “Strange, why is there no sound of people?”

He was still puzzled when Dao Xuan cried out, “Brother Zhang, look—there are bodies on the ground!”

Zhang Chi’s eyesight was limited in the night. He quickly dismounted, and found, just as Dao Xuan’s horse had stepped on, a corpse lying there. The shock hit him hard, and as he took in the scene, he could almost smell the faint tang of blood on the air.

Something was amiss. Zhang Chi walked cautiously forward. The uncertain surroundings made Dao Xuan worry for his safety; he quickly jumped down and followed. Turning the corner of a low wall, both men froze.

Before them, sprawled beneath the wall, were countless corpses, blood still wet, staining the earth crimson.

Jiu Niang followed behind Zhang Chi. Seeing the scene, she was struck dumb with terror, nearly screaming but stifling herself, hands pressed to her mouth, eyes wide with horror. Zhang Chi took her hand, unsure how to comfort her, and said nothing.

Unable to help himself, he walked further into the village. The deeper he went, the more bodies he found. Could it be not a single soul survived? Hundreds perished as unjust ghosts? Zhang Chi had seen the carnage of battle, but never such a scene—especially when the dead were all impoverished common folk. The shock brought tears to his eyes.

Dao Xuan had been through much with Zhang Chi, but had never seen him weep. When they met Santong on the road to Jian Kang, Zhang Chi had slain Hu barbarians without hesitation, yet now he shed tears.

The massacre of the village was the work of the Five Measures of Rice sect. Zhang Chi’s thoughts flashed to the Nanjing Massacre, to the slaughter when the northern barbarians conquered the Central Plains. Foreign invaders abusing China was hateful enough, but now it was Chinese killing Chinese—an evil beyond compare! Seeing an entire village of innocent peasants wiped out, how could Zhang Chi not weep?

Dao Xuan, seeing Zhang Chi silent, did not disturb him. The sight was shocking enough for him as well. He pressed his palms together and murmured, “Amitabha.” Then he examined the bodies and said, “Brother Zhang, could this be the work of the Five Measures of Rice sect? The blood is still warm; these people were killed less than half an hour ago. The murderers shouldn’t be far.”

“Blood debts must be paid in blood. Whoever they are, killing our countrymen is unacceptable!” Zhang Chi stood quiet for a moment, then stroked White Snow’s mane and spoke in a deep voice: “Good horse, if you truly have spirit, take me to the murderers. I must avenge these people.”

As if understanding his words, White Snow neighed and pawed the ground. Dao Xuan felt certain the villagers had been killed by the sect: “The sect has many followers. Brother Zhang, it’s just us two, and we must care for Jiu Niang. How can we avenge them?”

Zhang Chi mounted his horse: “The common folk are blameless. Most sect followers are refugees—poor peasants led astray, but not guilty. The fault lies with their leaders, those who deceive the masses. If I must kill, it will be their master, Sun Tai.”

Dao Xuan knew Zhang Chi was usually gentle, but when roused, his fury was boundless. Still, he admired this side—the passionate, heroic Zhang Chi. Whenever Zhang Chi was fired up, Dao Xuan’s own spirit soared: “Right! Brother Zhang, whoever you say to kill, we’ll kill. Let him never harm the people again!”

The Five Measures of Rice sect was camped atop a nearby mountain; not hard to find. White Snow was attuned to their purpose and, without urging, led them to the foot of the mountain. From afar, they could see firelight on the summit.

“Are they cooking?” Dao Xuan wondered aloud.

Zhang Chi said nothing, spurring his horse up the mountain. Dao Xuan hurried after him. Before they reached the top, a squad blocked the path. Seeing only two riders, they were not overly vigilant. A leader stepped forward and demanded, “Who goes there?”

“Save your breath. I’ve found the Holy Maiden and must see the Master. Don’t block my way.”

Zhang Chi dismissed him, White Snow charging ahead. The leader scrambled aside, falling hard. Another, angered by Zhang Chi’s arrogance, moved to pursue, but was restrained: “Are you mad? Didn’t you hear he found the Holy Maiden? Did you see his mount?”

Few in the sect owned horses—riders were men of importance. Though Zhang Chi and Dao Xuan wore ordinary garb, the steed alone deterred the underlings from further inquiry.

Zhang Chi intended to ride straight to the summit, claiming to have found the Holy Maiden, to gain audience with Sun Tai and kill him. Along the way, he meant to search for Santong, adapting as needed. He scanned the surroundings, hoping to catch sight of her.

But before he could find Santong, he heard the heart-rending cries of women. The wails were so sorrowful, they made Zhang Chi’s heart ache.

“Who’s crying?” Dao Xuan wondered.

Zhang Chi couldn’t say, but a sense of dread filled him. He saw an enormous cauldron.

In the army, cooking pots are always large, but this one was far beyond normal—it would take four or five men to encircle it. What could require such a vessel?

Puzzled, Zhang Chi walked further and saw, lashed tightly to a tree, four or five young women, their cries the source of that heartrending wail. Two of them had already been stripped naked.

What were they planning? Zhang Chi’s heart raced. Was it some act of violation? Yet something was off: several sect followers approached, armed with sharp blades. Zhang Chi, recalling the cauldron, gasped in horror—he understood at last.

Some held knives—clearly to kill. Others carried axes, likely for dismemberment. The women’s clothes were stripped so that blood wouldn’t soak the garments when their bodies were butchered for the pot.

Zhang Chi had heard that Meng Feiyang had been eaten by these people, but had never seen it himself. Now, confronted by such monstrous evil, he was stupefied.

The two naked women were so terrified by these hellish cannibals that their spirits had nearly fled; their throats, raw from crying, managed only another sharp scream.

The cry jolted Zhang Chi from his shock. How could he stand by? He shouted, “Stop!”

He charged forward on White Snow.

Yet, fast as White Snow was, Zhang Chi was still at some distance. Before he reached them, one of the naked women was beheaded by a knife-wielding thug.

Furious, Zhang Chi raced up; the killer turned in alarm, only to receive a powerful kick from White Snow to the chest.

The man dropped his knife and tumbled far across the ground. White Snow’s kick had nearly finished him, but Zhang Chi was not satisfied. He leapt from the saddle; the man, barely clinging to life, saw Zhang Chi storming toward him and mustered enough breath to ask, “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to f*** your mother!” Normally, Zhang Chi never cursed, but now, consumed by rage, he cared nothing for propriety. Grabbing a large stone, he mounted the man and smashed his head open.

Dao Xuan’s horse was not as swift as White Snow, but he arrived just then, jumping off without even stopping. A Buddhist disciple, Dao Xuan was incensed beyond measure by the scene; he fought without mercy, swiftly killing the remaining knife and axe-wielding men.

If Zhang Chi and Dao Xuan were so shaken, imagine Jiu Niang, still on horseback.

She was utterly stunned, mouth agape but unable to utter a word. Only when Zhang Chi and Dao Xuan had slaughtered the assailants did she recover, dismounting in haste to rush to the surviving naked woman, covering her with her own cloak.

The woman was an ordinary peasant, never having endured such torment. Saved at last, her voice was gone; she could only sob, tears streaming down her face. She was not unwilling to speak—she simply could not.

Zhang Chi had relished the vengeance, but their bloodshed had occurred within the sect’s camp. The killings happened in a flash, but the surrounding followers could hardly fail to notice.

Now, armed with blades and spears, the sect members gathered, shouting and encircling Zhang Chi and his companions. Surrounded on all sides, there was nowhere to hide; in moments, they were trapped within the ring.

ps: Writing this passage, I could not help but shed tears. I hope friends will support me.