CH 1
The rainy season in Fengze Province, Xia Kingdom, was like the restless ghost of a decaying empire—thick, cold, and unwilling to close its eyes.
The unending drizzle had lasted for half a month. The Xiang River swelled, its muddy waters nearly spilling over the dikes, churning with silt and rotting weeds as they slapped against the banks—and against the old Temple of the River God.
The temple, built of wood, had long been soaked in dampness. Moss covered its walls, making it look like a gigantic corpse abandoned in the mud.
Before the temple, muddy water rose above the ankles. A group of sallow, thin villagers knelt in the flood, hands clasped, faces buried deep in their arms. The incense smoke, beaten down by the rain, coiled weakly over their heads—like gray chains binding their will to resist.
“Mercy, River God! Spare us, give us a way to live!”
“Sir, have pity! We have no men left to send!”
Their cries, their kowtows, and the relentless rain wove together into a dirge of despair.
Before them stood a few soldiers from the so-called “Legitimate Government” — more like bandits than troops. Their gray uniforms were caked with mud and blood, their rifles rusted, yet their bayonets gleamed bright and sharp.
A tenant farmer named Shuisheng, his hands bound behind him, was being beaten with rifle butts by two soldiers. He was gaunt, all bones and sinew, but clenched his jaw without begging for mercy. He was one of the few tenants of the Meng family who had ever dared show disrespect to the River God.
“Damn it! You should be honored to be conscripted!” barked a burly officer, his cap tilted to one side, revealing greasy hair. “The Legitimate Government of Xia needs men! You’ll give your lives and your blood! Stop whining!”
A blow split Shuisheng’s forehead. Blood streamed down, mixing with the rain and blurring his sight, yet his eyes burned with hatred deeper than the endless rain.
“I won’t die as your cannon fodder!” he rasped.
The officer’s smirk vanished, replaced by the cold contempt of a man who kills insects without thought.
“Got yourself a backbone, eh?”
He drew the bayonet from his belt—cold light flashed—and drove it cleanly into Shuisheng’s abdomen, then yanked it free. The motion was so neat, it was as if he’d merely punctured a sack of grain.
“Drag him off.”
Shuisheng’s body crumpled to the ground and was tossed onto the conscription cart. The cart’s wheels screeched through the mud. The villagers, terrified to the core, kowtowed harder, muttering, “Forgive us, River God, forgive us…” None dared lift their heads—as if not seeing the horror could make it unreal.
“If you don’t hand over twenty strong men by sundown,” the officer roared, “I’ll burn this whole village! Anyone who doesn’t kneel is a traitor!” He turned and kicked over the altar in front of the temple. Offerings and incense scattered into the mud.
Beneath a towering banyan tree several paces away, a young boy named Meng Dong stood silently, blending with the trunk’s shadow.
Tall and lean, he wore a faded blue homespun robe that seemed out of place amid the filth and despair. Rain drenched his hair, but his eyes burned like embers. He did not cry. He did not tremble. He did not kneel.
Inside his sleeve, his fists were clenched so tight his nails nearly broke the skin of his palms.
His gaze did not linger on the soldiers or the dying farmer—it pierced through them, fixed upon the silent Temple of the River God.
That temple, and the wooden idol within, were the symbols of centuries of rule and fear. They demanded obedience, endurance, and sacrifice.
In his mind flashed a line from the New Learning books he had secretly read:
“If a god cannot save you, then that god is your prison.”
He remembered his father’s teachings—to protect the family business, to live by the abacus.
He remembered the numbness of his fellow villagers—they would rather trust a wooden idol than their own fists.
Fear was sharper than a warlord’s blade.
Apathy was deadlier than Xia’s famine.
Meng Dong turned abruptly, leaving behind the mud and despair. He did not go home. Instead, he walked toward the abandoned granary that had once belonged to his father.
There was no fear in his heart now—only a cold fury, and a clear understanding:
The River God could not save Xia.
The abacus could not save Xia.
The people of this land were waiting—for a storm strong enough to wash away the old order.
And he, Meng Dong, would find in the River God’s sacrifice the spark to ignite that storm.
