A Procession of Refugees

When someone lived to an advanced age and possessed extensive connections, they inevitably associated with many prominent clans. In her twilight years, she could hardly go gallivanting outside to listen to operas, so more often than not, she would invite an opera troupe into the residence and have a stage set up for a performance. Enjoying it alone would be far too dull for the old lady, so inviting female relatives from three or five—or rather dozens of families made for proper liveliness. Garden strolls and gatherings were no different; such wealthy, idle old matrons practically lived for socializing, having grown sick of the same few faces at home long ago. So whenever she caught wind of fresh, juicy gossip, how could she bear not to share it with her old sisters? He Lingchuan shook his head. His old man had sent quite a few people to the capital, so when the time came, Old Madam He would hardly be the only one spreading the word. His younger brother’s deduction was spot on—their father was doing everything he could to fuel the street rumors, denying the royal court any chance to dismiss the He family's achievements. On his way to dinner, two bolts of lightning suddenly rolled across the sky. It had only been clear for two days before the muffled rumble of thunder returned hand in hand with torrential rain. ... The downpour was so heavy it was hard to keep one's eyes open. He Lingchuan wiped the water from his face. In merely a dozen breaths or so, even his undergarments and socks were soaked through, clinging uncomfortably to his skin. He had only visited the latrine after dinner; how had the scenery changed completely the moment he stepped out? All around was pitch black. The He residence's windproof lanterns were nowhere to be seen, leaving only the occasional flash of lightning across the sky to borrow light from. Though the darkness made it hard to see clearly, He Lingchuan was dead certain this was not the He manor, for the dense weeds before him stood as tall as a man. If the gardeners of the He residence had dared to slack off like this, Madam Ying would have thrown them out long ago. The ground was a mix of mud, sand, water, and tangled roots. He stumbled forward with uneven steps. There was no path ahead, forcing him to part the tall weeds as he pushed through. He Lingchuan glanced behind him and found a colossal boulder; on the sheer, unbroken basalt, barely a few sprigs of calamus grew. There was no way back; forward was the only option. The youth felt his way forward. After advancing a dozen zhang or so, his foot suddenly found nothing! He had remained completely focused, shifting his weight only after finding solid footing. When his left foot suddenly stepped into empty air, he did not panic, leaning back in one swift motion to pull himself back. Parting the brush, He Lingchuan realized this was a dead end. Below his feet was a cliff with a drop of seven or eight zhang—over twenty meters. Had he missed his footing and tumbled down, it might not have killed him outright, but he would have been battered within an inch of his life. He Lingchuan let out a long sigh, wiping the grass seeds and rainwater from his face. How had he manifested in the middle of nowhere like this? Having gone through this before, he was not particularly shocked. Whenever bizarre scene shifts like this occurred with disjointed memories, it was usually the broken saber playing its tricks again. Couldn't the damn thing hand him a blade while dragging him into this dreamscape, though? Even if it was only good for cutting grass to clear a path! Where was he supposed to go now? Two successive strikes of blue-white lightning split the sky, illuminating the world and suddenly brightening He Lingchuan's field of vision. Only then did he realize that beneath the cliff lay a vast plain, dotted only occasionally by small mounds. From where he stood, he looked down on everything below. Most importantly, there were people on the plain! It was a long procession, moving almost right beneath the low cliff where He Lingchuan stood, less than fifteen zhang away. From his vantage point, the procession stretched past the limits of his vision. Not an army. The group comprised both men and women, mostly commoners judging by their attire. The wealthy rode in carts and carriages, while ordinary folk could only brave the wind and rain, supporting one another as they trudged forward. Most bore bundles on their shoulders or carried bags by hand; the backs of oxen and donkeys were loaded with household goods; dogs darted about beneath people's feet. He Lingchuan even spotted a young girl of eleven or twelve, gripping her mother's hand tightly with one hand while clutching a kitten against her chest with the other. Under the relentless wash of rain, her small face was pale, accentuating her large, round eyes, which were filled with confusion and helplessness. A procession of refugees? Cavalry swept back and forth along the flanks from time to time, like soldier ants busily patrolling around an advancing colony. He Lingchuan was intimately familiar with the light armor of these cavalrymen; one glance was enough to tell they were the Gale Army. The Gale Army had made an appearance quite early this time. After pondering for a dozen breaths, He Lingchuan decided to slip into this procession. Otherwise, in these wild mountains and barren lands, where else could he go? Following the Gale Army, at least the column had a destination, right? Most importantly, he had already seen one cavalryman hand his horse over to a companion, rush to the base of the cliff, and begin scrambling up using hands and feet. It was so dark and the weeds were so tall that He Lingchuan felt it unlikely he had been spotted. That meant the scout climbing the height in the rain had only one reason: He was a scout, and climbing to the highest vantage point to keep watch for the column was part of his duty. This also indirectly proved that there were pursuers behind the column. He Lingchuan thought no further and quietly made his descent down the other side, clinging to the rugged stone. The torrential downpour muffled most sounds, and in the pitch-black night, everyone had to keep their heads down just to watch where they stepped. Furthermore, plenty of people in the procession slipped behind the hillocks to relieve themselves before rejoining the ranks, so he slipped into the column effortlessly without running into any trouble. In a procession of refugees, who knew anyone else? Even the Gale Army cavalry that swept past from time to time paid him no mind. Last time, he had been found out the moment he entered the scenario simply because he was a solitary stranger whom the locals could spot in an instant. Now, blending into this sea of people with downcast eyes like every other commoner, how could the cavalry spare a second glance for him? Just like that, He Lingchuan quietly marched with the procession for over an hour. Along the way, he helped people carry their things, earning a few words of thanks and using the opportunity to glean information through indirect questions. The rain over the plain was relentless; opening one's mouth meant cold rainwater flowed right in. But out of gratitude for his help, this family still explained that they lived beside a distillery in Suizhen, part of Weicheng. The head of the household was surnamed Liu. His daily job was brewing liquor at the distillery, and being the third in line among his generation in the clan, people simply called him Liu Sanjiu. He was fleeing with his wife, son, and daughter because the Baling army's assault this time was especially ferocious. Weicheng could not hold, leaving everyone with no choice but to pack up their bedrolls in the dead of night and run for their lives, leaving behind many of their valuables in the rush. Fortunately, after marching for only a few hours, the Gale Army arrived to escort them, giving everyone much-needed relief. So where were they headed? Liu Sanjiu said that if they could make it east to Shadan Pass, they would be safe; that was the territory of Panlong City. How much farther was it? On this plain devoid of any landmark or reference point, no one knew for sure. After marching with the procession for so long, He Lingchuan felt a heavy weight settling on his chest, for he knew this scene had likely taken place in actual history. Though called a wasteland, the Panlong Wasteland back then was far more fertile than the desert it would later become, capable of sustaining many cities. He remembered that Weicheng was located several hundred li west of Panlong City; with seasoned troops and ample provisions, it had held out against enemy offensives for nearly twenty years. What he was witnessing today was likely the scene shortly before Weicheng fell—a firsthand glimpse into history. The saddest part was that for some of these commoners, this was not the first time they had been forced from their ancestral homes.