Chapter 435
The summer noon was blazing hot, the temperature like stepping into a microwave. Cicadas buzzed loudly on the surrounding hills. The convoy moved steadily forward, wheels rolling and kicking up faint dust. Refugees on both sides of the road stared fixedly at the convoy, not daring to rush over. They knelt by the roadside, kowtowing and begging.
"My lord, Master, could you please show some kindness and give them a bite to eat?"
"Please, my lord, please, have mercy on them."
A woman, clutching a few copper coins, hunched over with her forehead touching the ground, kept pleading with Fang Zichen.
She wanted a steamed bun—not for free. She'd pay. She begged him to sell her one.
Behind her, a child was strapped to her back with old clothes. The child looked about three or four, with sallow, waxy skin as if he'd been roasted over a fire for days, and was thin as a monkey that had lost its fur.
There were buns in the carriage, but Fang Zichen didn't dare give any. Once food was revealed, the surrounding refugees would likely lose control and swarm over.
In such circumstances, he didn't dare test human nature.
Fang Zichen lowered his eyes and hardened his heart, pretending not to see.
Seeing this, the woman's thin shoulders trembled, her eyes full of despair and helplessness. She wiped her tears, quietly put the copper coins away, then staggered to her feet and continued walking forward with the child on her back.
Fang Zichen turned to look at the backs of the mother and child leaving, overcome with mixed emotions.
The child didn't understand anything—probably from a village, never having seen much of the world. He seemed to notice Fang Zichen riding a horse and looking rather handsome, and couldn't help but glance back at him. When their eyes met, the child seemed a little afraid and quickly turned his head away. But before long, curiosity brought his gaze back. Seeing Fang Zichen still looking at him, this time he didn't turn away. As if mustering up courage, he actually gave Fang Zichen a shy smile—eyes curved like crescents, a mouth full of little white teeth.
A three-year-old child—what did he know? He probably had no idea what fate awaited him, and could still smile so carefree at this moment.
As for the woman—who knew how long she'd gone hungry. Leaning on a stick, she swayed with every step. Her straw sandals were already worn through. In troubled times, survival was hard—especially for someone with a child.
She wouldn't last long. Maybe a day, or two, and she'd be lying by the roadside.
Fang Zichen's hand on the reins tightened involuntarily. The child's smile had truly cut deep.
Guaizai's eyes were red. Whenever he was upset, he always went looking for Fang Zichen. Fang Zichen lifted him off Xiao Bai's back and settled him in his own lap. Guaizai clung to him with all four limbs, his face buried in his chest, calling out in a muffled voice:
"Father."
Fang Zichen patted his back and kissed him on the head. "Scared?"
Guaizai shook his head. "…Not scared." But his heart was heavy.
Those who had known hunger understood that feeling best.
As long as one's heart wasn't made of iron, it was impossible to remain unmoved.
That night, the convoy camped in the open wilderness. The Qin family army and the imperial guards dared not let their guard down, hands on the swords at their waists, eyes fixed on the refugees not far away.
It began to rain at night. Fang Zichen lifted the carriage curtain and glanced out. Beside the convoy, the group of refugees had broken branches and built a small shelter, huddling inside together.
These people were probably from the same village—they seemed quite harmonious. They weren't staring at the convoy, but Fang Zichen still didn't dare sleep. He thought all night.
In the latter half of the night, screams came from up ahead. Fang Zichen listened carefully and realized something was wrong. He grabbed a wooden stick and brought a few men to investigate. Several men were robbing people.
He didn't know the full story, but under that small shelter was a group of the old, the weak, and women and children.
The men knew that the silver and small bags of coarse rice these people carried were their last means of survival. The men came on aggressively, and the women and gers refused to hand them over, protecting them desperately. When met with resistance, the men started snatching and punching and kicking.
A child went up to help. One of the men saw and showed no mercy—gritting his teeth, he threw a punch.
The child flew through the air and hit the ground with a thud. After struggling a few times, he stopped moving.
Damn it.
Fang Zichen, now a father, couldn't stand seeing such things. His eyes blazed with fury. He charged forward and swung his wooden stick.
Those few men were no match for him. They could bully old people, women, and children who had no strength to fight back, but against Fang Zichen, they had almost no ability to resist. In no time, he beat them half to death.
"Rob, you bastards! I'll teach you to rob!"
"Sir, spare us! Spare us!" the men wailed.
Fang Zichen had been holding in his frustration all day. Amid the struggling and begging, he saw several pouches fall from the men's bodies—he knew then that this wasn't their first time.
These people were already fleeing, already struggling and at the end of their rope. And these men still dared to cause trouble, to bully the weak, to push people to the brink—they were asking for a beating.
"Spare your f*cking ass."
Fang Zichen beat them until they howled. The men, bruised and swollen, kept begging, saying they knew they were wrong, saying they didn't want to do this either—please let them off just this once!
They had no money, no food—what else could they do but rob?
They were all from the village. Apart from the truly rotten ones, how much courage did village folk have? Honest for half their lives—who would want to do such wicked things if not forced by circumstances?
But they couldn't just watch their families starve to death. They were all driven to it. If they didn't rob, their families would starve. Only by robbing was there a way to survive.
In harsh and brutal conditions, the strong prey on the weak—an eternal truth.
Fang Zichen's heart was filled with indescribable feelings. He said in a low voice, "Get lost."
The group of women and gers, seeing the men flee in panic, finally led their children out to kowtow in thanks.
Fang Zichen first checked the child who had been hit. Injured, but alive. He let out a heavy sigh of relief and asked, "Where are your men?"
"All dead," a woman said, choking back tears.
When the enemy soldiers came, to protect them and help them escape, the men held off the enemy and were all cut down.
This group—old and young, like beggars, thin and dirty—every one of them had panic and helplessness in their eyes.
Fang Zichen was silent for a long while before speaking in a hoarse voice, telling them to move next to the convoy and rest there—no one would dare touch them.
Before dawn the next day, Fang Zichen and Qin Liu made a trip to Qinzhou.
It wasn't far from Qinzhou. Zhao Ger waited in place with the children.
Fang Zichen and Qin Liu made the rounds at every intersection in Qinzhou. Sure enough, all the roads into Qinzhou were blocked—everyone entering or leaving had to be inspected.
However, if you slipped them some silver, you could still get in.
Not all those fleeing from Jizhou were poor. There were always wealthy lords and merchants with silver who entered the city—they certainly wouldn't steal or rob, so they were let through.
It was the poor who were stopped.
Zhao Ger's brows knitted tightly. "Husband, what about these people then?"
Fang Zichen said nothing.
Yes—what about them?
He didn't dare let refugees into Hezhou, afraid of chaos breaking out. But would the prefect of Qinzhou dare to?
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