Li Zicheng dragged his n up a low hill—then stopped.
They couldn't go any farther.
Every single person behind him was bent double, gasping like fish hauled onto dry land. So collapsed outright, faces pressed into the dirt, limbs twitching from exhaustion.
Since Wang Jiayin's death, the once-massive rebel host had shattered like a dropped bowl. Bands scattered in every direction, each trying to save itself. Governnt troops pursued them rcilessly, and Cao Wenzhao—perhaps bored, perhaps unlucky—had picked one target at random.
That target was Li Zicheng.
From that mont on, the chase never stopped.
Day after day, Cao Wenzhao's Guanning cavalry pressed closer, forcing Li Zicheng to flee without pause. There was no ti to raid villages, no chance to seize grain. Their provisions dwindled until there was nothing left but dry mouths and hollow stomachs.
Without food, strength drained away.
Without strength, even running beca agony.
Li Zicheng looked down the slope.
Below, Cao Wenzhao's troops were regrouping, clearly preparing to push into the mountains and finish the hunt.
Li Zicheng let out a long, bitter sigh.
"I never thought," he said hoarsely, "that I Li Zicheng would die in a place like this."
At that mont, a rider burst from the rear of Cao Wenzhao's formation, galloping hard. He plunged straight into the command group.
Not long after—
The governnt troops stopped.
They didn't advance.
They turned.
And they left.
Li Zicheng froze. "…What?"
His nephew, Li Guo, poked his head out from behind a boulder. His eyes widened—then lit up like lanterns.
"Uncle! They're retreating!" he shouted. "Cao Wenzhao is pulling back! We're saved! Hahaha—we're saved!"
The mountaintop exploded with sound.
The remnants of the Old Eighth Squad cheered, laughed, cried. So wept openly. A few tried to dance—managed two steps—then collapsed again, too weak to stand.
Li Zicheng watched the dust trail fade as Cao Wenzhao's forces disappeared.
He exhaled slowly.
"Another rebel force must have caused serious trouble," he said. "Sothing big enough to force Cao Wenzhao to turn back."
He paused, eyes darkening.
"As the saying goes—tall trees draw the strongest winds. The louder you are, the faster the governnt notices you."
He looked at the n around him.
"Rember this. Our Old Eighth Squad survives by keeping its head down. Quiet. Careful. Never be the loudest."
"It's raining! It's raining!"
Inside Puzhou City, a farr burst through the western gate, face wild with disbelief, screaming at the refugees crowding the streets.
"It's raining in the west! Real rain!"
For a heartbeat, hope flared—then died.
"Impossible," soone muttered.
The drought had lasted too long. People no longer believed rain existed.
Then another man ran in.
Then another.
One after another, voices rose.
"It's raining in the west!"
This ti, disbelief broke.
Refugees who had been begging for food surged toward the western gate, pouring out of the city like a flood in reverse.
Puzhou had always been famous for one thing:
Cotton.
The Puzhou Prefecture Gazetteer recorded it plainly:
"When floods do not linger and the river holds its course, the land yields abundant warm fibers."
In good years, cotton here was gold.
But the drought had strangled the fields for so long that cotton had vanished from mory.
Now, with rain falling at last, farrs rejoiced like madn. They ran for ho, for fields, for hoes—ignoring seasons, logic, and exhaustion. Even scratching the soil felt like hope.
Along the edge of the fields, under a light drizzle, ca an unusual procession.
Two strong porters carried a sedan chair. Resting against its poles sat a man dressed as a scholar. Behind them followed several carts, carefully covered with oilcloth.
The farrs froze.
A scholar.
A sedan chair.
Servants.
An esteed gentleman.
Such people were trouble.
Farrs lowered their heads, hands clasped, hearts pounding. If the sedan passed, all was well. If it stopped—
It stopped.
The chair halted directly before them.
Fear rippled through the group.
"E-esteed sir…" one farr stamred. "D-do you… need sothing?"
The man spoke gently.
"I ride in a sedan not because I am noble," he said, "but because my health is poor. Walking too much leaves breathless. These n are rely helping ."
He smiled faintly.
"Do not call 'sir.' My na is Zhao Sheng. 'Mr. Zhao' will do."
The farrs didn't believe a word of it.
But when great n lied, small people listened.
"Mr. Zhao," they said hurriedly.
Zhao Sheng gestured to the fields. "I hear this area is famous for cotton. These are cotton fields, yes?"
"Yes," they replied.
He glanced at the sky. "It's autumn now. Can cotton still be planted?"
The farrs shook their heads. "Cotton is best planted in April. This rain ca too late. We're just… happy. Scratching the soil feels better than nothing."
Zhao Sheng nodded.
Despite his scholar's robe, he clearly understood farming. Years of travel, of working with peasants, had left him with more practical knowledge than most officials ever gained.
He smiled.
"Have you heard this rhy?" he asked.
Plow deep in winter's cold embrace,
Cotton next year will fill the place.
Irrigate when frost still lies,
Planting cos with little price.
Winter plow and water deep—
Few pests, rich cotton yours to keep.
The farrs blinked. "We… haven't heard it. But we know so of what it says."
Zhao Sheng nodded. "Experience without thod," he said mildly. "That's common."
He continued calmly, "I know techniques that can greatly increase your cotton yield next year."
The farrs exchanged glances.
Suspicion lingered.
Zhao Sheng chuckled. "Let's do this properly. I'll sign contracts with you. You farm using my thods."
He raised one finger.
"If your harvest next year doesn't match your usual inco, I will compensate you."
Another finger.
"If it exceeds your usual yield, all cotton will be sold to —at fair market price."
The farrs' hearts raced.
No loss.
Only gain.
Still… trust?
As doubt flickered, Zhao Sheng spoke again.
"We can go to Pujiu Temple," he said. "Let Master Zhan Seng serve as guarantor. We sign before the Buddha."
That ended the discussion.
"Agreed!" the farrs said in unison.
Under the falling rain, contracts were born—
and with them, the future of Puzhou Cotton.
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