In the year 1627, the seventh year of the Tianqi Emperor, in Chengcheng County, Shaanxi—
County Magistrate Zhang Yaocai sat in the main hall of the yamen, flipping through the account book handed up by his adviser. His brows were tightly knotted, his expression full of displeasure.
"Those villages still haven't turned in their taxes? The higher-ups are already breathing down my neck."
The adviser hurried forward with a wrinkled smile.
"My lord, Shaanxi has been suffering severe drought. Hundreds of miles of barren land—people can hardly survive. The common folk simply have no grain left. No matter how we urge them, it cannot be collected. This is what we call 'nothing can be done'."
He pronounced those four words with exaggerated emphasis, complete with an expressive face, making the whole thing look absurdly theatrical.
Zhang Yaocai knew this adviser's habit of ending sentences with some pointless, flashy summary. He didn't bother correcting him and merely snorted.
"No grain? Those worthless peasants have plenty of grain—they just hide it and refuse to pay rent."
The adviser coughed awkwardly.
"But… the drought—"
"The year before was a drought. Last year was a drought. Somehow we collected taxes just fine. But this year suddenly they can't pay?"
The adviser sighed.
"In the first year of drought, families still had some stored grain.
In the second year, they could smash pots, sell their belongings—barely paying the tax.
By the third year, if the drought continues… it means people will starve to death. How can they still gather grain for taxes? This is what we call 'three times is the limit'."
Zhang Yaocai slanted him a look.
"What's this? You're taking the peasants' side now? How much did you take from them? You dare whisper this nonsense in my ear?"
The adviser jumped like a startled cat.
"Your Excellency, I— I took nothing! Those people have nothing left to give. How could they bribe me? I simply… had no choice but to speak a word for them. That's what we call 'a conscience awakening'."
Zhang Yaocai snorted loudly, done with him, rolling his eyes before turning toward the yamen runners.
"You lot—form squads and go urge tax collection. Let me see… Gaojia Village, Wangjia Village, Zhengjia Village—these have paid the least this year. Split into groups and visit them all."
He paused, then coldly added:
"Remember—those peasants love pretending to be poor. They hide their grain and shamelessly refuse to pay taxes. When you meet those lying wretches, beat them hard. Don't hold back—beat them until they can't stand."
The yamen runners answered in unison, voices booming through the hall.
The adviser paled. He threw himself forward, grabbing Zhang Yaocai's leg, wailing:
"My lord, you mustn't! The people already suffer terribly. If you push them any further, you may force honest folk to revolt! This is what we call 'when officials oppress too hard, the people rebel'!"
"Get lost!" Zhang Yaocai kicked him squarely in the crotch.
The adviser collapsed, curling into a ball on the floor, whimpering.
(PS: Zhang Yaocai is indeed a historical figure, not made up by the author. Records note: "In the Dingmao year of Tianqi, Shaanxi suffered great drought. Magistrate Zhang Yaocai of Chengcheng was brutally harsh in tax collection; the people could not endure his cruelty.")
The sun was sinking, dyeing the earth a dreary, sickly yellow.
Gao Yiye trudged back toward Gaojia Village, exhausted.
Her bamboo basket held the fruits of a day's struggle: half a basket of bark, roots, and wild vegetables.
Together with the boiled egg she had saved from midday, she would definitely have enough to eat tomorrow.
That small certainty put a light spring in her steps.
Other villagers were also returning, each carrying baskets of bark and weeds. Seeing her, many waved and greeted her—thanking her for giving everyone those big eggs earlier.
Yiye responded to their greetings with a tired smile and reached her own door. She lifted the wooden latch.
With a bang, the door swung open—
And a cascade of enormous white "rice grains", each half a meter long, came rolling straight at her.
Yiye froze, barely dodging half a step before being swallowed. The massive grains tumbled toward her like boulders—
—but just then, from the sky, a giant hand reached down.
It gently blocked the avalanche, slowing the spill.
Even so, rice squeezed through the fingers like snow slipping between branches, piling around her and knocking her flat onto the ground.
She sat there, stunned, staring at the huge grains surrounding her.
Rice.
Huge rice.
Each grain at least half a meter long, weighing over a hundred jin each.
She had no idea what was happening—when suddenly, above her, the clouds stirred, faintly revealing the smiling face of the Heavenly Deity who watched over her.
And then, with a playful ripple, His face vanished back into the clouds.
Understanding dawned.
The Heavenly Deity had played a small prank—filling her house with giant rice and waiting for her to open the door and be surprised.
Realizing this, Yiye couldn't help laughing out loud.
To be buried in mountains of pure, snowy-white rice—this was something every villager had dreamed of through three years of drought. To have that dream appear in this ridiculous way…
It was impossible not to feel happy. Even the grief of losing her mother was momentarily blown away.
But soon she realized—
She was completely trapped inside the rice pile and couldn't climb out at all.
So she shouted:
"Village Chief! Big Brother Chu Wu! Everyone, come help!"
Her call immediately brought her neighbors running.
Gasps, disbelief, and shouts filled the air.
"Rice—such huge rice!"
The strong young man Gao Chuwu rushed in, heaving aside the massive grains and pulling Yiye to safety.
The village chief arrived soon after.
Then all forty-two villagers gathered in front of Yiye's house.
They stared at the enormous rice grains—each huge as a millstone—completely dumbfounded.
Only after a long moment did the chief finally speak:
"This must also be a gift from the Heavenly Deity. Nothing like this exists in the mortal world."
Yiye nodded.
"The Heavenly Deity played a small joke on me. He filled my house with giant rice to scare me when I opened the door."
The village chief sighed.
"If only He would play such a joke on us every day."
Gao Chuwu, laughing foolishly, grabbed one rice grain. It weighed a full hundred jin, and he struggled to hold it—but once it was in his arms, he refused to let go.
"How do we divide this?" he asked. "Can my family get ten of them?"
The chief snapped,
"Put it down! We do not yet know whether these grains were gifted only to Yiye, or to all of us. If they were meant only for her and you touch them carelessly, you might anger the Heavenly Deity. Do you want to end up like those bandits—smashed into paste?"
Chuwu jumped, going pale, instantly dropping the grain.
The chief turned back to Yiye, speaking gently:
"Yiye, you are a good child. Since the Heavenly Deity appears only before you, we can only ask you to speak with Him. Please ask… whether we may share a little of this rice."
But before he finished—
From the village entrance came a loud, arrogant shout:
"Gaojia Village! You worthless peasants! Get out here! Stop hiding in your houses pretending to be dead! When are you paying the taxes you owe the Imperial Court?"
At the sound of that voice, every villager's expression darkened.
Even the small children clamped their hands over their mouths, too frightened to cry.
Gao Chuwu whispered, his face grim:
"It's bad… the yamen runners have come."
The village chief reacted instantly:
"Yiye, Chuwu, all you younger ones—quickly! Move all this rice back into Yiye's house and shut the door! Do not let the runners see a single grain!"