The wind that swept across Henan that season carried a knife's edge to it, the kind that sliced through cotton robes and scraped against bone, and yet the greater chill did not come from the weather but from the chaos spreading across the land.
Ten miles beyond Xuzhou, in the forests outside the city, an army that called itself righteous had gathered in such numbers that the earth seemed to vibrate beneath their boots. More than a hundred thousand men filled the woods, their campfires flickering like a second, restless constellation fallen to the ground.
And yet, for all their numbers, they could not agree on a single direction.
Inside a large command tent patched together from looted cloth and military canvas, several rebel leaders were locked in fierce argument.
"Xuzhou cannot be taken," Zhang Miaoshou declared, slamming his palm against the rough wooden table. A former bandit chief, he had the blunt instincts of a man who had survived by sensing danger early. "It's a famous metropolis, heavily defended by imperial generals. Do you think it's some countryside granary you can torch at will? Have you already forgotten how Brother Chuang Wang died? His arrogance drove him to attack Xi'an, and that was the end of him."
Across from him, Zhang Xianzhong, known among the rebels as the Eight Great Kings, leaned back with a smile that carried no warmth whatsoever. He spoke not loudly, but with the sort of confidence that suggested he had already decided the matter.
"Xi'an was Xi'an," he replied. "Xuzhou is Xuzhou. The current garrison there is soft. Rotten. Nothing like the iron wall that guarded Xi'an. If we dare to strike, we will take it."
Zhang Miaoshou shook his head in disbelief, as though staring at a man who had willingly stepped off a cliff. "Even if the garrison is weak, Zuo Liangyu is stationed in Runing Prefecture, in Zhumadian, just to the south. If we touch Xuzhou, he will move."
The Eight Great Kings laughed then, a sharp, almost gleeful sound that cut through the tent.
"Afraid?" he asked lightly. "If fear rules your bones, then leave. I have no interest in fighting alongside cowards."
Zhang Miaoshou gave a snort of contempt, sweeping his sleeve wide. "And I have no interest in following a madman into his grave."
He left with his men soon after, the forest swallowing their retreating figures.
The Eight Great Kings watched them go, then chuckled again, softer this time, like someone who had just removed an inconvenience.
"Full army advance," he ordered. "We take Xuzhou."
Not long afterward, the battle began.
To the south, in Zhumadian of Runing Prefecture, Zuo Liangyu received word that a rebel army one hundred thousand strong was marching toward Xuzhou under the banner of the Eight Great Kings.
When he heard the number, a flicker of unease crossed his face.
"One hundred thousand?" he muttered. "Xuzhou is no small town. What madness drives them to attack it? At best they are passing by, making noise beneath the walls. If we refrain from provoking them, they will withdraw on their own."
His officers exchanged glances but did not argue.
And so he waited.
Days later, the news arrived like a thunderclap.
Xuzhou had fallen.
The rebels had broken through the city defenses and descended upon it like wolves among sheep. Fires consumed streets. Officials were dragged out and slaughtered. Wealthy families were wiped out. Commoners fared no better. Blood did not discriminate between ranks.
Among the dead was Zuo Liangyu's own household.
His ancestral home had stood in Xuzhou. Every member of his family there was killed, not a single life spared. Only his son, Zuo Menggeng, survived, and that was because he had been campaigning alongside him.
When the report finished, Zuo Liangyu did not speak for a long time.
From that day onward, there remained no clan left for him to protect. The fear of extermination, which had once restrained many of his decisions, dissolved like mist beneath a rising sun. A man with nothing left to lose moves differently through the world.
West of Luoyang City, in Xinan County, lay a village known as Ganquan, though most people simply called it Gu Tao Village. For a thousand years it had shaped clay into vessels, firing pottery in kilns that seemed older than memory itself. Because of this heritage, it had earned a simple, affectionate nickname: the Village of Ancient Pottery.
These days, however, it no longer felt ancient at all.
The entire settlement buzzed with energy. Kilns burned day and night, flames licking through their mouths while villagers moved in ceaseless rhythm, shaping and firing ceramic bottles as though racing against an invisible clock.
Ever since Dao Xuan Tianzun had bestowed upon Luoyang two colossal soy sauce bottles towering thirty meters high, the task of repackaging that heavenly bounty had begun in earnest. The sauce had to be transferred into manageable containers before it could be sold or distributed, and that meant bottles, endless bottles.
At first, Gu Tao Village had emptied its storage houses, sending years of accumulated inventory to Luoyang in a single sweeping wave. The profits had been unprecedented. Now, however, the shelves stood bare, and every kiln roared with desperate urgency to produce more.
In the center of the village, Gao Yiye stood speaking with the Xinan County Magistrate.
Her tone remained gentle, yet there was unmistakable pressure beneath it.
"Magistrate," she said, "are there truly no more bottles to be found? The repackaging of soy sauce is a task entrusted by Dao Xuan Tianzun. The workers in Luoyang grow anxious. When there is no work, they feel uneasy receiving wages. They fear losing their livelihoods."
What laborers fear most is not hardship, nor even low pay.
It is idleness.
A factory that stops running is a beast that may never wake again. A conscientious employer might still provide minimal wages during a pause, but many would simply shut the gates and dismiss their workers without ceremony. Though everyone knew that their benefactor was Dao Xuan Tianzun, the insecurity carved by generations of instability did not vanish overnight.
The magistrate, who had personally witnessed Dao Xuan Tianzun tear away the mud-crusted devastation left by the Yellow River floods, had long since become a devout believer. Before Gao Yiye, he adopted an attitude of utmost humility.
"It is not that Xinan County refuses to try," he said earnestly. "Gu Tao Village emptied every storehouse. Years of inventory were sold in days. Now there is not a single spare ceramic bottle in the entire village. They fire new ones without rest, but the manpower is insufficient. Truly insufficient."
Gao Yiye had, over time, gained a modest understanding of economic principles, though she would never describe it in such grand terms.
Gu Tao Village had always been small, with only around a hundred households engaged in pottery. In the past, the surrounding population's purchasing power had been weak, and their output had exceeded demand, leaving artisans poor despite their skill. Now the situation had reversed overnight. With trade routes opened and the massive soy sauce supply descending from above, demand had exploded far beyond the village's traditional capacity.
"It seems," she said thoughtfully, "that we must increase the workforce."
The magistrate nodded but looked troubled.
"That is easier said than done. Since Dao Xuan Tianzun's blessings arrived, industries everywhere have surged forward. Coal mines, iron mines, smelting workshops, road construction projects. Every new venture demands hands. Even with the refugees who have arrived, there are still not enough people."
Gao Yiye considered the matter in silence for a moment.
"There are many refugees in Luoyang," she said at last. "I will speak with Bai Yuan and arrange for some to be transferred here. Even if they lack technical skill, they can assist with manual labor. And beyond that, I propose something larger. We should establish a centralized ceramic factory here, reorganizing production into a unified system. Gu Tao Village will become Gu Tao Factory. The elderly artisans can join as senior technicians, passing on their craft while overseeing scale production."
The magistrate's eyes brightened with cautious hope.
"That may indeed be the only path forward."
"Then I will return to Luoyang and make the arrangements," Gao Yiye replied.
She climbed into her automobile, a symbol of the new era taking root beneath heaven, while her hundred-strong escort mounted troop transport trucks and followed behind in disciplined formation.
The distance between Gu Tao Village and Luoyang was only a few dozen li, and with the newly built concrete highway, the journey passed swiftly.
Yet as they approached the western outskirts of Luoyang, Gao Yiye sensed at once that something was wrong.
The west gate stood closed.
Militia members, many of them newly recruited, lined the walls in tense formation. Their grips on their weapons were tight, eyes scanning the horizon as though expecting trouble at any moment.
When her vehicle came into view, a guard on the ramparts shouted down urgently, ordering the gates opened at once for the Saintess.
The heavy doors creaked apart just wide enough for her convoy to pass through. No sooner had they entered than the gates slammed shut again with a resounding clang that echoed across the stone.
Inside the city, the atmosphere felt strained, like a drum pulled too tight.
Gao Yiye frowned slightly.
"What has happened," she wondered aloud, "to put Luoyang on such alert?"