Fighting mountain warfare in the Bashan region against the people who had been born and raised there was, in hindsight, a kind of suicidal optimism on the rebels' part, because mountains are not merely terrain but memory, and memory belongs to those whose ancestors are buried beneath the soil.
It did not take long before the mountainous belt around Ba County was swept clean.
Flat Rabbit's main force of flintlock riflemen handled the open engagements with ruthless efficiency, their disciplined volleys breaking rebel formations before courage could gather properly in the enemy ranks. Once those formations shattered and the rebels scattered into smaller, desperate groups, the Tujia warriors took over, moving through ridges, gullies, and hidden paths with the calm familiarity of men walking through their own courtyards. The rebels discovered very quickly that hiding in the mountains only works if the mountains do not speak the language of your pursuers.
Within half a month, the region around Kaixian felt almost unreal in its calmness. Villagers who had fled to the county seat began to consider returning home. The fear of sudden slaughter in the fields, of rebels appearing from treelines without warning, slowly loosened its grip on their hearts.
Yet winter had already settled over the land.
Even if they returned, no crops could be planted. Many homes had been burned to blackened frames. Some villages were nothing more than ash and collapsed beams. Returning meant facing cold walls and empty granaries, which was hardly better than staying in crowded temporary shelters.
It was at this delicate moment that a voice rang through the streets of Kaixian.
"Road construction! Recruiting workers to build roads! Three catties of white rice per day! Report to the county yamen now! Hurry, or there will be no positions left!"
That final sentence struck harder than the promise of rice.
Hurry, or there will be no positions left.
Scarcity is more persuasive than generosity.
The common folk did not debate long. They surged toward the yamen in waves, afraid not of labor but of missing opportunity.
Soon, Kaixian entered a frenzy of large scale road construction.
There is an old saying that prosperity begins with roads, and although the people of Sichuan at the time were as impoverished as those of Shaanxi, they understood instinctively that silver does not walk across mountains on its own. It needs paths.
It was the winter of the ninth year of the Chongzhen reign of the Chongzhen Emperor, the slack farming season, and the rebels had just been cleared. If one did not seize such a window, then when would fortune next knock?
Three catties of white rice per day was an astonishing wage in a province where hunger had become routine. News spread from Kaixian to surrounding mountain villages faster than smoke on dry wind. Even those who had not fled earlier now descended from the hills, tools slung over shoulders, determined to claim their share of this unexpected winter harvest.
Between Kaixian and Wanzhou there had long existed a narrow and poorly maintained official road. It twisted unnecessarily, dipped sharply, and forced freight carts to crawl like injured animals.
Now the task was clear.
Widen it. Reinforce it. Flatten it. Straighten it where possible. Reduce steep gradients. Prepare it not merely for foot traffic, but for bulk transport.
While Kaixian built toward Wanzhou, Wanzhou simultaneously built toward Kaixian, as though two hands were reaching for each other across rugged land.
Beyond Kaixian, other forces were also in motion.
Zheng Gouzi, Gao Chuwu, and Zheng Daniu each launched operations in their own territories. The Tujia Pacification Commissioners from neighboring mountain strongholds, having been thoroughly persuaded by Gao Family Village's relentless trade offensive, issued general mobilization orders of their own. Village after village rallied.
The rebels had once believed that mountains guaranteed invisibility.
That illusion collapsed quickly.
Hiding from government troops might work, but hiding from locals who knew every ridge, every cave, every water source was another matter entirely. A man born in those mountains could track footprints across stone and sense smoke where no flame was visible.
The Gao Family Village Militia handled the brutal frontal engagements. Once resistance fractured, local fighters swept through and erased what remained.
It was an efficient division of labor.
Across northeastern Sichuan, rebel forces lost footholds one after another, driven steadily westward. Each time the militia completed its work in an area, clearing rebels and stirring local enthusiasm, it moved again without hesitation, pushing the tide further toward the interior.
War cleared space.
Roads prepared the future.
And far away from the mountains, a different kind of transformation was underway.
At the Nanhui Mouth Market, a merchant named Yao Xingjuan stood before a wool sweater shop, calculating profit in his mind.
Yao Xingjuan was not what one would call a legitimate merchant. On land, dressed respectably, he was Yao Xingjuan. At sea, operating in quieter waters and murkier arrangements, he was Yaoxing Juan, half trader, half pirate, entirely pragmatic.
He had come to purchase wool sweaters branded by the Warm and Sleepy Textile Factory, goods known for their quality and distinctive minority weaving patterns, which had begun gaining popularity in coastal cities. Japanese nobles in particular had developed a fondness for them. Japan's climate was cold, and wool production there was limited, forcing reliance on imports.
Yao Xingjuan intended to buy in bulk, sail to Nagasaki, and sell at several times the purchase price, extracting silver with a smile.
Lost in pleasant arithmetic, he suddenly noticed something unsettling.
The shop was closing.
Assistants were packing goods into crates. Shelves were being dismantled.
"Shopkeeper!" he called out. "Why are you closing? Are you no longer trading here?"
The shopkeeper smiled calmly. "Correct. The beaches here at Nanhui Mouth are too shallow. Large ships cannot dock conveniently. Business is inconvenient. We are relocating."
Yao Xingjuan felt a flicker of panic. "If you move, where will I buy wool sweaters?"
"Follow the coastline toward the mouth of the Yangtze River," the shopkeeper replied. "Then sail into the Huangpu River estuary. There are signboards along the way. You will find the new market easily."
Yao Xingjuan frowned. "An inland river port? Can sea vessels even enter?"
"They can," the shopkeeper said with a laugh. "The Huangpu River is far more convenient for docking than this place. You will understand when you see it."
Yao Xingjuan hesitated. "Why should I go now? Your shop has not fully closed. Sell me several large bundles. I will visit the Huangpu River next time."
"You may buy now," the shopkeeper agreed. "But you truly should see the new Shanghai Port on the Huangpu River. It is newly built. The Assistant Minister of Revenue in Nanjing invested considerable effort into it. Goods from Suzhou, Nanjing, and beyond are gathered there. It is far larger than Nanhui Mouth. Items you could not find here are available there."
Interest replaced irritation.
Yao Xingjuan purchased several large bundles of wool sweaters and loaded them onto his vessel. Steering north along the coast, he passed Chongming Island, and soon the mouth of the Huangpu River came into view.
What he saw surprised him.
On both sides of the river mouth stood small stone fortresses. Atop each, a rudimentary lighthouse had been constructed. Workers bustled below, clearly intending to refine and beautify the structures.
Long cloth banners hung from the temporary towers.
One read: "Merchants from all nations are welcome to trade here."
The other read: "Honest dealings, fair for all."
Yao Xingjuan narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.
So the authorities had finally understood something about maritime commerce.
As his ship approached the river mouth, two government patrol boats intercepted him.
"Who goes there?"
Yao Xingjuan immediately prepared silver fragments, expecting routine extortion. As he gave his name, he discreetly extended the offering.
The sailors recoiled as though he had handed them poison.
"No!" one exclaimed. "The new Assistant Minister of Revenue is extremely strict. If we accepted even one copper coin, we would be dead men when we returned."
Yao Xingjuan blinked.
"There is such a thing?" he murmured.
Unable to contain his curiosity, he asked, "If you do not accept offerings from merchants, how do you manage your livelihoods?"
The sailor grinned.
"Our military pay has been increased. It is sufficient now. Losing our positions over a few pieces of silver would be foolish. Show your travel permit."
After a brief inspection, the sailor waved him forward.
"You may enter."
As Yao Xingjuan guided his ship into the Huangpu River, he realized that something fundamental was shifting along these waters. This was not merely a new dock. It was the birth of a new market order, one that might prove more profitable than smuggling ever was.
And for a man who measured loyalty in silver weight, that possibility was worth careful attention.