xymnovel Chapter 6 The Flames of War Approach
Chapter 6 The Flames of War Approach
In the eighth year of the Chongzhen reign (1635), Ma Changsheng was eight years old.
The wounds of famine have not yet healed, but life must go on.
The late-season rice that was replanted in the fields has yielded a harvest. Although the yield per mu is less than half of that in previous years, at least we no longer have to eat tree bark and clay.
The Ba River has become abundant again, and fish and shrimp are gradually increasing in number.
The people of Majia Village regained some color in their faces, but a lingering wariness remained deep in their eyes—like frightened animals, ready to flee at any moment.
Mr. Zhou's private school resumed normal classes.
Only nine students remain, all from families in the village that are relatively well-off or who place great importance on education.
Tiezhu stopped coming. He officially became the employer's long-term laborer, herding cattle, chopping wood, and carrying water, working from dawn till dusk in exchange for two meals a day.
On the first day of spring, Mr. Zhou did not teach the classics, but instead taught a poem—Du Fu's "Spring View":
"The country is broken, but the mountains and rivers remain; spring has come to the city, but the grass and trees grow deep. Moved by the times, the flowers seem to weep; saddened by parting, the birds startle the heart."
(Please remember the website 20 ...
The old man's voice was desolate, and his eyes reddened slightly when he read the line, "War raged for three months, a letter from home was worth a fortune." The children below followed along, bewildered, not understanding why their teacher was so sad. Only Ma Changsheng understood—the poem was about the An Lushan Rebellion, but how aptly it was placed in the chaotic world of the Chongzhen era.
After class, Mr. Zhou kept Ma Changsheng behind: "Do you understand the meaning of this poem?"
Ma Changsheng carefully chose his words: "It means that during wartime, spring has arrived, but people are not in the mood to appreciate flowers; they are only worried about the safety of their families."
"Hmm." Mr. Zhou nodded, then shook his head. "It's not just that. This poem says: The world is in chaos, but the mountains and rivers remain; families are separated, but the grass and trees are unaware. The greatest suffering is not natural disasters, but man-made calamities."
He walked to the window and gazed at the distant mountains: "Chang Sheng, do you know that the Ming Dynasty is now more chaotic than the Tang Dynasty in which Du Fu lived?"
Ma Changsheng remained silent. He knew, of course, that the consciousness database contained a complete historical record: In the eighth year of the Chongzhen Emperor's reign, thirteen peasant armies and seventy-two battalions held a grand assembly in Xingyang; Li Zicheng proposed a strategy of "dividing troops and launching a four-pronged attack"; Gao Yingxiang and Zhang Xianzhong led their troops eastward, capturing Fengyang and burning the imperial tombs; later, the Jin army again invaded the pass, looting Xuanfu and Datong…
But he couldn't say these things. He could only say, "My father said there's a war going on in the north."
"It's not just in the north," Mr. Zhou said in a low voice. "The bandits have already reached Henan and Southern Zhili, and they're not far from our Huguang region."
Ma Changsheng's heart tightened.
This is a crucial point in the timeline—the eighth year of the Chongzhen reign was indeed the beginning of a large-scale movement of peasant armies, and Huguang would become one of the main battlefields in the coming years.
"Sir, is there going to be a war here?"
Instead of answering directly, Mr. Zhou asked, "Chang Sheng, if they really attack, are you afraid?"
Ma Changsheng thought for a moment: "I'm afraid. But being afraid is useless."
The old man smiled, a bitter smile: "Yes, fear is useless. That's why we need to read more books, to understand principles, to know why there is chaos, and to know how to live in chaotic times."
When he got home that day, Ma Changsheng copied the poem onto a sand table and practiced it over and over again.
He wasn't practicing calligraphy; he was experiencing a resonance that transcended time—the wars of eight hundred years ago and the wars of eight hundred years later, the suffering of humankind is always similar.
Seeing how diligently he was writing, Li asked, "Is the teacher teaching you new poetry?"
"Hmm, Du Fu's 'Spring View'," Ma Changsheng said. "Mother, what if the war reaches our area?"
Li paused in her needlework, the needle piercing her finger.
She put her finger in her mouth for a long while before saying, "No way... We're in a poor, remote place, what would we do here?"
But her voice was trembling.
The news eventually came.
In mid-March, Ma Sanbao went to the county town to sell firewood and returned with a livid face.
As soon as he entered, he bolted the door and whispered to Li, "Something terrible has happened."
"What's wrong?"
"Fengyang... Fengyang has been captured by bandits."
The bowl in Li's hand fell to the ground with a "clatter" and shattered into several pieces.
Fengyang was Zhu Yuanzhang's hometown, the central capital of the Ming Dynasty, with imperial tombs, a garrison headquarters, and heavily guarded troops. The fall of Fengyang meant something even an illiterate peasant woman understood.
"I heard from people in the county town that on the eighth day of the first lunar month, Gao Yingxiang and Zhang Xianzhong led hundreds of thousands of troops and broke through the city under cover of fog." Ma Sanbao's voice trembled. "More than 4,000 soldiers who stayed behind died in battle. The prefect was slow to escape and was killed... The imperial tombs were burned down, and the ancestral halls and Longxing Temple were all burned down."
Ma Changsheng listened quietly from the side.
He knew more details: historically, the fall of Fengyang shocked the court and the public. Emperor Chongzhen wore mourning clothes and wept bitterly, sent officials to report to the ancestral temple, and executed Yang Yipeng, the Grand Canal Transport Commissioner. But these were all cold historical facts. Only now, hearing his father's trembling narration, did he truly feel the shock—they dared to burn even the imperial tombs; the dignity of this court had been completely destroyed.
"And there's something even more frightening," Ma Sanbao continued. "The bandits stayed in Fengyang for three days, proclaiming themselves 'Emperor Gu Yuan Zhenlong,' appointing officials, and even staging plays to celebrate... They're planning a rebellion to become emperor!"
Li slumped onto the stool, muttering, "Heavens...this world..."
Ma Changsheng supported his mother: "Mother, don't be afraid. We're far from Fengyang, we can't fight our way over in a short time."
These words were both a consolation and the truth. But from that day on, the atmosphere in Majia Village completely changed.
The village began to organize local militia.
The clan chief gathered the able-bodied men from each household to practice every evening in the open space in front of the ancestral hall. The weapons were rudimentary—hoes, carrying poles, machetes, and only a few ancestral, rusty waist knives. The instructor was Old Ma from the west end of the village, who had served as a soldier in the garrison in his youth and knew some battle formations.
Ma Sanbao was also drafted.
Every night after training, I would go home exhausted and fall asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
As Li massaged his shoulders, she sighed, "What good are these if a fight really breaks out?"
Ma Sanbao, with his eyes closed, said, "It's better than waiting to die."
Ma Changsheng would sometimes go to watch the drills.
He observed the awkward movements and chaotic formations, silently assessing the situation:
Combat ability: Extremely low. No armor, rudimentary weapons, insufficient training time.
Morale: Medium. Driven by the will to survive, but lacking discipline and combat experience.
Against regular troops or experienced bandits: no chance of victory
Recommendation: If encountering the enemy, prioritize evasion and dispersal; avoid direct confrontation.
But he couldn't say.
He could only tell his father privately, "Dad, if they really come, let's run into the mountains. I know the way; there's a cave in the mountains that's very well hidden."
Ma Sanbao asked in surprise, "When did you find out?"
"When we were collecting herbs last year," Ma Changsheng said, "people could live in the cave, and there was even a water source."
This is the truth.
The cave is deep in the back mountain. The entrance is hidden by vines. There is an underground spring inside, and the space is large enough to accommodate a family of three for a short-term refuge.
He had long since begun preparing for the worst-case scenario—a habit he brought from the Europa base: always have a backup plan.
The first group of refugees arrived in early April.
It was a group of more than twenty people, with their families and dressed in rags.
They came from Henan, where their hometown had been repeatedly ravaged by bandits and government troops; their fields were destroyed and their houses burned down, leaving them no choice but to flee south.
The people of Majia Village were initially very wary and kept their doors tightly shut.
But looking at the children who were too hungry to walk, and the women begging with their babies in their arms, I couldn't bring myself to harden my heart.
The clan chief opened the ancestral hall for them to stay temporarily, and the village pooled together some grain to help them.
When Ma Changsheng went with his father to deliver porridge, he saw a boy who was about the same age as him.
The child had a knife scar on his face, running from his brow bone to the corner of his mouth. His eyes were empty, and his hands were trembling as he took the bowl of porridge.
"What's your name?" Ma Changsheng asked.
The boy glanced at him, said nothing, and lowered his head to drink his porridge.
An old man nearby said, "His name was Gouwa. His whole family died. His father was killed by government soldiers who mistook him for a bandit spy, his mother died of illness, and his sister was kidnapped..."
Suddenly, Gouwa slammed the bowl down, spilling the porridge all over the floor.
He turned and ran out of the ancestral hall, squatted in the corner, his shoulders shaking violently, but he didn't cry—his tears had long since dried up.
Ma Changsheng picked up the bowl and silently wiped it clean. In his consciousness, the emotional module was recording this extreme traumatic reaction.
At Europa, death is a cold, hard number: a loss rate of 0.0007%. But here, death is broken families, scars on children's faces, and silent collapse.
The refugees stayed for three days before continuing their journey south.
They were heading further south, having heard that southern Hubei and Hunan were still relatively peaceful.
Before leaving, Gouwa found Ma Changsheng and pulled out a dark, grimy object from his pocket: "Here you go."
It was a burnt wild potato.
"This is all I have," Gouwa said. "Thank you for the porridge."
Ma Changsheng took it and took out a piece of maltose that Mr. Zhou had given him during the New Year—he had been reluctant to eat it: "Here, have this on the way."
The two eight-year-olds exchanged gifts, then one went south while the other stayed behind.
As Ma Changsheng watched Gouwa's departing figure, he suddenly thought of Tiezhu.
Tiezhu at least had a hometown, a job herding cattle, and hope for survival. Gouwa, on the other hand, had nothing but an unknown road ahead.
The refugee crisis began.
The scale is expected to expand over time.
Social stability has further declined.
Competition for resources could lead to conflict.
We need to stockpile more survival supplies and prepare long-term evacuation plans.
That night, Ma Changsheng carved a few more lines of coded text on the secret stone slab:
In the spring of the eighth year of the Chongzhen reign, refugees arrived.
Seeing the boy Gouwa, his family was destroyed and his life ended.
I have personally witnessed the pain of war.
Prediction: More refugees are expected within a year; early preparations are necessary.
Consciousness level: Stable. No abnormal disclosures were detected.
Despite the chaos and turmoil outside, the path of the imperial examination still had to be taken.
In May, Mr. Zhou officially announced that the county would hold a preliminary examination next spring to select students. He would take several students to take the exam.
"Although the preliminary examination is only the beginning, it is not easy," Mr. Zhou said. "It requires testing your knowledge of the classics, poetry, and policy essays. You should start preparing now."
Of the nine students, only four decided to take the exam—including Ma Changsheng.
Other families either felt their hopes were slim or couldn't afford the cost of taking the exam.
Mr. Zhou gave Ma Changsheng special treatment.
He would stay after school every day for individual tutoring.
Students had to memorize the Four Books and their commentaries, learn the rules of poetry and prose, and practice political analysis in policy essays. Although the court forbade students to discuss politics, the exams often included questions such as "How to govern the country" and "How to bring peace to the people."
"The most important thing in policy essays is insight." Mr. Zhou took out a stack of old exam papers. "Look at this question: 'On the rise of bandits.' Most candidates wrote 'caused by natural disasters' or 'the stubborn nature of the people,' which are all superficial."
"Then how should it be written?" Ma Changsheng asked.
Mr. Zhou lowered his voice: "You should write it, but not too deeply. You can write: Although the natural disasters are severe, the taxes are even heavier; although the people are foolish, the officials are even more greedy. Then quote the words of the sages: 'The people are the most important, the state is next, and the ruler is the least important.' Then say that you should govern with benevolence and ease the people's burdens, reduce taxes and levies, and the chaos will naturally subside."
Ma Changsheng listened attentively.
This is not merely an exam technique, but also a reflection of the limitations of how intellectuals of this era perceived and expressed their understanding of the current situation.
Writing too superficially makes one appear ignorant; writing too deeply may bring trouble upon oneself.
"Remember this," Mr. Zhou looked at him, "the imperial examination is for entering officialdom, and entering officialdom is for doing things. But before you can do things, you must first protect yourself. A wise man does not stand under a crumbling wall."
Ma Changsheng nodded.
He recalled that on Europa, sometimes compromises and detours were necessary for the survival of the base.
Political wisdom has commonalities across different eras and civilizations.
In June, Ma Changsheng began to learn how to write the eight-legged essay.
This is the fixed format of the imperial examination: breaking the topic, accepting the topic, starting the discussion, getting started, the first part, the middle part, the last part, and the conclusion. Each part has strict rules, and even the number of words is limited.
The first time he wrote an eight-legged essay, the title was "To learn and practice what one has learned regularly".
Sitting in the ancestral hall, facing blank paper, I suddenly felt a sense of absurdity—outside, war raged, but inside, people were figuring out how to use fixed formats and stale allusions to write flowery but useless articles.
But he still wrote it.
Because this is the only path to power.
Without fame or official rank, he could change nothing.
After finishing writing, I handed it to Mr. Zhou for review.
The old gentleman examined it carefully, marking it with his vermilion pen: "The introduction is acceptable, but the development is somewhat weak; the initial idea is good... but here," he pointed to a spot, "it uses a reference to a previous dynasty, which is inappropriate. It is taboo for the current dynasty to discuss matters of the previous dynasty."
Looking at the red circles, Ma Changsheng suddenly asked, "Sir, if one day the world falls into chaos and the imperial examination system is abolished, what will happen to scholars?"
Mr. Zhou's hand trembled, and the vermilion ink smeared a red stain on the paper.
He stared at Ma Changsheng for a long time before saying, "Why do you ask that?"
"It's just...thinking about it," Ma Changsheng said. "The refugees all say that in some parts of Henan, the government has all fled, so there's no more imperial examination system."
Mr. Zhou put down his pen and walked to the window.
The setting sun cast a long shadow of him, making him look like a tired old man.
"Chang Sheng," he said slowly, "I have been teaching for thirty years, and I have seen peace and chaos."
But no matter how the world changes, one thing remains constant: people need to read and understand principles. Even if the imperial examination system is abolished, even if the dynasty falls, civilization cannot perish. Scholars are the seeds of civilization; they must survive and pass on those seeds.
He turned around, his eyes unusually firm: "So you must take the exams, you must pass the county-level exam, you must pass the provincial-level exam, you must pass the imperial exam. Not for fame and fortune, but to preserve the identity of a scholar in chaotic times, to preserve the flame of passing on the torch."
Ma Changsheng was solemn.
For the first time in this era, he witnessed the weight of the transmission of civilization.
In the autumn of the eighth year of the Chongzhen reign, the news grew increasingly worse.
In August, devastating news arrived: the five battalions of peasant army had captured counties and prefectures near Luoyang, and the government troops suffered repeated defeats.
In September, the Later Jin army entered the pass for the fourth time, penetrating deep into Shanxi, looting and returning.
In October, instability also began to emerge in Huguang (Hubei and Hunan provinces) – small groups of bandits appeared in the Yunyang and Xiangyang areas. Although they were repelled by government troops, panic had already spread.
The village militia in Majia Village are training even more diligently.
Ma Laosi asked someone to buy some bows and arrows in the county town—they were all homemade soft bows with a range of less than fifty paces, but it was better than nothing.
Ma Changsheng also participated in the training. Mr. Zhou disapproved: "You are a natural scholar, don't hurt your hands."
But Ma Changsheng insisted: "Sir, even in chaotic times, a scholar must know how to protect himself."
He learned quickly. The posture for drawing a bow, the technique for aiming, and the control of force—skills that require a high degree of physical coordination—were not difficult for him—his mind could precisely control muscle movement, as long as his physical strength could keep up.
To Ma Laosi's surprise, this eight-year-old child was more accurate at archery than many adults.
"Chang Sheng, have you practiced this before?"
"No," Ma Changsheng said, "It's just... I feel like it should be pulled like this."
That's obviously a lie. His consciousness database contains complete data on the use of cold weapons. Although this body hasn't trained in them, the coordination of neuromuscular systems can be simulated.
Besides archery, he also began practicing with the short stick—the most readily available weapon, which can be found everywhere.
After seeing this, Mr. Zhou sighed and did not stop it.
One day, he was given a thin book: "Jixiao Xinshu: Quan Jing".
"It was written by General Qi Jiguang," Mr. Zhou said. "Although it's a military treatise, it contains some methods for strengthening the body. You can take a look. Remember, martial arts are for self-defense, not for showing off."
Ma Changsheng accepted it solemnly.
As I turned the pages and saw the illustrations and formulas for the moves, the combat module in my mind automatically activated, starting to analyze, simulate, and optimize.
But he simply nodded and said, "The student understands."
Two things happened at the end of October.
The first piece of good news is that Tiezhu is engaged.
The other party was the daughter of a poor family in a neighboring village. She was fourteen years old and was married off early to raise money for the bride price because her family couldn't afford to eat.
The wedding was very simple: a dilapidated sedan chair was brought in, and after bowing to heaven and earth, the marriage was considered complete.
Tie Zhu, wearing borrowed, somewhat worn clothes, smiled with a simple yet bewildered expression.
Ma Changsheng went to a wedding banquet—which was actually just wild vegetable porridge with some brown rice.
He gave Tiezhu a pair of coarse cloth pillowcases, which were sewn by Li Shi. They were embroidered with the words "May you have a long and happy marriage"—the words were written by Ma Changsheng, crooked and messy, but the sentiment was there.
Tie Zhu held his hand: "Chang Sheng, you must study hard and become a high-ranking official in the future. I... I'll just stay like this."
Looking at his childhood friend, Ma Changsheng suddenly felt a pang of sadness.
In another time and space, at Europa Base, every clone has an equal starting point and equal opportunities.
Here, fates diverged at the age of eight: one studied to take the imperial examinations, while the other herded cattle, married, and had children.
The second worrying matter was that the county issued an official document to levy an additional "training fee" of two li per mu. The reason given was that "bandits are approaching, and it is necessary to recruit local militia to strengthen defenses."
Ma Sanbao stared at the paper stamped with the red seal for a long time before finally saying, "I can't afford it."
"What will happen if we don't hand it over?" Mrs. Li asked.
"Arrest them and put them in jail, or..." Ma Sanbao didn't finish his sentence.
Finally, they sold half an acre of dry land—the last bit of their ancestral property.
The buyer was a wealthy man named Ma from the village. He offered a very low price, but he urgently needed the money and had no other choice.
On the day the land was sold, Ma Sanbao sat on the edge of the field for the entire afternoon.
Ma Changsheng accompanied him, watching his father stroke the land that would soon no longer belong to their family, as if stroking a child's head.
"The land your great-grandfather left behind is dwindling as it gets to me," Ma Sanbao said in a hoarse voice. "Chang Sheng, your father is incompetent; he couldn't protect the ancestral property."
Ma Changsheng grasped his father's rough hand: "Dad, the land isn't important. As long as you're alive, that's all that matters."
These words are spoken from the heart.
Having witnessed the annihilation of stars and the end of civilizations, he deeply understands that all material things will eventually disappear, only life and memories can be passed down.
But Ma Sanbao didn't understand.
With tears welling in his eyes, he kept saying, "Father is sorry to our ancestors, sorry to you..."
On New Year's Eve of the eighth year of the Chongzhen reign (1635), Majia Village spent the day in fear.
In previous years, no matter how poor we were, we would still put up Spring Festival couplets, set off firecrackers, and have a reunion dinner at this time.
But this year, although the Spring Festival couplets were written—Mr. Zhou delivered couplets to every household, and Ma Changsheng's couplet read, "Amidst the crackling of firecrackers, the old year departs; the spring breeze brings warmth to the New Year's wine"—no one was in the mood to put them up.
No firecrackers were set off, for fear that the noise would attract unnecessary attention.
The reunion dinner was indeed prepared: a pot of mixed grain porridge, a plate of stir-fried wild vegetables, and a small salted fish—which Ma Sanbao had caught after squatting in the Ba River for half a day, and which he had specially saved for New Year's Eve.
Just as I picked up the bowl, a rapid gong sounded from the village entrance.
"Bang—bang—bang—"
That's a police gong! Ma Sanbao's face changed drastically, and he threw down his bowl and rushed outside.
Li grabbed Ma Changsheng and hid in a corner of the room.
Soon, shouts, running sounds, and the clash of weapons could be heard outside.
Ma Changsheng peered through the crack in the door and saw flickering firelight and shadowy figures, but he couldn't make out the specifics.
After about fifteen minutes, the sound gradually subsided.
When Ma Sanbao returned, he was pale and carrying a rusty waist knife with blood on it.
"What happened?" Li asked in a trembling voice.
"A few refugees tried to rob the ancestral hall's stored grain," Ma Sanbao said, panting. "They were driven away by the local militia, and two of them were injured. On our side, Ma Laosi was stabbed in the arm."
"Has anyone died?"
"No. Those refugees are in a terrible state too, so hungry their hands trembled as they held the knife." Ma Sanbao put down the knife, his hand still shaking. "But next time... next time they might not be so lucky."
That night, no one in Majia Village slept.
Lights were on in every house, men stood guard at the door with makeshift weapons, and women huddled inside with their children.
Ma Changsheng sat in the darkness, listening to the faint howling wind coming from afar.
He opened the status panel of his consciousness:
Date: New Year's Eve of the eighth year of the Chongzhen reign (February 5, 1636)
Age: 8 years and 10 month
Physical condition: Malnutrition is improving; height and weight are 15% below the average for their age.
Learning progress: Read through the Four Books, studying the Book of Poetry and the Book of Documents, and mastering the basics of the Eight-Legged Essay.
Martial arts skills: Archery (beginner), short stick (beginner), Qi Jiguang boxing style (introductory level)
Consciousness Awareness Level: 0.18%
Historical event matching: Fengyang was captured (already happened), Xingyang Conference (already happened), Later Jin replaced the Qing (soon to happen)
Risk Assessment: Medium. Social order continues to deteriorate; 40% probability of war within one year.
Recommendation: Accelerate preparations for evacuation while continuing your studies, striving to obtain official recognition and protection before the chaos ensues.
He closed his eyes and began to plan his actions for the coming year:
1. Passing the preliminary examination to obtain student status—this at least provides a layer of protection.
2. Improve the reserves of mountain shelters: food, medicine, and tools.
3. Continue practicing martial arts to improve self-defense capabilities.
4. Observe the situation and evacuate in advance if necessary.
Halfway through the planning, he suddenly remembered the wooden plaque given to him by the wandering Taoist priest.
I pulled it out from under the pillow. The Tai Chi symbol was not clearly visible in the dark, but I could feel the lines.
Wudang Mountain... If things really get out of control, would that be the way out?
he does not know.
But having more options is always a good thing.
The first rooster crowed outside the window.
Dawn was breaking; the ninth year of the Chongzhen Emperor's reign (1636) was fast approaching.
Ma Changsheng gripped the wooden plaque tightly and whispered to himself:
"Live on. Read. Observe. Wait."
"And... protect this home before you awaken."
As dawn broke, the light illuminated the cold New Year's Eve dinner on the table, the bloodstains on the knife, the small village struggling in the torrent of history, and the determination beyond the years in the eyes of an eight-year-old child.
In the new year, the flames of war will draw ever closer.
And he was ready.