Mythical Qin: I, Gao Yao, will never be a eunuch!

As dusk fell, the setting sun, like blood, stained the rolling mountains with a dark red hue. Along the mountain path, a long line of ragged refugees struggled forward. The group included men, women, and children, all emaciated and with unsteady steps.

"Mom, I'm hungry..." A seven or eight-year-old boy tugged at his mother's clothes, his voice weak.

The woman stroked the child's dry, yellow hair, took out half a hard, rock-hard coarse grain cake from her bosom, carefully broke off a small piece, and put it into the child's mouth. She swallowed hard, but didn't eat any herself.

"Just hang in there a little longer, once we get over this mountain, I heard there's a porridge distribution point ahead..." the woman murmured, whether she was comforting her child or encouraging herself, it was unclear.

Suppressed sobs rose from the ranks. Along the way, they had witnessed far too much death—starvation, disease, and the abandonment of those too weak to walk. From spring drought to autumn floods, the western border of the Qing Kingdom suffered two consecutive years of famine, and the government's so-called relief efforts were woefully inadequate. Taxes, however, remained unchanged, and some officials even took the opportunity to levy additional "disaster relief taxes."

If you can't survive, you have no choice but to run away.

Suddenly, a commotion arose ahead. The refugees looked up in alarm and saw a group of soldiers, about twenty or thirty in number, rushing out from around a bend in the mountain path. They were all armed and looked fierce.

"Halt! All of you, halt!" The leading officer, riding a skinny horse, pointed his sword at the refugees. "By order of the Prefect, refugees are not allowed to leave this prefecture without permission! You shall all turn back immediately, or you will be executed!"

The flow of refugees immediately descended into chaos. Some tried to run back, some stood frozen in place, and many more huddled together, trembling with fear.

"Sir, please have mercy..." An old man stepped forward tremblingly, trying to plead.

"Get out of my way!" The officer kicked the old man to the ground. "You lowly people, you flee famine and bring disease everywhere! The governor has ordered that all refugees must be centrally managed. Anyone who dares to move without authorization will be killed on sight!"

He raised his knife, its cold gleam particularly dazzling in the setting sun: "Now, all of you turn around! Go back to the internment camp thirty miles away!"

Desperate cries erupted from the refugees. They had escaped from that so-called "internment camp"—which was not a camp at all, but an open-air enclosure. Each day they were given only a thin porridge, so watery you could see your reflection in it; the sick were simply dragged away and never returned. Staying there meant only waiting to die.

"Fight them!" someone shouted from the crowd.

Several young men rushed forward with red eyes, but they were unarmed and too weak from hunger. In the blink of an eye, they were beaten to the ground by the soldiers, their blood staining the yellow earth.

The officer sneered, "You're asking for it!"

Just as he was about to order the massacre, a sudden change occurred.

"call out--"

An arrow pierced the air and struck the officer precisely in the throat. His eyes widened in disbelief as he clutched his neck and collapsed from his horse.

Before the soldiers could react, the second wave of arrows arrived. More than ten soldiers fell to the ground, while the rest scattered in panic.

The refugees stared blankly at the scene, completely unaware of what had happened.

A group of about a hundred men emerged from the woods on either side of the mountain path. They were well-equipped and moved in perfect unison. Leading them was a general of about thirty years old, dressed in light black armor, with a long sword at his waist and a resolute face. Most striking was the bow in his hand—pure black, with intricate patterns engraved on its shaft.

"Clean up the battlefield and treat the wounded," the general ordered in a deep voice, his voice not loud but carrying throughout the entire area.

The soldiers acted swiftly; some pursued the fleeing officers and soldiers, some checked the ground for any survivors, and several others carrying medicine kits began treating the wounded refugees.

The general dismounted and walked up to the refugees. His gaze swept over the terrified, bewildered, and desperate faces, finally settling on the old man who had been kicked to the ground.

"Old man, are you alright?" He reached out and helped the old man up.

The old man trembled all over, and could barely speak: "General...you...you are..."

"My name is Han Xin," the general said calmly. "From today onwards, I shall be in charge of this mountain and this land."

He turned to face all the refugees and raised his voice: "I know why you fled the famine. I also know what the government has done to you. Now I ask you—do you want to continue fleeing, to die by the roadside one day; or do you want to stay, to have food to eat, clothes to wear, and a place to live?"

The refugees looked at each other, none daring to respond.

Han Xin wasn't in a hurry; he simply waved. Several oxcarts emerged from the woods behind them, piled high with sacks. The soldiers opened the sacks, revealing rows of white rice inside.

"Everyone take three catties of rice first, go over there to start a fire and cook." Han Xin pointed to an open space not far away, "After you've eaten your fill, then decide whether to stay or leave."

The starving refugees stared wide-eyed at the bags of rice. Finally, the first person shakily stepped forward and took the rice bag from the soldier. Then came the second, the third...

Half an hour later, the aroma of rice filled the open space. Hundreds of refugees held bowls and wolfed down the long-awaited white rice, many of them weeping as they ate.

Han Xin stood on high ground, quietly watching this scene. Behind him, his lieutenant reported in a low voice, "General, this is the seventh batch we've gathered today. The total has exceeded three thousand men. At this rate, we can reach the scale required by the lord within ten days."

“Not enough.” Han Xin shook his head. “The lord wants 100,000 men. Three thousand men are not even a fraction of that.”

"But General, with so many people, what about food supplies..." The deputy general looked troubled.

Han Xin took out a map from his bosom and unfolded it. The map marked the situation of various counties in the western border, with several places circled in red ink.

"Here, the official granary of Qingyuan County has 80,000 shi of grain; here, the Changping granary of Pingyang Prefecture has 120,000 shi of grain; and here, the imperial estate of Xishan, which is exclusively for the use of the royal family, has no less than 200,000 shi of grain." Han Xin's finger moved across the map. "The Qing Kingdom court is corrupt. Thirty percent of this grain went into the pockets of officials, thirty percent rotted in the granaries, and less than ten percent was actually used for relief."

He put away the map, a cold glint in his eyes: "Since they don't know how to use it, then we'll help them use it."

The lieutenant gasped, "General, you mean...?"

"Pass down the order," Han Xin's voice was calm and even, "The first and second battalions will depart tonight, heading for Qingyuan County. Remember the lord's instructions—take only provisions, do not kill. But if anyone obstructs..."

He paused, then uttered two words: "Execute immediately."

"Here!"

As night deepened, the campfire flickered across the open ground. The refugees, having eaten and drunk their fill, huddled together, whispering amongst themselves. Who exactly was this General Han Xin? Why did he have so much grain? Could he truly offer them a way to survive?