Late Ming Dynasty: Uprising in Troubled Times

Shaanxi, 16th year of Chongzhen. The scorching sun baked the earth, filling the air with a dry heat, as if it were consuming the last traces of life from the land. The crops in the fields, which should have been lush and green, had long since withered and shriveled, struggling in vain as they awaited death. Zhang Xing stood on the ridge at the village entrance, sweat beading on his forehead and evaporating quickly under the blazing sun. His gaze was hollow as he stared at the barren fields beneath his feet, a wave of helplessness surging through him.

"This year is ruined again." The voice behind him broke the silence; it was Li He. The blacksmith's face was weathered with deep lines etched by the years. The man, now past fifty, looked heavier with each passing day. His forge had long since gone cold, as no one had the money to repair or make anything. "At this rate, we won't even make it to next year."

Zhang Xing remained silent for a moment before replying in a low voice, "We may not even survive." There was a deep sense of despair in his tone. For years, natural disasters had struck relentlessly, with drought devouring the crops. But worse than the natural disasters was the man-made catastrophe—the ongoing war in Liaodong. The imperial court's imposition of the Liaoxiang tax was like a sharp blade, cutting away their last scraps of food. The villagers had long been cold and starving; even the children's cries were growing weaker.

"Last month, Zhang San's family had their grain stolen by the officers. His wife hanged herself with the children..." Li He's voice was low, his eyes filled with suppressed anger and helplessness. He glanced toward the distant village entrance, where a few emaciated children cried feebly around their mother, too weak to cry out loud.

Zhang Xing's fists clenched involuntarily. His mind flashed back to the image of his father on his deathbed. His once-strong face had withered to the point of looking like a dried leaf. "People must survive." His father's dying words echoed in Zhang Xing's mind. He knew that survival was the village's only hope. But with natural disasters beyond their control and the government's oppression dragging them closer to death, what could they do?

"The village to the south has already rebelled," Li He whispered, lowering his voice and glancing around cautiously before continuing, "They drove off the soldiers and divided the grain among the villagers."

Zhang Xing frowned. Rebellion? The word spun in his mind. Throughout history, whenever the common people rose up, they were met with brutal suppression by the imperial court. But if they didn't resist, could they survive? The children in the village hadn't had a full meal in days, and even the straw and bark had been gnawed down to nothing. The elders, who were already on the verge of death, had long since lost the will to live.

Just then, the sound of hurried hoofbeats broke the village's silence. Zhang Xing looked up sharply, a wave of unease rising in his chest. He exchanged glances with Li He, both men fully aware of what this meant.

"The officers are here," Li He murmured.

Zhang Xing's heart sank. His steps quickened as he and Li He rushed toward the village entrance. Upon arriving, they saw five or six mounted soldiers swaggering into the village. The leading officer wore a grim expression, his armor gleaming coldly in the sunlight. His vicious eyes scanned the pale, weary faces of the villagers.

"Liaoxiang grain taxes. If you can't pay today, none of you will leave alive!" The officer's voice cut through the air like a sharp blade, echoing coldly through the village. The villagers trembled at his words but dared not utter a sound.

Standing at the back of the crowd, Zhang Xing could feel the stifling silence around him. His fists clenched tighter, his knuckles turning white with the strain. These officers were no different from the ones who had come before—arrogant, merciless, and sometimes even contemptuous, as if they were watching a pitiful show. They weren't here to check on the suffering of the people; they were here to rob them of their last chance at survival.

"Zhang Xing, what do we do? If we hand over any more grain, we won't survive the winter." A villager beside him whispered, his voice full of despair.

Zhang Xing's gaze swept over the elderly, women, and children trembling nearby, their faces etched with fear and helplessness. Just then, a frail little boy broke free from his mother's arms and stumbled toward Zhang Xing, tugging at his clothes and crying, "Brother Xing, I'm hungry, I'm so hungry..."

The innocent plea pierced Zhang Xing's heart like a dagger. A suffocating feeling overwhelmed him, and the fury he had suppressed for so long ignited in an instant.

"Hunger! Hunger! Can anyone in this village survive anymore?" Zhang Xing's mind roared. He couldn't hold back any longer.

He stepped forward abruptly, walking toward the officer. His heavy footsteps echoed clearly in the silent village. Everyone froze. Zhang Xing, usually a quiet and reserved farmer, now carried a determination and anger they had never seen before as he stood in front of the officer.

"Enough!" Zhang Xing shouted, his voice booming through the empty village like thunder. The officer was momentarily stunned but soon sneered, his eyes full of mockery. "What do you plan to do? Rebel against the imperial court? Start a revolt?"

Zhang Xing did not back down. His gaze was sharp as a blade. Slowly, he drew the rusty hoe from his waist. Though covered in rust, it still gleamed with a cold light. He gripped the handle tightly, as if seizing control of his own destiny. Zhang Xing's voice was low but resolute, "To survive, we'll do whatever it takes!"

The villagers' hearts felt as if something had struck them hard. In the midst of their despair, Zhang Xing's words ignited a long-buried flame within them. That flame was weak, but it held an undeniable strength. Perhaps they really could fight back. Perhaps, like the southern village, they could drive out the oppressive soldiers and take back their grain.

The officer's face darkened instantly. He waved his hand, and several soldiers stepped forward, drawing their swords to suppress Zhang Xing's defiance.

At that moment, more villagers emerged from their homes, gathering behind Zhang Xing. Their faces no longer showed fear, but a determination to face death if necessary. They knew that if they didn't resist today, a harsher tomorrow awaited them.

Zhang Xing raised his hoe high, his gaze unwavering, and roared, "To survive, we fight!"