Chapter Eight: The Hunt

The villagers of East Ridge set out even earlier than they did. When the bright moon hung high in the midnight sky, they would already be leaving their homes together, heading toward the county or other distant places. In this way, they could avoid the scorching heat of day and reach their destination by dawn.

The blistering sun had long since scorched the crops to ruin in the fields. Those with some remaining strength would choose to seek work as servants in the county for a bite to eat, or join bands of refugees to seek shelter with faraway relatives.

As Qi Jun and Qi Feng walked along parched riverbeds and withered fields, they encountered corpses starved to death by the roadside and villagers barely clinging to life at intervals along their path.

The scene was nothing short of hell on earth.

Yet even so, the authorities did not lessen their harsh taxes and levies, and the bandits descended from the hills to raid the villages with increasing frequency. Driven to desperation by both natural disasters and human cruelty, some people simply banded together and fled elsewhere to become outlaws; others, in their struggle to survive, resorted to the unthinkable.

Qi Jun felt a deep sense of anguish. In his previous life, he had been born into an era of peace—such misery he had seen only in history books. Now, living through it himself, even after witnessing the carnage of battlefields, he was deeply shaken.

“Better to be a dog in peacetime than a man in troubled times,” Qi Jun could not help but sigh. But what could he do? In the face of such overwhelming calamity, he was powerless—even protecting himself was already a struggle.

A profound sense of helplessness lashed at his heart. Gritting his teeth, he tightened his grip on the wooden staff that supported his steps.

When they had crossed the riverbed and reached the opposite bank, dawn had already broken. He paused to bow deeply toward the starved dead and the desolate village behind them.

“It will get better. It must get better,” Qi Jun swore silently in his heart, his resolve stronger than ever. He would ensure that the people of East Ridge would no longer suffer simply to survive.

At that very moment, in the county yamen, Magistrate Song and his adviser both wore expressions of misery.

It was not that he was troubled by the suffering of the people, but the relentless drought had forced many to leave his jurisdiction in search of livelihoods elsewhere. A mass exodus of population was a severe blow to an agrarian society dependent on manpower. For Magistrate Song, it was an even greater political disaster.

Promotion required silver, and silver could only be extracted from the people. If too many left, and he could no longer offer the “tribute money” demanded from above, his official cap would soon be at its end.

He wanted to put on a show of concern for the people, but any funds or grain for disaster relief, after passing through the hands of layers of officials in Daliang, arrived in Anqiang County so meager that even Magistrate Song himself found it laughably insufficient.

He had not slept all night, pacing back and forth in the yamen, so anxious that sores had broken out at the corners of his mouth.

“My lord, I believe I have thought of a solution…” The adviser took a sip of tea, eyes darting slyly.

“Please, do tell!” Magistrate Song’s spirits lifted at once, and he respectfully clasped his hands toward the adviser.

The adviser quickly stood, moved to Magistrate Song’s side, and whispered a few words in his ear. Magistrate Song listened intently, his furrowed brow slowly relaxing.

“That is a way, but I fear it will drive those wretches too far…” Magistrate Song stroked his beard, pondering. “What if they revolt?”

“No cause for worry! By then, the silver from Prefect Zhao will have arrived, and you, my lord, will already have been promoted. What does their fate matter to you then?” The adviser chuckled, lowering his voice. “Besides, even if they do rebel, suppressing the uprising for the court will be a great merit for you!”

“Indeed! That’s true! Hahaha!” Magistrate Song’s delight was unmistakable, and the two exchanged glances and burst into laughter.

In the woods outside East Ridge, Qi Jun and his brother had been searching for an hour without encountering so much as a wild hare. Sunlight pierced the trees, stinging their skin, and the incessant chorus of cicadas grated on their nerves.

Qi Jun sat with his back against a large tree, wiping sweat from his brow as he slowly chewed his food. Seeing the sun climbing ever higher, he felt a growing sense of unease.

In his previous life, he had always excelled in the army’s individual marksmanship competitions—he had every confidence in his accuracy with thrown weapons. But now, he had yet to even catch sight of any prey.

“Brother, are we going to go hungry again tonight?” Qi Feng, clutching his javelin and panting, sat across from Qi Jun with a look of dejection.

“Let’s try a bit longer.” Qi Jun himself was uncertain, but he pointed to the ridge ahead. “On the other side, where the sun doesn’t reach, there’s a good chance some animals are hiding. Hang in there, let’s check over there.”

He forced himself to reassure his brother, silently praying that some wild game would appear soon. For all his skills yet unused, to die of hunger in such a poor mountain village would be a waste indeed.

Qi Feng nodded and dragged himself to his feet, following his brother’s lead.

By the time the scorching midday sun beat down on the hills, the two exhausted figures had finally reached the top.

Qi Feng, spent of his last ounce of strength, collapsed onto the ground, gasping for breath.

“Xiao Feng… get up… You shouldn’t sit down right after strenuous exercise…” Qi Jun glanced over, adjusting his breathing as he spoke.

But with another look, he saw Qi Feng simply lying flat on the ground, his chest heaving. “Even if I die, I’m not moving…”

Qi Jun could only shake his head helplessly and looked down the slope. Suddenly, his eyes lit up.

On a gentle slope below them, a brown wild goat lounged lazily among the withered grass, occasionally turning its head to scan for danger.

Heaven had not forsaken them!

Qi Jun’s heart leapt with joy. He slowly crouched, reaching for one of the javelins beside Qi Feng.

“Is something there?” Qi Feng started, but quickly caught on from his brother’s movements. He propped himself up and followed Qi Jun’s gaze downhill. If not for Qi Jun’s quick reflexes, clapping a hand over his mouth, he would have shouted aloud in excitement.

“Shh…” Qi Jun broke out in a cold sweat, raising a finger for silence. Qi Feng, understanding, nodded vigorously.

Qi Jun released his hand and carefully observed the prey. The goat seemed to sense something, looking in their direction, then stood and shook the dust from its coat before ambling further down the slope.

The wind was blowing from the goat’s direction, so it hadn’t caught their scent. Qi Jun let out a sigh of relief. He feared the animal would bolt before he had a chance—such an opportunity might never come again.

He patted Qi Feng’s shoulder, signaling him to stay put, then gripped his javelin and began to slowly creep toward his target.

In his current condition, he estimated he could throw about twenty meters at full strength. Factoring in the headwind, he needed to close the distance to within ten or so meters to guarantee a hit.

Fifty meters… forty-five… forty… thirty-five…

Qi Jun counted silently, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the goat, creeping closer step by step.

He slowly raised the javelin, hearing his heart pounding in his chest, sweat streaming down his brow and into his eyes. Every crunch of dry grass beneath his feet made his nerves scream.

Suddenly, a startled pheasant burst from the grass ahead, beating its wings with a series of shrill cries.

“Damn!” Qi Jun’s heart tightened.

The goat, grazing with its head down, snapped to attention at the sudden alarm, then sprang away at full speed.

Almost simultaneously, Qi Jun lunged forward, sprinting a few steps and, with a shout, hurled the javelin with all his strength.

Thirty meters—the distance was too great, but he had to take the chance. As the javelin left his hand, he silently begged fate to favor him one more time.

Atop the slope behind him, Qi Feng’s eyes tracked the javelin’s flight, his hands digging into the earth, so tense he forgot to breathe.