Volume One: How Can There Be a Road Through the Mortal World Amidst Chaos Chapter 7: Infighting I

Deng San’s judgment was sharp and precise.

Wen Huaguo returned even earlier than the Riverbank Fisher Li Monk. To the east, some ten miles away, there was a sizable village. Wen Huaguo did not enter but observed from a distance; it looked inhabited.

“I saw smoke rising and heard several dogs barking,” he reported to Deng San.

Deng San spoke of another matter. “We need to send a few men to Yunnei and Dongsheng to see if we can find Old Chen Eight. We can’t leave him behind.”

Old Chen Eight was formerly Chen Hu, sent to Yunnei as a messenger. Among the ten leaders of the Horse Bandits, sworn brothers, only three now survived. Wen Huaguo nodded and personally arranged for men to be sent. Deng San called over two of the chosen brothers. “Whether you find Old Chen or not, we’ll wait for you two days in the village ahead. If you arrive late, head northeast; we’ll meet in Shangdu.”

Since becoming a bandit, Deng San had always remembered and taught Deng She a guiding principle: never abandon a brother, no matter the circumstances. For this reason, the old brothers stuck by him, save for those fallen in battle—none ever deserted.

The sun rose high, lighting the earth in cool, crisp brightness, touched by morning wind and a chorus of birds.

Li Monk brought back dozens of fish, his clothes soaked. Beside him, Yellow Donkey, leading a hundred or so men, returned as well. Yellow Donkey, formerly a lone commander, had grown anxious, gathering remnants regardless of their state—even those who’d lost their horses and weapons in flight, numbering twenty or thirty.

Deng San was surprised; he hadn’t expected Yellow Donkey to return. In truth, Yellow Donkey hadn’t intended to—his plan was to gather men and head directly to Fengzhou. But seeing the ragged state of his recruits, he changed his mind, deciding it was safer to follow Deng San.

Deng San greeted him with a forced smile, then turned to Li Monk. “How was it?”

“No—no sign of Mongols. The other side of the river is—very quiet.” Li Monk’s teeth chattered as he hugged himself, jumping off his horse and burrowing beneath its belly for warmth. He was too cold to remember his grudge against Deng San; Deng San noticed his bald head was blue with cold.

“Any of our soldiers left?”

“No.” He answered briefly, then urged Deng San, “Quick, make a fire.”

They hurried to cook soup, and each soldier drank a little from their helmets. The warmth only made their hunger keener. Recalling the village ahead, four or five hundred men pressed to arrive quickly. With a rough order, Deng San signaled Deng She to lead. Deng She knew this was his chance to gain prestige before the men, so despite his wounds and weakness, he forced himself forward, leading with Wen Huaguo.

Ten miles on horseback passed in a flash.

There were indeed people in the village, about a hundred households, but only a dozen remained—mostly the old, infirm, and weak, unable to flee, left to fate.

A few sentries were posted, zones roughly divided, and the centurions led their teams into the village. Wen Huaguo snapped his whip, leaned down, and grabbed a thin mongrel tied at the entrance; it only managed a single bark. Dust billowed, enveloping the entire village.

War can change a man—hunger even more so.

Accustomed to death, living day by day, under crushing pressure, the Red Turbans’ discipline was often no better than the Yuan army’s, sometimes worse. Driven by hunger, Deng She had witnessed, more than once, the Red Turbans leaving villages desolate.

The first time he saw such a scene was three years ago, during the great battle at Shan Prefecture (Sanmenxia), when the army went half a month without grain. He was not yet a centurion, serving as Deng San’s bodyguard. When they raided a small village, he tried to intervene.

He reasoned, stressing the importance of military discipline, and cited the Yue Family Army—who froze rather than dismantle homes, starved rather than pillage—thus achieving countless victories. He appealed emotionally, asking Deng San, “Weren’t we just like thieves before enlisting? We joined because we couldn’t survive. Why not consider them? They’re Han, just like us.”

The result: Deng San slapped him twice and kicked him to the ground. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes.”

“Can you conjure grain?”

He could not, so he fell silent.

He agonized for a long time. Robbing and pillaging civilians clashed violently with his education, his morals, and worldview formed in his previous life. In the end, he understood: times differ; discipline, restraint, morality are luxuries found only in peace. In chaos, you choose between two things—life or death.

From then on, he no longer intervened. As time passed, as scenes repeated, as he struggled to survive in this era, he became almost numb to them.

Entering the village, he found an abandoned courtyard, leaving the task of searching for grain to his ten-man leader.

The yard was dilapidated, mud walls full of holes and collapsed sections. It had been empty for a long time; the house was thick with webs and mouse droppings. Deng She, frowning, stepped back outside and sat among broken bricks. As he checked his wounds, he heard distant, piercing cries.

He sighed and ordered two bodyguards cleaning the house, “Go, look around. Rob what you must, but no killing or burning.”

This was his bottom line; the old brothers knew it, but he feared the newly gathered men might act rashly. He’d seen too much, and to be honest, felt hypocritical. What did it matter if no one was killed? Without grain, in famine and war, could villagers survive?

Maybe I could change all this? Change this era of chaos? He remembered his identity as a transmigrant, then dismissed such thoughts. None know themselves better than themselves, he thought. He was self-aware, and knew he lacked the ability.

Better to seize a chance and join Zhu Yuanzhang. Life would be easier in his territory. But the southern route was blocked by Yuan forces, and he couldn’t abandon Deng San and the old brothers to go alone. Thus, only crossing the sea from Liaoyang seemed possible.

“A journey of a thousand miles, passing through key Yuan strongholds—it feels riskier than sneaking across the Taihang Mountains,” he muttered, finally deciding to take it step by step.

A bodyguard rushed in. “Young Master!”

Some old brothers called him that.

“What is it?”

“A soldier under Guan Centurion killed someone.”

The very thing he dreaded had come to pass. Deng She’s heart sank. He stood. “Take me there.”

Outside, the village was in chaos. Red Turban soldiers rushed through, entering houses, overturning boxes, scattering belongings. In one courtyard, an old couple cowered in a corner. The old man closed his eyes, while the woman screamed at the Red Turban pouring flour from a crock, “Just kill me! Kill me!” But facing gleaming weapons, she dared not approach.

Deng She pretended not to see. “Does the Old Master know?”

“He should by now.”

How should he deal with the soldier? Years ago, he’d have executed without hesitation. Now, his first concern was whether it would shake morale, whether it would cause the newly gathered troops to drift away.

He noticed his own change. He was unsure if it was reason or simply a shift to seeing only advantage and interest.

Guan Second Brother’s area was at the village’s west end. When Deng She arrived, Guan was already there, as was Deng San. Two old brothers held the perpetrator down; nearby, a woman lay disheveled, sobbing in agony.

Deng She immediately understood what had happened; he was relieved—no one had died, at least giving himself an excuse not to execute the offender, thus avoiding morale issues. Yet this relief made him feel guilty. To comfort himself, he glared at the bodyguard who reported, “No one died!”

“There’s a dead one over there,” the bodyguard pointed.

Inside the main room, a child of two or three lay dead, skull shattered.

Morale, division, all consequences vanished from his mind. Deng She couldn’t recall how he reached the soldier, how he snatched the knife and hacked the man’s head off, how he kept striking the corpse. Only when several bodyguards dragged him away, fighting for his blade, shouting, “Young Master!” did his mind clear and the redness fade.

“This can’t go on!” The corpse was a bloody, unrecognizable mass. Deng She dropped the knife, pushed away the bodyguards, and shouted at Deng San, “Is this human? This is beastly!”

Deng San and Guan Second Brother remained silent; only the woman’s cries echoed.

Long after, Deng San said, “It can’t go on.” He had seen massacres ten times worse, but worried about another matter. “If this continues, no one can control them.” He ordered the bodyguards, “Hang this bastard’s head from a tree. Gather everyone. I’m going to teach these bastards a lesson.”

“Should we keep searching for grain?” Guan Second Brother agreed with Deng San’s decision.

“We’ll search after the lesson.”