Volume One: In a World of Chaos, Is There a Path for Humanity? Chapter 25: The Fall of the City I

In a matter of moments, they had traversed several miles. According to the plan, Guan Shirong led a vanguard of thirty to fifty men, charging at the forefront; meanwhile, Wen Huaguo, embroiled in fierce fighting within the city gates, held the entrance tightly, ensuring it was not lost.

Deng She brought up the main force with Huang Donkey, Luo Guoqi, and Monk Li. They thundered forward, bellowing their battle cry: “Aweiwei!” Passing Guan Shirong, they cleaved through the Yuan troops as if slicing melons, smashing aside any resistance, and surged into the city.

Chen Hu, with his hundred-man unit, circled the city walls. His orders were clear: if a large number of Yuan soldiers broke and fled, let them go; but any wealthy households attempting to escape were to be intercepted without exception.

The silent city erupted into panic as Deng She’s men entered. Awakened from sleep, the citizens immediately guessed what had transpired. Dust clouds billowed, chickens and dogs scattered in chaos; children wailed, adults trembled in fear. Lights flickered on and off amid the commotion. Small households locked their doors tightly, while the bolder peered out to observe. The affluent rose in disarray, driving servants to gather valuables and hide gold and silver; the quick-witted even hastily prepared flags declaring their submission.

At the city gate, Deng She met up with Wen Huaguo, Zhao Guo, and He Guangxiu. The three guided the main force, splitting into three columns: Deng She led one, striking straight for the city’s garrison camp; Huang Donkey took another toward the Lu Prefecture’s administrative offices, with He Guangxiu showing the way to apprehend officials at home; Zhao Guo commanded the third, sweeping the defenders at another gate and capturing the granaries and armories.

Yongping had two city gates—one east, one west.

The garrison camp, situated between the gates, was soon alarmed by the disturbance in the city. Two infantry detachments had just exited the camp when Wen Huaguo charged in. Well accustomed to wielding a great hammer, he found sabers unwieldy and discarded his, snatching a Yuan iron mace and swinging it freely. With his strength and towering presence, no Yuan soldier could withstand his onslaught—men and horses were sent flying, cries of terror filled the air.

In a few swift blows, these two detachments were routed, one was left behind to be slaughtered, and the rest fled into the camp. Their adversaries were caught unprepared—cavalry had not mounted, and many infantrymen lacked weapons.

The fighting lasted but half an hour before it was over. Of the five thousand Yuan soldiers, more than a thousand lay dead, the rest all surrendered. Deng She left Luo Guoqi and his own men—about two hundred—to guard the prisoners.

Only then did he lead the main force back to the government offices. Reports soon came from east and west gates: both were firmly in their hands, and not a single Mongol defender had escaped.

The most urgent task now was to calm the city and stabilize the populace. Deng She assigned several veteran brothers, each with a squad of ten, to patrol the streets and loudly proclaim the amnesty notice Luo Guoqi had drafted in advance. Gradually, the city quieted. Occasionally, the clash of weapons, a scream, or pleas for mercy echoed—these were patrols encountering fugitives or opportunistic criminals.

Fortunately, Yongping was not large, Deng She’s men were few and acted collectively, so no incidents of looting or harassment occurred.

As the moon drifted eastward, Deng She sat in the grand hall of the government offices, reflecting on the siege—it was hard to believe how smoothly it had gone. Yet mingled with joy and relief was a lingering apprehension and the pressing question of what must be done next—his emotions were tangled and tumultuous.

Torches blazed in rows, illuminating the hall in brilliant light. The officers above and the Red Turbans below, their faces blackened with powder smoke, all beamed with joy, their laughter ringing out. Every gaze turned to Deng She was filled with respect—no one now underestimated him for his youth.

A clamor grew, approaching from afar.

Huang Donkey had captured almost all the Lu Prefecture’s officials; only two or three minor clerks had escaped, likely hiding among civilians to be searched out at dawn. At the front of the line, the highest-ranking—the Darughachi of Yongping—hung his head, defeated, shivering in his thin clothes as the cold wind bit.

Huang Donkey ordered the two or three dozen Yuan officials to stand in line. Seeing Deng She on the dais, his armor still stained with blood, and the officers flanking him with drawn swords, reeking of slaughter, the more timid among them collapsed to their knees in terror.

“Hundred-man Deng, how should these traitors be dealt with?” He would not call him “sir,” disdained to address him as “Brother She,” and would not use his name—settling for Deng She’s official rank instead.

The Darughachi, though a Muslim, wore his hair in the Mongol style—shaved crown revealing a shiny scalp, with two limp braids dangling behind his ears. Deng She waved his hand in disgust. “Take them away and flay them. Keep their heads to display on poles as a warning.”

The Darughachi, not understanding Chinese, could guess Deng She’s meaning from his expression and gestures. Tears and snot streaming, he collapsed, babbling in Mongolian. Several Red Turbans dragged him away.

Of the other officials, only two or three managed to remain upright; the rest trembled uncontrollably, toppling over and begging for mercy. Deng She scrutinized the three who stood defiantly, then rose and cupped his hands. “Which of you is Chief Steward Liu?”

He’d heard from He Guangxiu that Yongping’s chief steward was famed as a just man, surely a man of backbone—he’d also learned his name from He Guangxiu. Indeed, one of the three snorted, “I am he.”

Deng She had chairs brought for him and the two others who stood. None acknowledged him. The one to the left, pale with a scholar’s beard, snapped, “If you’re to kill or flay us, just say so! To sit on the chair of a Red Turban bandit would only sully the dignity of a gentleman’s behind!”

“Kneel, you dare!” bellowed a Red Turban.

The man scornfully replied, “My knees are like iron—never would I bend them to bandits!”

Wen Huaguo, seated to the side, grew furious, strode over, and with his palm like a fan, struck him twice. Blood streamed from the man’s nose; unable to endure, he collapsed, mouth swollen, mumbling curses.

Deng She waved his hand, not bothering to ask his rank. “Give him a quick death.”

He was dragged away and soon fell silent. Outside, the Darughachi tied to a pillar screamed ever louder.

The man to Chief Steward Liu’s right turned pale, darting glances at Deng She and then at Liu. Deng She took this in but ignored it, addressing Liu in a gentle tone, “Your reputation precedes you—among the people of Yongping, none do not call you Blue Sky. I’ve long wished to meet you, and today that wish is fulfilled.”

Chief Steward Liu sighed, “Though I have a good name, falling into the hands of bandits such as you, it is sullied nonetheless.”

Deng She showed no anger, silencing his officers’ threats. “We are all Han. My lord is the Little Bright King of the Great Song, descendant of Emperor Huizong—a rightful ruler of China. You, learned in the classics, must understand the distinction between Hua and Yi. Why not abandon darkness for the light, uphold the legitimate order, and fulfill your calling as a true disciple of civilization?”

Liu sneered, “A snot-nosed child talks of Hua and Yi—how laughable. Do you not know that to govern Chinese affairs by Chinese law is to be Hua?” He slowed his voice. “The Yuan founded their state before Song and Jin were destroyed, not by inheriting their rule but establishing their own. If legitimacy is to be discussed, Yuan has its own claim.” Then he tried to persuade Deng She, “You are still young, and have gone astray for the moment. Turn back before it’s too late. If you submit, I will memorialize the court, and you will surely be pardoned.”

He cited the example of Zhang Shicheng’s recent surrender. “You must know that Zhang Shicheng in the south, with a thousand miles of territory and millions of people, recognized the Mandate of Heaven and surrendered to the Yuan. His Majesty was so magnanimous that not only was he pardoned, but made Grand Marshal instead. I hear your words and see your learning—why not follow his example? Our court is in need of talent, both civil and military.”

Deng She fell silent.

The distinction between Hua and Yi, the debate over legitimacy—under the Yuan, these views were prevalent. They believed that ethnicity and nation mattered less than cultural identity. If the Mongol Yuan ruled with Chinese law, they supported the regime. To them, the boundaries between Hua (civilized) and Yi (barbarian) could blur—Hua could regress into Yi, Yi could advance into Hua.

Was this tolerance, or was it deplorable?

Deng She could not say. He thought it unfair to judge these ancients by the mature concepts of nation and ethnicity that only arose in modern China. Yet whether tolerant or contemptible, when faced with their own people suffering under the Yuan’s iron hoof, not only did they not resist—they took pride in serving. That was unforgivable.

He no longer wished to speak with such men. For the third time, Deng She waved his hand. “Take him away, leave the body intact. Strip him and hang him from the city tower with ‘Not of our kind’ written across his body—as a warning to others.”

The man to Liu’s right finally collapsed to the floor.

Deng She paid no heed but singled out all officials sporting Mongol hairstyles and clothing—regardless of whether they were Mongol or Han, all were dragged out and executed on the spot. He did not interrogate the rest, leaving them to Chen Hu, who had just returned.

But Chen Hu did not leave. “I hear we have over three thousand Mongol prisoners. Sir, what are your orders?” In public, he always addressed Deng She formally.

“Disarm them and confine them in the camp. I’ve already asked Centurion Luo to supervise the guards.”

“Our forces number only a few hundred, and the capture of Yongping is a stroke of luck.” Chen Hu disagreed with Deng She’s plan. “Night brings chaos. The Mongols do not know our true strength. By morning, when all learn how few we are, if traitors within and without conspire, the city will erupt in chaos. How can two hundred men contain three thousand? We’d be in mortal danger!”

Deng She pondered. “I had hoped to wait until dawn, then select those willing to surrender and enlist them.”

“What if a thousand volunteer? Or all three thousand? If you accept only a portion, both the accepted and the rejected will be uneasy.” Chen Hu shook his head. “If you accept them all, the guests will outnumber the hosts—disaster will be close at hand.”

Deng She understood Chen Hu’s intention and had to admit he was thorough and correct. With a single order, three thousand would be executed. Yet he hesitated.

In the earlier assault, he’d noticed that only about a thousand Yuan troops were genuine Mongols; the rest were mostly Green Troops—local Chinese militia conscripted by the Yuan. In his heart, he sympathized with these men, fighting only to protect themselves. Wherever the Yuan or the Red Turbans went, both were said to devour the land like locusts. Without the Green Troops, the people would have no peace at all.

But if they were spared, they might become a future threat. Which was worse? In the end, under the gaze of all his officers, Deng She made his difficult decision. “Thousand-man Huang, one more task for you. Take your men and assist Centurion Luo—do not let any trouble arise.”

No one knew the inner turmoil behind his choice. What they saw was a leader decisive in killing, who, without a word, executed three officials by three different methods and then ordered the slaughter of the surrendered. Their respect for him grew, tinged with fear.

Yet compared to Chen Hu, Deng She was still a novice. Chen Hu, infamous for cutting off heads and eating human flesh, had left a deep impression on all. Now, being the first to propose killing the prisoners, many muttered, “That brute truly deserves his reputation as a butcher.”

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1. Aweiwei: In Zhu Yuanzhang’s army, it was customary to shout “Aweiwei” in unison before battle to bolster morale. “Wei” is the pronunciation.
2. Little Bright King: The Little Bright King, Han Lin’er, son of Han Shantong, who claimed descent from the Song imperial line and was the eighth-generation grandson of Emperor Huizong. After Han Shantong’s death, Liu Futong supported the Little Bright King, founding the Great Song. All his followers referred to him as their sovereign.