Chapter 18: Standing at Attention-Desastre na Grande Ming(Se houver algo estranho, não se assuste.)

Zhu Xiang, also known as Zhu Shuang, had attended a second-tier university in his previous life. After graduation, he served four years in the military. Upon discharge, he worked his way up from a lowly salesman to a managerial position at a branch office. Born in a rural area with no connections, he endured scorn from colleagues and sabotage from superiors. His steady rise was fueled solely by an indomitable will to succeed.

Under the blazing sun, among the more than ten thousand troops left by Wang Baobao, three thousand were Mongol soldiers. They were not regular soldiers but herders for the nobility during peacetime, and in wartime, they tended the army’s livestock—considered the lowest of the low on the grasslands. The rest, over seven thousand Han soldiers, were conscripted “volunteers” summoned by landlords and local gentry. These untrained recruits were seen as burdens by Wang Baobao and left behind.

To Zhu Xiang, these raw recruits were precious; like blank slates untainted by the roughness and roguishness of seasoned soldiers. In ancient armies, only the imperial guards recruited from respectable families; local forces teemed with thugs, ruffians, and prisoners. While capable fighters, these men lacked discipline. There was a saying: bandits leave chaos like a comb’s teeth, soldiers leave order like a rake’s tines—they not only plunder but also kill innocents and claim undeserved credit. This was why during the late Ming, common folk widely welcomed the rebel leader Li Zicheng.

In Zhu Xiang’s eyes, aside from the disciplined troops of later eras, only the Yue Family Army, known for their strict discipline and the motto “Better to freeze to death than tear down homes; better to starve than pillage,” met the true standards of military order.

“The horses of this county have their posts. You worthless lot—do you think you can just stand anywhere?” Zhu Xiang barked. “Only an hour and you can’t even stand properly? Straighten your legs.”

With that, he kicked Qiu Fu’s trembling calf, sending him staggering. As Zhu Xiang moved to discipline others, Qiu Fu hurriedly whispered to Zhang Yu, “What madness is this? How is this training? Just standing around all morning like statues. What a torment.”

Zhang Yu, steeped in military classics since childhood, pondered and replied, “What is a strong army? Since ancient times, an imperial force moves at command, obeys orders without fail. Obedience to orders defines strength.”

Hearing this, Zhu Xiang nodded. No wonder the descendants of Zhang Yu and Qiu Fu had such different fates. Zhang Yu, who raised the famed general Zhang Fu, was not just from a scholarly family; even as a lowly soldier, he studied tirelessly, never letting go of his military texts during meals or drink.

Qiu Fu, on the other hand, was a typical old soldier—lazy and cunning, always looking for shortcuts and shirking training. Brave but lacking strategy, it was no surprise that in history, General Si once sent him on a campaign to Benyashi that ended in defeat and disgrace, causing the general to strip Qiu Fu of titles and exile his entire family despite his earlier merits.

“Qiu Fu, how do you define the art of war?” Zhu Xiang demanded.

“Sir, I’m illiterate, can’t even recognize a basketful of characters. Please spare me,” Qiu Fu pleaded.

“Copy ‘The Art of War’ ten times. I know your handwriting. If you try to cheat, I’ll be waiting for you on the training ground.”

“Uh… yes, sir.”

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A thunderclap split the clear sky, followed by a gentle drizzle. Groups of three or five began sitting on the ground, and the once orderly ranks quickly became askew.

Zhu Xiang brandished his horsewhip, shouting, “In three breaths, if anyone hasn’t returned to formation, I, the county commander, will personally enforce military law.”

As the troops regrouped, the rain intensified. Standing firm in the downpour, Zhu Xiang proclaimed loudly, “Rain or snow, even if the sky rains knives, you will endure.”

“You are soldiers. Soldiers’ highest duty is obedience. Serving and taking rations is your rightful burden.”

“Here, I not only provide your food and clothing, but I will personally hand each copper coin of your pay into your hands. If anyone dares to take pay without serving, that money is my ransom for their life.”

“This army has Mongols and Han alike. From now on, your names share two characters: People’s Army. We fight not for the Yuan nor the Ming, but for the common people of the realm.”

“You are from the people. The people are your providers. They sell pots and pans, scrape together iron to support you. You must serve them, for when we save them, we save ourselves.”

“Since the founding of the Yuan, we were placed in the lowest of four social classes. Our fields were stripped bare, turned into pastures. Our ancestors toiled the land for generations, yet to the Yuan, we were not even scholars. Han children couldn’t even be named properly. Our fathers were called Zhu Eighty-Eight, our grandfathers Zhu Fifty-Four. Had it not been for our father’s uprising against the Yuan, we’d only be called Zhu Sixty-One.”

“Firstborn thrown away, beaten to death worse than horses, ten families sharing one kitchen knife, monthly levies... These are not just history books—they are the blood and tears of our ancestors. Our father Zhu Yuanzhang pacified the South, giving southern people hope. But millions in the North remain half-submerged in misery, living worse than death. They are your parents, siblings, kin. Every household wears mourning, cries every night, praying for peace.”

“But heaven is deaf and blind. If it won’t save us, will we just lie down at home and watch our families die? You men with courage, tell me, what shall we do?”

“Cut them down.”

“The Yuan’s tyranny ravages not only the Han. What are you? Lowly grassland serfs, slaves beneath noble feet. Your cattle and sheep, your families, are their property. Your descendants have no surnames. Hungry, you scavenge bones in tents; thirsty, you drink water meant for horses. You are unworthy to soil their lands. You can only dig holes and beg the Eternal Heaven to send rain.”

“Grassland men, tell me, do you want your children to live lives lower than beasts?”

“No.”

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“I had a dream last night. I saw Tengri weeping. She said her children were trampled like cattle and horses. The greed of the Borjigin clan burns like a fierce fire, scorching every grassland soul. Kublai’s descendants have betrayed the great Genghis Khan’s promise. They treat the grassland people as slaves to serve them. They no longer deserve to rule the grasslands.”

“The Borjigin family deceived you. You are not the forsaken of Eternal Heaven. Tengri has not forgotten you. She says…”

All the herdsmen prostrated themselves devoutly and chanted:

“We respectfully await the sacred decree.”

Clearing his throat, Zhu Xiang raised his arm and shouted:

“She says there should be no nobles or slaves on the grasslands; all are her children. The Borjigin demand your kneeling; Eternal Heaven commands you to stand.”

“You should be your own masters.”

As he finished, the sky suddenly cleared, and a shaft of light shone upon him.

“Be your own masters.”

The roar of three thousand Mongols echoed through the heavens.

Zhu Xiang was baffled. How could he explain the Tyndall effect to this crowd of passionate illiterates?