1 Peasant Soldier

The waters of the Yangtze River surge forth vast and mighty, winding like a colossal dragon from the western Sichuan region eastward into the East China Sea. Traveling upstream, countless tributaries merge into its flow, amplifying the river’s grandeur until it truly becomes a great river flowing into an even greater one.

If the Yangtze is likened to a giant dragon resting upon the land of China, then the vast, misty expanses of Dongting Lake and Poyang Lake resemble its claws, bringing the entire dragon to life as if preparing for its final leap into the sea.

Since ancient times, the Yangtze has been a golden waterway. It not only provides abundant irrigation for the river basin but also serves as a vital channel for the exchange of goods between the east and west. On clear days in August, the Yangtze stretches for thousands of miles under bright skies, with countless sails gliding gently with the breeze.

The fertile lands of Huguang ensure the empire’s abundance, with thriving waterways making the region critically important—especially as a strategic route for transporting troops.

“Once there was the Battle of Red Cliffs, and now the Ming Dynasty’s Battle of Poyang Lake... Bah, bah, bah, where am I going with this? Those were events from over a hundred or two hundred years ago—this is today.”

At this moment, a boy of about ten sat by the riverbank, gazing at the bustling sails weaving back and forth on the water. Occasionally, two fishing boats rocked past him, displaying the prosperity of this golden waterway.

In the distance, where the river meets the horizon, the boy knew was the Jiujiang Toll Wharf. Though invisible from here, he had heard from his father that it collected hundreds of taels of silver daily, amounting to tens of thousands of taels annually—a truly prestigious place.

In his previous life, tens of thousands or even hundreds of thousands seemed trivial, but now he was living in the Ming Dynasty.

The boy still remembered taking a silver ingot from his father, said to weigh two taels. It felt heavy, though he sensed it was a bit lighter than the two-tael silver pieces from his own time. Though unsure of the exact gram equivalent of a jin in the Ming era, he knew that ancient China’s jin equaled sixteen taels, so one tael likely weighed around thirty grams.

He still wasn’t accustomed to this era.

Sighing inwardly, the boy reflected on the more than ten years of education he’d received, which had ingrained international standards of measurement—grams and kilograms—making it hard for him to fully adapt.

Rubbing his still red and swollen palms, he recalled the sting from the teacher’s palm this morning at the village school. His hand tingled faintly. Absentmindedly, he picked up a nearby stone and hurled it fiercely into the river, sending a splash of water rippling outward.

“Dong, dong, dong, dong.”

Suddenly, from a distant stone fortress behind him came the sharp sound of urgent drums and gongs, their rapid beat signaling something critical. The boy instinctively turned to look just as a mounted rider galloped out of the fortress gate, racing swiftly along the river path toward the Qianhu garrison.

“Yutou, looks like something’s wrong at home. We should hurry back.”

“Let’s go, let’s go.”

“Quick, there are scouts about—it must be serious.”

Several children who had been playing by the river abandoned the boy, grabbing their cloth bags and rushing toward the stone fortress, chattering nervously.

The boy called Yutou stood, dusted the mud from his hands, picked up a gray cloth bag slung across his shoulder, and trotted after his friends. As he did, he faintly heard the splashing of oars on the river.

Turning back, he saw two patrol boats from the Baihu garrison. No, more accurately, they were river patrol ships, used to guard the waterways but currently fishing along the way.

These patrol boats measured about ten meters long, with a canopy midship for shelter, a mast forward to hoist sails, and three or four oars on each side. Unless facing severe weather, they were ideal for use along the Yangtze and in Poyang Lake.

Yutou had heard soldiers speak of these “Jiujiang patrol boats,” built in the neighboring Hukou County. They were praised for their flat bottoms, curved keels, shallow draft, buoyancy, heavy load capacity, agility, sturdiness, and durability—many advantages indeed.

Yet to Yutou, they were just wooden boats that could carry a dozen people. In his own era, tens of thousands-ton oil tankers and aircraft carriers were commonplace. These small boats held no real interest for him.

The saying “rely on the mountain to eat the mountain, rely on the water to eat the water” applied here too. Thanks to these patrol boats, he hadn’t lacked fresh fish and meat these days. Just recently, he had eaten wild rabbit, hunted by military households and brought back for the family.

Onboard the boats, a few soldiers were hauling in nets, while others adjusted the sails and paddled toward the small dock.

As the children neared the fortress, they slowed, waiting for Yutou to catch up. He trotted steadily, glancing back now and then to see what the fishermen had caught.

Approaching the fortress, many people came running from the fields outside, rushing anxiously inside the gate. Most wore red clothing, though it was tattered and worn, giving a pitiful impression. These were the fortress’s defending military families and soldiers, many still carrying hoes.

“Yutou, is something wrong in the city?”

“Yes, we saw scouts heading out earlier.”

“Those must be riders returning to the city, not from our fortress. Perhaps messengers from the city.”

The children babbled among themselves as Yutou drew near.

“Let’s wait until they go in, then we’ll go inside and ask. Something’s definitely up.”

By the time they spoke, the drum and gong signals from within had ceased, but people kept arriving, rushing into the fortress.

The children shuffled through the gate and saw a sparse crowd gathered in the small square—soldiers urgently summoned by the earlier drum call. They stood awkwardly, unsure of what to do.

On the earthen platform ahead, an officer dressed in the uniform of a Baihu commander spoke to the assembled men.

Nearby, two large carts stood guarded. One was piled high with weapons—swords, shields, and long spears—ready to arm the militia. The other cart held stacks of red uniforms.

These uniforms were not the shining silver helmets or gleaming armor of imagined ancient battlefields, but simple red coarse cloth garments, though thicker than ordinary fabric, serving as patched cotton armor. Whether they were skimped on or not, they were standardized equipment, likely intended so comrades could recognize each other amid the chaos of war.

“Let’s go listen. Your father’s there speaking,” one companion said with a smile.

“Why are you laughing? Didn’t you see your father organizing troops down there? Looks like we’re going to war,” another child chimed in, pointing toward the two carts.

“Who are we fighting? Where are we going?”

“No idea. Yutou, do you know?”

The children chattered, looking to their leader, Yutou, for answers.

“I don’t know either. We haven’t fought a war in years. Let’s just listen to what my father says.”

With that, the children quickened their pace.