Chapter Fifteen: The Mouse

As dusk deepened, Liu Bei was still on the left bank of the Yi River. The river divided Xiangben and Shan counties, and they had come by hiring a boat to cross. After escorting Shen Chen home, Liu Bei had instructed the boatman to wait at the ferry by the pavilion. Unexpectedly, the boatman, through a moment’s carelessness, struck a hidden reef beneath the water, causing slight damage to the vessel’s hull. Now, it was dragged ashore at the ferry landing for repairs.

With the sky growing ever darker, it was clearly too late to attempt another crossing. Liu Bei had no choice but to wait by the river for news of the boat’s repair. After a while, the boatman shook his head and came out to tell Liu Bei that the hull was leaking, and the repairs could only be completed by the next day.

Hearing this, Liu Bei gazed absently at the evening glow, the sun nearly dipping below the horizon. The upper reaches of the Yi River were swift, without a bridge, so travel between the banks relied on ferries. Now, with no other boats available and repairs delayed until tomorrow, it seemed their only option was to stay the night.

“My lord, I’ve asked at the riverside posthouse,” Zhao Yun returned to report, “There are vacant rooms. We can rest there tonight and cross back to Shan County in the morning.”

During the late Han, lords were commonly addressed as “Your Grace” by their vassals, but only Liu Bei’s followers called him “My Lord”—a title reserved especially for him.

Standing with his hands behind his back, Liu Bei nodded slightly. “Very well. Let us rest at the posthouse for now.”

He was traveling with only a few close attendants—Guan Yu, Zhang Fei, and Zhao Yun among them—so the accommodations weren’t crowded. Besides, the posthouses of the late Han were long dilapidated; only an old caretaker remained, the original station chief and guards having vanished.

Learning that a member of the imperial clan would be staying, the old caretaker swept the mats in welcome. In conversation, he recalled how in former days, the great ancestor once served as station chief at the Si River posthouse in Pei County, four hundred li west of Yi Pavilion, before rising to overthrow the tyrannical Qin and establishing peace for four centuries.

But now, chaos reigned. Warlords ravaged the land, common folk struggled to survive, displaced and destitute. The Central Plains lay in ruins. At the height of his lament, the old man’s tears flowed freely as he clung to Liu Bei’s hand, pouring out his woes.

When the sun had completely set, Guan Yu, Zhang Fei, Zhao Yun and the others fetched water to wash, shared their dry rations with the caretaker, and prepared to sleep as best they could.

But Liu Bei could not rest. He recalled what Shen Chen had said to him earlier that day—words that seemed to hold hidden meaning, but which he could not fully grasp. He mulled them over, searching for their significance, but found nothing to hold onto.

Lying on his wooden cot, the summer heat and swarming mosquitoes made sleep impossible. Troubled and restless, Liu Bei finally rose, pushed open the door, and stepped out, intending to wash in the nearby stream.

As he left his room and looked up, he suddenly glimpsed in the north a blaze lighting the sky. He froze, cold sweat beading on his brow. That direction—it was none other than the area of Huangmen Pavilion, where Shen Chen lived.

Fully awake, Liu Bei cried out instinctively, “Yunchang! Yide! Zilong!”

The three, also unable to sleep in the oppressive heat, leapt up at his call, thinking Liu Bei was in danger. Bare-chested, weapons in hand, they rushed out after him, asking what had happened.

“Brother, what is it?”

“My lord, is there trouble?”

“Look there.” Liu Bei pointed north. “It’s the direction of Zengyang Hamlet.”

They followed his gaze.

The Han maintained a posthouse every ten li. Shan County was about forty to fifty li from Huangmen Pavilion, with three stations in between: Zeng Pavilion, Yi Pavilion, and West City Pavilion just outside Shan’s western gates. Their group was at the westernmost station.

Zengyang Hamlet lay just east of Huangmen Pavilion, and beyond it was Zeng Pavilion. Thus, the distance between the hamlet and the station was little more than ten li—close enough that the towering flames could be seen even from afar.

At that moment, Zengyang Hamlet was a sea of fire. Under cover of night, Cao Ren had led two hundred soldiers in a surprise attack, slaughtering many villagers on the eastern edge.

The first to suffer were those living nearest the bridge. Ten soldiers burst into their home, hacking and killing at will. By torchlight, the faces of Cao’s men appeared expressionless—some plain, some kindly, some whose smiles might once have seemed warm. Yet now, each had become a merciless demon, blood spattering their bodies as they swung their blades without hesitation.

There was no pointless butchery or unnecessary cruelty; their methods were practiced, striking for vital points, sometimes adding a second blow to ensure death before moving on, as if they were seasoned butchers, measuring everything by the efficiency of their slaughter.

Cao Ren ordered his men to block every possible escape, posted guards to catch any survivors, and personally led forty more toward Shen Min’s house. By then, Shen Min had already been alerted.

Every dog in the village was barking, neighbors’ screams filled the air. Shen Min hastily told his wife and children to hide in the cellar, grabbed a rake, and rushed out to investigate.

He had scarcely crossed the threshold when Cao’s men found him. By the light from Shen Min’s own hall, Cao Ren spotted him first. His sword flashed like lightning, cutting down Shen Min before he could even see what was happening.

Blood spurted; agony exploded in Shen Min’s chest. Instinctively, he clutched at his wound, but Cao Ren kicked him down and slashed his throat, blood gushing like a burst pipe.

With the middle-aged man dead, Cao Ren waved his hand. “Surround the house. Leave no one alive.”

“Yes, General!”

Soldiers encircled the courtyard while others followed Cao Ren inside to search for their targets.

Meanwhile, in the neighboring Shen Chen’s house, he too had heard the commotion. Half-awake, he crawled from bed and went into the courtyard. Climbing a ladder beside the packed-earth wall, he poked his head over.

He saw, just twenty meters away in his seventh uncle’s yard, more than a dozen men burst in. Their leader struck down his uncle as soon as he emerged from the house.

In that instant, Shen Chen’s eyes widened with terror, his whole body trembling. Even after eight years in this new world, it was the first time he had truly faced the horrors of war and the threat of death.

Clamping a hand over his mouth to stifle any sound, he trembled down the ladder and, once his feet touched the ground, scrambled toward the main house.

Beyond the central courtyard lay the woodshed and kitchen; the backyard was a vegetable plot with a back door leading to the hills. But footsteps could be heard beyond the wall—Shen Chen dared not open the gate.

Glancing around, he saw by moonlight a dog hole in the southeastern corner. The family had kept a dog once, stolen and eaten by outsiders long ago, after which they never kept another.

Now, there was no time for hesitation. Shen Chen hurried to the dog hole, dropped to his belly, and began to crawl through.

The grassy, manure-tainted earth stung his nose, making him gag, but he forced himself on, wriggling like a silkworm.

Fortunately, Shen Chen was small and thin, and managed to squeeze through. Outside was a ditch, wild grass growing thick on either side.

Scanning the area—no one in sight—he scrambled across the ditch and into the weeds, edging closer to the hillside.

But just as he was about to reach the safety of the hills, the sound of approaching footsteps and low voices, like thunder, froze him in place.

Not now! Shen Chen was on the verge of tears, but helplessly pressed himself as low as possible, lying motionless in the half-height grass.

Luckily, his father Shen Zhen rarely cleared the wild growth outside the back wall, and the darkness concealed him well. He remained hidden from view.

“Corporal, why did we come so far to slaughter this village?” After a long silence, two soldiers posted in the backyard began to talk, their accents unmistakably from Qingzhou—Shen Chen had heard many such voices from Langya before.

“The general’s orders. Just follow them—no need to ask questions.” The corporal’s tone was cold. Killing, to them, was no longer an act of cruelty or bloodlust, but numb routine.

“Yes, sir.” The soldier crouched by the wall to rest. They’d marched over forty li from Xiangben County to Huangmen Pavilion—over fifteen kilometers—without respite, and his legs still ached.

The massacre continued nearby—screams and crashing noises everywhere. Ten soldiers to a household, more than enough to surround and search. Even Shen Chen’s own house was soon being ransacked.

Bored, the soldier gazed at the ditch ahead. This watercourse, fed from the hillside, supplied the households nearby. Feeling thirsty, he knelt to scoop a drink.

Suddenly, a rustle caught their ears. Both men tensed, gripping their weapons and scanning the area.

In the grass, Shen Chen’s heart seized—just a meter away, a huge rat crawled from its burrow, searching for food with squeaks.

The soldier stepped across the ditch toward the grass, his footsteps drawing ever closer. Shen Chen could feel the shadow looming over his head, the grass trembling before him.

Sweat dripped from Shen Chen’s brow as he stared wide-eyed at the shifting grass, legs taut, ready to bolt at any second.

Just then, a sharp whistle pierced the air.

The soldier, scanning the ground, spotted the fat rat scurrying away and relaxed. “Corporal, it’s just a rat.”

“Hmm. Time to regroup.” The corporal waved. Their squad of ten consisted of a decurion and two corporals; the whistle was the decurion’s recall.

The two turned away. Hidden in the grass, Shen Chen’s back was soaked with sweat, as if wrung from his very flesh.