Chapter Sixteen: Seizing the Horse

“General, there’s no one in the house next door.”

The ten-man squad sent to surround Shen Chen’s home searched every corner, yet found no trace of anyone.

At this moment, Cao Ren was inside Shen Min’s house. He had just discovered a mother and son hidden in the cellar—the soldiers ruthlessly killed them, dragging their bodies to the main hall, where, by torchlight, they were being identified.

He saw a middle-aged man, a woman, and then a child who appeared to be about ten years old—slightly older than the expected eight. Yet individual differences at that age could be vast. Cao Ren had seen many children, gaunt from poverty and hunger, whose fifteen- or sixteen-year-old bodies resembled those of ten-year-olds. He had also witnessed scions of noble families, feasting daily on meat and fish, whose seven- or eight-year-old sons were robust as adolescents.

So he did not doubt the authenticity of Shen Chen’s identity, nor did he bother to leave any survivors for questioning. Xiangben was but a short distance from Shanyan County. If the battle was not resolved quickly and Tao Qian discovered their presence, escape would become impossible.

Having confirmed the facts, Cao Ren tossed his torch to the ground, coldly commanded, “Burn the entire village to the ground. Let the people of Xuzhou know what defiance brings!”

“Understood!”

The squad leader obeyed, and soon after, both Shen Min’s and Shen Zhen’s houses were ablaze.

Then the northern side of Zengyang village ignited. After slaughtering the dozen households to the east, Cao Ren turned his blade to the south.

All this time, Shen Chen remained hidden in the grass, not daring to move. He knew he could not outrun Cao’s troops, so as long as he was uncertain whether they had left, he dared not act.

He waited, hearing no further movement, and desperately wanted to crawl up from the ground. Suddenly, he realized his legs would not respond; only then did he understand that his earlier terror had caused them to cramp.

Faced with this dire predicament, Shen Chen was seized by panic. He could only wriggle like a worm, inching toward the mountain behind.

But then, the world behind him suddenly brightened. He turned his head, and terror swept his gaze.

Cao’s army had set the village aflame. The houses, all wooden, burned quickly in the dry summer air. The fire surged into the backyard, rushing toward him.

The wild grasses that had saved his life now threatened it. The blaze spread rapidly. Xuzhou, close to the coast, was blasted by fierce southeast winds in midsummer; aided by the wind, within minutes the eastern part of the village was a sea of fire.

Shen Chen knew that fleeing into the hills would be futile—the wooded slopes would soon be consumed, and with his legs cramped, escape was impossible. His plight was desperate.

But fortune did not utterly forsake him. In the critical moment, Shen Chen acted swiftly, crawling toward the irrigation ditch. He plunged his head into the water, the ice-cold mountain spring enveloping him, nearly causing him to drown.

The scorching heat rolled toward him; barely half a minute after he entered the ditch, the barren ground behind Shen’s house was ignited. The flames swept toward the mountain, as if intent on burning it clean.

Shen Chen lay fully submerged in the ditch. Though small, it could easily fit two of him. The water, just a bit deeper than an adult’s ankle, was enough to cover a child of eight.

Yet Shen Chen soon realized he had underestimated the power of two or three hundred degrees of heat. Flames danced above his head, and unburned embers from the nearby wasteland dropped into the ditch, the hiss of fire meeting water constant in his ears.

Terrified, Shen Chen began to consider crawling downstream along the ditch. He was too close to the mountain; if it caught fire, the temperature would only rise. If the spring’s source upstream became blocked by ash, wood fragments, or stones, and no water flowed, he would certainly perish.

He inched along, following the water’s flow. The ditch, dug from yellow earth, was muddy. With his movement and the rain of burning ash, the water became thick with silt. Immersed in mud, if he raised his head to breathe, he inhaled ash—a torment beyond words.

Yet fortune favored him. He crawled for an indeterminate time, eventually sliding from his house’s vicinity downstream, finally reaching the creek north of the road. Following the current, he reached a patch of wild grass on the creek’s left bank.

The creek varied in depth. Shen Chen had often swum here to escape summer’s heat and knew its contours well. The spot where he hid featured a two-meter-deep pool, shaded by overhanging grass.

Emerging from beneath the grass, Shen Chen noticed the pain in his back, his whole body aching, his clothes torn, revealing dark skin scratched by sharp stones.

He faced toward Shanyan County—to the east. To his left lay the north of Zengyang village; to his right, the road. Across the stream was the southern part of the village, from which the sounds of slaughter still echoed.

He forced himself to breathe calmly, listened intently to his surroundings. The babbling water masked any noises he made, and the night cloaked him.

When his strength had returned somewhat, Shen Chen crawled out of the creek. He could not remain; the frigid water would harm his young body if he stayed too long, leaving lasting illness.

He struggled up the stony bank. Whether the river stones truly massaged his feet or not, his legs gradually recovered from numbness. Once able to move, Shen Chen climbed up to the road, peered across at the opposite side of the village.

Behind him, the fire raged, painting the sky red. By its glow, he saw figures moving—Cao’s army was massacring the villagers. Near the road, about a dozen horses were tethered.

Cao Cao was desperately short of horses—even at the Battle of Guandu, his cavalry numbered only around six hundred, with fewer than a thousand mounts. These dozen horses were all that Cao Ren’s troops possessed.

Shen Chen scanned the scene, spotting a single soldier guarding the horses. To Cao Ren, leaving one man was merely to prevent the animals from breaking loose—since the whole village was being slaughtered, there would be no survivors to steal them.

In that moment, Shen Chen’s eyes blazed red. Rage, fueled by hatred, made him tremble. He searched the ground, found a river stone about the size of two adult fists—three or four pounds, roughly the heft of a brick, but easier to grip.

The soldier stood beside the road, watching the slaughter to the south, oblivious to the shadow creeping up behind him. The horses, seeming almost sentient, snorted softly, but did not alert the engrossed guard.

Shen Chen raised the stone high. Only a few of Cao’s trusted officers wore helmets and armor; the common soldiers merely donned black uniforms, their heads bare. Yet Shen Chen was too short to reach the man’s skull.

Just then, the soldier, perhaps tired from standing, sat down on the embankment. The eight-year-old seized the opportunity, leapt with all his strength, and brought the stone down with a crash.

A hard stone struck the back of the soldier’s head. He had no time even to cry out; the sudden blow knocked him unconscious, his head lolling as he collapsed.

Shen Chen gulped air, wiped the sweat from his body, then straddled the soldier and continued to smash him with the stone.

Once, twice, three times.

He targeted the weakest points—the back of the skull and temples. After more than ten blows, blood splattered over him, and the soldier’s brain matter spilled onto the ground. The man was unmistakably dead.

The youth, drained of strength, flung the stone aside and lay on the ground, panting.

This was the first life he’d taken, but he knew it would not be the last. In this chaotic era, Shen Chen had seen countless corpses. Refugees from Qingzhou, fleeing to Xuzhou, had tried to plunder villages, only to be hacked to pieces by peasants wielding crude tools and kitchen knives. Dead bodies by the roadside were no rarity.

In such times, to avoid being killed, one must kill others. Eliminating all threats and gathering allies—that was the only way to survive, just as men like Cao Cao did.

After an indeterminate period, the screams from the south of the village subsided. Shen Chen regained composure, rose from the ground, and looked toward the distant fires—Cao’s troops, finished with the slaughter, now set the southern village ablaze.

Ignoring the pain in his hands, he approached the pavilion where the horses were tied. These pavilions stood along country roads, offering rest to travelers and local farmers. The horses were tethered to the pavilion’s pillars. Without a knife, Shen Chen had to untie the knots one by one—a tedious task.

Even freed, the warhorses, trained, did not immediately bolt. Shen Chen was forced to use the dead soldier’s torch to burn their tails, driving them to scatter.

By the time he released the sixth horse, the distant soldiers, alerted at last, shouted and charged toward him.

Shen Chen could not ride, but Eastern Han horses were mostly Mongolian ponies, averaging just over a meter in height, making mounting relatively easy.

Necessity became his teacher. He climbed onto a bench in the pavilion, leapt onto a horse’s back, grabbed the reins, turned its head, kicked its flanks, and slapped its rump.

He’d never eaten pork, but had seen pigs run. Though he’d never ridden a horse, he’d ridden cattle and donkeys. Horses ran less steadily, but the experience was similar.

The warhorse responded, galloping at speed, leaving the pursuers far behind, racing east toward Zeng Pavilion.