Chapter 2: The Bandit Conscription

A quarter of an hour later, a chorus of barking dogs broke the calm in a corner of the mountain village, but the commotion quickly died down, unnoticed by those enjoying the cool of the evening. After another half hour, in a poplar grove outside the village, four shivering boys huddled around a fire, the faint phosphorescence from scattered burial mounds barely illuminating their faces. Whether it was the chill night air or sheer fright that made them tremble, it was hard to say.

Propped over the simple campfire were three half-singed chickens, feathers still intact. The ringleader, eyes bright with excitement, kept turning the roasting birds, his throat working as he swallowed repeatedly, unable to tear his gaze from the meal—an enthusiasm that stood in stark contrast to the somber mood of his companions.

The firelight flickered over his sallow face; who else could this be but Hu San, the boy rumored to have returned from starvation’s door? Beside him, a chubby lad named Tiger licked his dry lips nervously, staring fixedly at one of the chickens as if trying to recognize his family’s once-proud, strutting speckled hen. No matter how hard he searched for familiar features, he found nothing left of his former pet. The other two boys, likewise, scrutinized the remaining birds, each recognizing one from their own households.

As the flames grew, the aroma of roasting chicken, tinged with the scent of char, drifted on the night breeze. The initial thrill faded; apart from Hu San, whose eyes still sparkled, the others began to look regretful. Only now, faced with the mangled chickens, did they seriously consider the reckoning that would come from their elders, and their faces clouded with worry. The legendary taste of chicken suddenly seemed far less appealing.

Sensing their unease, Hu San’s eyes darted craftily. Understanding his friends’ fears, he tore his gaze from the scorched chickens and coaxed, “You have nothing to worry about. It’s dark, our uncles and elders are all cooling off at the village gate. If we eat quickly and destroy the evidence, slip back before they return, who will ever know?”

“And besides, if we’re found out, I, Hu San, will take the blame. It’s not as if I’d betray you.” As his friends’ expressions eased a little, Hu San, satisfied, pulled the charred chickens off the fire, selected the medium-sized one, and handed it to the others, urging, “This is legendary chicken, you know! Who among us has ever tasted it?”

“Don’t you remember the elders always saying warriors feast on meat and wine? Forget it—if you’re worried, all three chickens are mine; this one is a gift to you, my brothers. That way, even if trouble comes, you are blameless, isn’t that right?” He pressed the chicken into Tiger’s hands and, without further ado, tore into the remaining two himself.

The scent of chicken spread rapidly; crude as the preparation was—no salt, no vinegar, the taste marred by burnt skin—the flavor of meat was still unmistakable. For boys who had scarcely ever tasted flesh, the allure was overwhelming.

Seeing Hu San eat with such gusto, the others exchanged glances, Adam’s apples bobbing, then finally succumbed, reaching out for their share.

Only now did Hu San relax. If his friends had resisted and let slip the secret under pressure, he’d have been in serious trouble. Now, even if they’d only eaten one chicken between them, they were complicit; no matter what fine words Hu San spoke, the guilt was shared. The logic was clear, no need to spell it out.

At ease, Hu San turned his attention to his prize: he’d had his eye on this queenly old hen for months, and his hunger was only part of the reason. Well before tonight, he and his friends had been plotting to raid the chicken flocks.

Under the summer moonlight, amidst dimly lit graves, beside the ghostly blue fire, the four boys sat on the ground, devouring their illicit feast, sweat streaming down their faces. Had anyone stumbled upon them in that uncanny setting, they might have died of fright.

But under the spell of roast meat, all fear of ghosts vanished. Who cared for a grave or a will-o’-the-wisp when there was chicken to gnaw? Even if a real specter had appeared, they’d have finished their bones first.

When the feast was over, little was left but a few feathers—nothing else survived, not even the bones, which the boys crunched up and swallowed. Everything had gone according to Hu San’s plan. He leaned back against a tomb, savoring the lingering taste of chicken, rubbing his full belly, and changed his tone abruptly to warn the others about the dangers if their secret was discovered.

The effect was immediate; the three boys paled and solemnly swore to keep silent. Before they parted, Hu San arranged for future cooperation, and, amid calls of “Third Brother! Third Brother!” the little band slipped out of the woods, heading back to the village to play their parts in the ongoing charade.

But at the village gate, it was not the usual cluster of gossiping villagers who awaited them.

Standing on the path, the boys saw a line of blazing red torches, winding like a serpent around the village, sealing it tight. The once-peaceful night erupted in chaos—shouts, curses, savage laughter filled the air.

The pounding of hooves echoed through the mountains, drowning out the cicadas, whose nightly chorus was cut short as if by a strangled rooster. Only the clamor at the village entrance grew louder.

“Bandits!” Hu San muttered, exchanging a terrified look with his pale-faced companions. His body trembled uncontrollably.

They’d often daydreamed about the legendary bandits, perhaps even fancied themselves roaming heroes one day. But now, face-to-face with real killers, none felt the slightest thrill—only dread.

Murder, rape, pillage—such words clung to the bandits’ reputation like a shadow.

The villages were the lifeblood of the bandits. Normally, they paid tribute to the nearest stronghold, like counties did to the kingdom, in exchange for peace. The bandits’ chiefs would restrain their men from attacking the villages, but there were no ironclad rules—just a tacit understanding.

For the bandits, such agreements meant little; mercy was a favor, violence their right. Was it not said that every year, villages were wiped out by marauders? In these endless mountains, each stronghold was its own kingdom, the hills a battlefield of feuding warlords.

The four boys shook with terror. Even Hu San, usually the boldest, was stricken with fear.

Suddenly, they shouted in unison and sprinted for the village. Like fledglings seeking shelter under a parent’s wing, there was nowhere else to turn but home. Hiding and waiting out the disaster was too advanced for their young minds to conceive.

After a frantic dash, they reached the village entrance. There, all the villagers had been rounded up. Under the glare of torches, three men in crimson stood atop the Egg Stone, surrounded by sneering bandits.

On the ground between the villagers and the stone lay several mutilated corpses—men and women. The women’s clothes were torn, their eyes wide open in an unseeing stare; the men’s heads lay severed, blood soaking the earth black.

The bandits ignored the four boys; they were used to such scenes. They knew that by night, children would always run home; that, perhaps, was why they struck under cover of darkness.

Hu San quickly found his family in the crowd and darted to them, expecting a scolding. But his father did nothing; his mother simply seized him and hid him behind her.

A moment later, as Hu San stealthily watched the three chiefs on the Egg Stone, a bandit reported that no one had escaped.

One of the chiefs, a burly man with stubbled cheeks, stepped forward, brandishing a hammer the size of a millstone. His eyes blazed as he roared, “Listen well! I am Mohe, third chief of Wolfheart Stronghold. By order of the Grand Chief, we now take over the Wolf Fang Mountain region.”

“All who live in Wolf Fang Mountain’s domain have a duty to serve the stronghold, as we protect this land. By the Grand Chief’s command, each household must send two adult men to the mountains to join us, to become brothers of the stronghold.”

At these words, a murmur of panic swept the villagers. For all his fine words, it was clear—conscription. No matter the time or place, it meant families torn apart.

As the noise rose, the stubbled chief slammed his twin hammers together with a thunderous crash.

It was as if a bolt of lightning had struck overhead; the villagers’ ears rang, and the weaker ones nearly collapsed.

In concert, the surrounding bandits drew their long blades; the clatter of steel flashed in the firelight, cold and deadly.

Silence fell.

“The Grand Chief is merciful, lifting you from your fields to greatness—a debt as heavy as a mountain. Do not forget it,” the chief sneered.

“If any of you truly cannot comply, the Grand Chief will not force you. But for fairness, each missing recruit costs five taels of silver. If you lack the sum, make it up among yourselves.”

“But do not think the Grand Chief can be trifled with. Those who fail to meet the quota—look to these as your example!” He pointed at the corpses on the ground.