Chapter Twelve: Killing for Fame

Kong Luodi nodded busily from the side. “Yes, in fact, leaving your name behind like that is a very unwise thing to do.”

Jin Big Knife shot Kong Luodi a glare. “That’s exactly what I hate about you scholars! A real man acts boldly and takes responsibility for his deeds; what’s there to fear about leaving a name? If trouble comes, we face it head-on. Besides, we took Brother Liu’s body away—any fool would know it was us. Trying to hide won’t get us anywhere!”

Kong Luodi shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. If you hadn’t left your name, the authorities could still blame the Russians. Now they can’t. What you did isn’t just leaving a name—it’s a provocation!”

Yang Xiaolin said, “The steward is right. So, what should we do next?”

Yang Xiaolin was deliberately provoking them, but he had his own plans. With the commotion this matter would cause, the Qing dynasty was bound to send troops to suppress them. Even if the Qing soldiers didn’t want to come, the Russians would force them. To fight the Qing army with barely two hundred ragtag followers? If the Qing forces had plenty of time to prepare and returned in the spring, Yang Xiaolin doubted he could win. So he needed to seize the moment and create the illusion of victory.

It was already October; winter was just around the corner. If the Qing could mobilize quickly, as long as Yang Xiaolin could hold out for a month or so, heavy snow would block the mountain passes, forcing them to retreat. One victory would be enough to build up his troops’ confidence. His reputation would grow, and people would come to join him—or seek his protection.

Kong Luodi pondered for a moment, clicking his tongue and shaking his head. “It’s difficult. Given the current situation, our chances of winning are slim. We could call Gu Tianming over; he knows the terrain in Changbai Mountains well. If all else fails, we could move to another peak.”

To Kong Luodi, this battle was unwinnable. But Yang Xiaolin had already made his calculations.

The situation was dire—but was it harsher than the sparks that once flew on Jinggang Mountain? When the Grand Founder led hundreds up Jinggang Mountain, even small-time bandits challenged him. And what happened after? Those sparks became a raging wildfire.

Yang Xiaolin dared not compare himself to the Grand Founder, but the template was right there. He could follow it, step by step. Perhaps, in the not-so-distant future—no, not perhaps, but certainly—someone would record in the annals of history that the great fire of resistance against the Qing began here, on Wheel Mountain!

Lost in his fantasies, Yang Xiaolin couldn’t help but smile. “Wheel Mountain is our territory—now and forever! Let’s return to the mountain. Tell Gu Tianming to divide the grain we seized from the Russians into two parts. Keep enough for us until next spring, and give the rest to the villagers within several hundred miles around Wheel Mountain!”

This decision shocked Jin Big Knife and Kong Luodi. They exchanged glances, making sure they hadn’t misheard, then reacted in starkly different ways.

Jin Big Knife looked exasperated, cursing, “You wastrel!”

Meanwhile, Kong Luodi’s eyes lit up. He sensed that since Yang had awakened, he’d changed completely. Distributing grain to the people—excellent! Even if he was now a bandit, at least someone would call him a chivalrous thief.

Over a hundred men pushed carts and wagons toward Wheel Mountain. Outside Fengtian City, aside from the Qing troops sent earlier to lay siege to Wheel Mountain, there were no other units. The women kept their word and stayed inside, not stepping a foot outside the gates. Their journey was smooth, and by dawn, they’d covered half the distance, with no fear of pursuit.

But inside Fengtian City, it was chaos.

The women’s relatives had already gathered outside the city. They’d spent the night in tears, nearly collapsing from worry. The men cursed their own helplessness, while parents wept for their daughters.

The magistrate had brought his troops early to the gates, still intent on maintaining order. He feared disturbing the foreign dignitaries and incurring their wrath. So he lined up his soldiers, keeping the desperate citizens of the Qing dynasty outside the gates.

The crowd’s emotions were volatile, as if the situation could spiral out of control at any moment. Though it was late autumn, sweat poured from the magistrate’s brow. He tirelessly paced up and down, shouting, “What’s all this noise? Do you all have a death wish? I’m telling you, there’s nothing wrong—nothing! We’re keeping you back for your own good. I’m stopping you with rifles, but if you go to the Russians, they’ll use cannons! Behave yourselves and don’t forget what’s good for you!”

He shouted here and there, his throat growing hoarse. Zhao Yansun passed him a bowl of cool tea at just the right moment. The magistrate drank it in one gulp, wiping his lips. “General Zhao, you kept watch last night? Nothing strange happened inside?”

Zhao Yansun nodded. “Rest assured, sir. I watched carefully. The Russian general told me himself—they were shooting and firing cannons in celebration.”

The magistrate nodded, wiping his brow with his sleeve. “Good, good. As long as nothing’s wrong. These honored guests are leaving today; once they’re gone, this place will be peaceful again.”

Zhao Yansun’s eyes darted as he leaned in to ask quietly, “Sir, if something really happened to those women, how should we handle it?”

The magistrate glared at him. “You think I don’t have enough trouble already? Don’t bother me with such trivial matters! Tomorrow, send a few reliable men to my hometown. Bring my father here so he knows I’m a magistrate—let my family enjoy the news, understand?”

Zhao Yansun nodded quickly. “Yes, yes, I understand.”

Finally, the gates of Ganzi Tun opened, and a group of women poured out, running and crying. Their relatives rushed past the Qing soldiers, searching for their loved ones in the crowd.

A smile appeared on the magistrate’s face. “These Russians are decent—kept their word and released everyone. General Zhao, I think we can withdraw now.”

But Zhao Yansun kept his eyes on the gates of Ganzi Tun. He noticed something odd: most of the women carried bundles, likely containing miscellaneous items. Could it be the Russians paid them? That didn’t make sense. And from the moment the gates opened, not a single Russian soldier was to be seen. The gates stayed open, never closing again—quite suspicious.

Zhao Yansun thought for a moment. “Sir, something might have happened inside Ganzi Tun.”

“What happened?” The magistrate was bewildered.

Zhao Yansun shook his head. “I can’t guess, but we should send someone in to check.”

The magistrate’s eyes shifted. Sending someone might seem rude, but since he was right there, it would be awkward if the foreigners learned he lingered outside. If they got angry, he’d be in trouble.

“Let’s go ourselves,” he said.

Moving with some trepidation, the magistrate and Zhao Yansun slowly entered Ganzi Tun. They failed to notice how the women behind them suddenly acted strangely. After finding their relatives and crying for a while, they quickly—almost as if by prior agreement—left the Qing soldiers and hurried away from the area with their families.

Zhao Yansun called out several times at the entrance, but no one answered. He steeled himself and stepped inside. Just past the first sentry post, he saw three Russian corpses lying in a corner, blood already congealed—dead at least two or three hours.

Zhao Yansun’s face turned pale. The magistrate followed, and upon seeing the bodies, collapsed to the ground in despair. “It’s over, it’s over! Which bastard did this? Are they trying to ruin me?”