Chapter Nine: Resolving the Crisis in Mo Family Village

By the time Moton and the rest of the villagers returned to Mo Family Village, night had fallen. The fifty-mile journey had left everyone physically exhausted, yet their hearts were alive with excitement and exhilaration, fueling them with boundless energy.

Especially when they saw the flickering lights at the village entrance, a warmth spread through every heart.

“They’re back!” someone at the entrance cried out upon seeing the caravan’s return.

In an instant, a crowd of villagers surged forth, running to greet them. Some hurried to take over the carts, others handed out food and warm water.

“How did it go? Did you manage to sell the fish?” Uncle Wang, the one-armed elder, came to Moton, his voice trembling with anticipation.

The other villagers watched with hopeful faces, though those who took charge of the carts felt a sinking feeling—there wasn’t a single sack of grain in sight on the water wagons.

“Did you fail to sell them?” some worried villagers wondered.

Moton didn’t keep them in suspense. He simply ordered the wagons to be opened.

“What? Is all this grain?” Uncle Wang cried out in delight.

“Of course! All fifteen wagons are filled with grain,” Moton replied with pride.

“That’s wonderful!” Cheers erupted among the villagers of Mo Family Village, who hurried off to spread the joyous news.

“But why did you store it in the water wagons? What if the grain spoils?” Uncle Wang asked, visibly distressed. The other villagers wore the same pained expressions—today the wagons had been used to transport fish, making them damp and unsuitable for storing grain.

“What else could we do?” Li Yi stepped forward. “All we had were the water wagons; there was no way to pile up the grain. It was the young master’s idea to pour the grain straight into the wagons. The grain on top can be dried tomorrow and will still be good, and the damp grain at the bottom, we’ll just eat that first. Nothing will go to waste.”

Indeed, with more than five thousand people in Mo Family Village, fifteen carts of grain would be gone in just a few days—it would never have time to spoil.

The villagers welcomed the fish-selling party back as heroes. Tonight, Mo Family Village would be sleepless, for every household had been given a share of the grain.

“Eat without worry! Don’t try to save it—every day from now on, we’ll bring back grain from selling fish. We’ll never lack for food again.” Old Fu, speaking for Moton, delivered these words at every doorstep as he handed out grain.

“Thank you, young master, thank you!” Widow Zhao, with her son of just over ten years, thanked him again and again. They were the family of a fallen hero—she, a frail widow; her son, still a child. They survived only through the kindness of the villagers.

Even so, their days had been bitter and full of hardship. Now, to learn they need never go hungry again—happiness had come so suddenly, it was almost overwhelming.

“Mother, I want to eat flatbread!” her young son said, licking his lips as he gazed at their half-sack of grain.

“Alright, I’ll make it for you right now,” Widow Zhao replied, tears brimming in her eyes as she went to the kitchen.

Such households were common in Mo Family Village. Soon, smoke from cooking fires curled up from every home. Those who had participated in catching and selling fish each received thirty copper cash as wages—their homes were filled with celebration. After all, earning a string of coins in a month was a rare blessing.

Chang’an City.

Qin Qiong unbuckled his heavy armor and, unable to stand, nearly collapsed. Madam Qin, alarmed, rushed forward to support him.

“You! Always overexerting yourself, refusing to step back from your duties even though your health can’t take it—have you forgotten all you suffered in the past?” she reproached him.

All of Chang’an knew of Qin Qiong’s frailty, yet no one showed him the slightest disrespect, for every ailment was the mark of his valor and sacrifice on the battlefield.

“It’s nothing. Compared to my old brothers-in-arms, I count myself lucky,” Qin Qiong replied with his usual optimism.

“You never take it seriously!” Madam Qin chided him, then pulled him to the dining table. “Come, today I’ve made something nourishing for you.”

A steaming bowl of softshell turtle soup was set before him, its aroma whetting his appetite.

Qin Qiong had been running about all day and was famished. He dug in eagerly.

“How satisfying!” He drained the last drop of broth and set the bowl down with a thud. “You’re so thoughtful! Such fine turtle is hard to come by,” he said, his eyes softening.

Madam Qin blushed and replied playfully, “I can’t take the credit—this was sent by Mo Family Village.”

“Mo Family Village? Mo Lie’s fief?” Qin Qiong asked, suddenly serious.

“Yes, their steward, Fu, brought it this morning. Besides this turtle, he delivered a generous supply of fresh fish as well,” she explained.

“Ah, Fu is truly thoughtful!” Qin Qiong mused, then remembered something. “By the way, check if we have surplus grain in the estate and send some to Mo Family Village. The whole Guanzhong region has suffered disaster this year; grain prices have soared. Times must be harsh for them. What a shame—had Mo Lie not died so young, and if the Mo clan hadn’t refused to bow to those high-hatted scholars, things wouldn’t be so hard for their village.”

Qin Qiong and Mo Lie had been comrades-in-arms. Mo Lie had commanded the Divine Artisans’ Battalion, while Qin Qiong was a vanguard. Whenever Qin Qiong charged into battle, it was Mo Lie who cleared the way for him. Theirs was a bond forged in life and death.

Yet, because Mo Lie and his kin were identified as disciples of the Mo School, they were ostracized by the scholars and Confucians. After the empire’s unification, when honors and titles were distributed, much of Mo Lie’s merit was glossed over by those high-hatted men. Otherwise, his rank would have been far higher. Worse, when lands were allotted, the scholars schemed against him, leaving Mo Lie with only the poorest fields.

Qin Qiong knew all the details of Mo Lie’s plight and had always looked out for Mo Family Village.

“But you don’t know the latest—Mo Family Village may never lack for grain again,” Madam Qin teased, keeping him in suspense.

“What do you mean?” Qin Qiong tensed. The village was full of retired soldiers from the Divine Artisans’ Battalion—he knew firsthand their mettle. If hunger drove them to desperate acts, it could spell disaster. After all, even a hero can be brought low by poverty. For so many people, would some be forced to extremes?

“What are you thinking?” Madam Qin gave him a reproachful look. After so many years together, she knew exactly what was on his mind.

She no longer kept him guessing and explained in detail how Mo Family Village had advertised live fish throughout Chang’an, how their fresh fish had become a sensation, and even how they had traded for grain. Madam Qin’s meticulousness was apparent—when Steward Fu delivered the fish, she had already realized that Qin Qiong would never forget his old friend, and so she had kept a quiet watch over the Mo clan’s affairs.

“The secret of live fish,” Qin Qiong murmured in amazement. He had never imagined that the Mo Family Village would use such a method to change their fate.

Still, a faint unease lingered in his heart. By spreading the word as Moton had done, Mo Family Village had indeed averted disaster, but it had also brought the Mo clan back into the public eye—and whether that was a blessing or a curse remained to be seen.

“Moton,” Qin Qiong whispered inwardly, committing to memory the name of his old friend’s descendant.