Chen Ping's Sword

"Looking towards Xijing, weeping with a blood-stained soul,

In the fire, lotus blooms bring waves of vitality;

Slay the Hu, equalize the land,

Righteousness reaches the heavens, bringing peace."

A faint and tender child’s voice flowed into Chen Ping’s ears. He pushed open the window and looked out to see a few children at the lakeside of Wenyuan Prefecture, playing with a shuttlecock, intermittently singing nursery rhymes.

At this time, it had been a little over a month since the battle in Wenyuan Valley, where a hundred thousand Beizhou Hu Cavalry were slain.

The war-torn and blackened Wenyuan City had once again revived with vitality.

This was not only because Chen Ping was personally overseeing the city, but also because most of the refugees fleeing from the north chose to settle in the one prefecture and nine counties of Wenyuan Prefecture.

As the saying goes, a blank sheet of paper is easy to paint on.

After the Beizhou Hu Cavalry ravaged the cities of Wenyuan Prefecture, not only did they become blank sheets but also the finest Xuan paper, ready to be painted as desired.

There was no one to hinder them, no external enemies, only the various buildings and shops in the city and the fertile land stretching for miles outside, making it clear that this was an ideal place for recuperation and settlement.

The returning citizens and the newly arrived impoverished refugees, after Chen Ping implemented new policies modeled after Xingqing Prefecture, began resettlement actions. Their first reaction was not pain or sorrow but disbelief.

"This land is distributed to us, rent paid based on land size, never to increase...?"

"What if Master Zhao returns?"

"Do we really only pay seventy percent rent? And only sixty percent for newly opened wastelands, belonging to us forever?"

"Is it really true?"

At such times, someone would loudly speak of the various seemingly paradisiacal scenes in Xingqing Prefecture today.

There was no oppression, no noble families, no diverse taxes, and even ordinary people could do business without restriction, moving freely among the cities with only a small toll.

Moreover, with family members working for the government or the army, some taxes would be reduced. Based on merit, they could receive subsidies and more land and houses.

"But it’s already late for spring sowing. The prospects are excellent, almost unbelievably so, but what about the next few months?"

Some did express concerns.

An old man, letting go of the child he was holding tightly, asked with trembling white whiskers.

It’s understandable to flee from disaster.

All of them were those who could no longer survive at home, suffering souls.

Along the way, encountering mountain bandits and the wanton slaughter by Beizhou Barbarians, their lives were a hundred times more miserable than stray dogs on barren land, with no extra food to stave off hunger.

Families scattered along the way, and those who survived did so by luck alone.

"Uncle, there’s no need to worry about that. King Ping’s most famous saying is that no one should starve within his governed towns and villages.

Whether it’s good or bad food, thick or thin, King Ping said as long as he has a bite, everyone will have something to eat."

A youth, dressed decently, smiled as he replied, his clothes washed to near-white.

"This... this this..."

While they still doubted, the aroma of porridge reached their noses.

Just five or ten miles away, there was a porridge stand set up by the government.

Some men and women, covered in dirt, followed the crowd, distributing tools, repairing houses and roads.

Their faces were filthy, but there was light in their eyes.

Some even noticed that these people’s bellies were all swollen.

A boy, thin as a skeleton, even burped, with white porridge spurting from his mouth.

"How wonderful!"

"Quickly, let’s go, what if we get there too late and there’s nothing left to eat?"

The old man, sharp-eyed, saw through the crowd’s gaps, someone holding a bowl, squatting under a willow tree, quickly downing half of the thick rice porridge, then squinting and shedding tears over the bowl of white porridge.

"This is real."

"How could anyone be foolish enough to use fine rice grain for disaster relief? Am I dreaming? If this is a dream, I’d rather it last longer."

Thinking about the hardships on the road and feeling the stones in his belly, the old man, eyes brimming with tears, touched his granddaughter’s hair, dry as straw, and suddenly picked her up, sprinting towards the porridge aroma with all his might.

His staggering movements made the youth’s heart leap into his throat.

"Slow down, slow down, you won’t miss out. Don’t fall."

But he then realized that his shouting was futile.

Several dozen or a hundred ragged refugees rushed past, eyes glowing green like jackals in the wilderness, similarly emaciated and with tears in their eyes.

"...Slay the Hu, equalize the land,

Righteousness reaches the heavens, bringing peace."

The youth stopped, mumbling this line of the children’s rhyme, looked up at the sky, and smiled, "Yes, bringing peace."

The scene before him was just a microcosm of the Three Prefectures.

Not only Guangyuan Prefecture was like this, but Wuyan Prefecture and Ling Mountain Prefecture were the same.

Not to mention eating lavishly as Chen Ping saw it, ensuring these remaining citizens’ grain supply was not an issue.

Truly, the Beizhou Hu People were too brutal, too ruthless in their slaughter.

The natural and man-made disasters were too harsh on the people, greatly reducing their numbers.

Even though he issued various welfare policies, the attracted refugee populace couldn’t fill the three prefectures’ twenty-eight counties; nearly half of the houses were still vacant, and rich fields lay fallow.

Let alone clearing wasteland, vast swaths of ownerless land sat idly, somewhat regrettably.