Rise of a Lonely City: From Exiled Prince to Ruler of the Nine Provinces

On the border of Shangzhou, along the Blackwater River, lies Lijiawa.

This place was originally an inconspicuous river bend village in northern Jiangzhou, backed by rolling hills and facing a gentle tributary of the Blackwater River. Dozens of households lived by the water, barely making a living by relying on a barren riverbank and fishing.

In previous years, this time of year would have been a busy time for preparing for the autumn harvest, but now, as far as the eye can see, there is devastation everywhere.

Two weeks ago, continuous torrential rains turned the once docile tributary of the Blackwater River into a raging dragon. The turbid waters breached the simple earthen embankment upstream, carrying mud, sand, trees, and even broken roof frames and animal carcasses as they roared into the low-lying Lijiawa.

In an instant, most of the village was flooded. Villagers who couldn't escape perished in the water. Those who managed to reach the high ground behind the mountain could only watch helplessly as their homes turned into a swamp. A year's worth of food and meager belongings were all lost.

After the floodwaters receded, what remained were thick layers of silt, collapsed houses, rotting animal carcasses, and a nauseating stench that permeated the air.

The surviving thirty-odd households, totaling about a hundred people, were crammed into makeshift shacks, lacking food and clothing, plagued by injuries and illnesses, their eyes vacant, only numb with despair remaining.

The imperial court's relief? That was just a bunch of scribbles on a pamphlet at the entrance of the county government office, already soaked and ruined by rain.

The local gentry and wealthy families had already locked their doors, fearing that the disaster victims would steal their stored grain.

The shadow of the plague, like a circling vulture, loomed over everyone's heart.

Old Li squatted in front of his half-collapsed mud house, futilely digging through the thick mud with his hands, hoping to find something still usable, even a chipped earthenware pot.

He was in his fifties, as thin as a stick, his face etched with the marks of hardship and suffering.

His son was conscripted to repair the river embankment two years ago and never came back. His wife died of illness last year, leaving him with only a twelve-year-old granddaughter, Xiaoya, who depends on him for survival.

The little girl was curled up in a leaky shack nearby, running a high fever, her face flushed, and talking nonsense.

Old Li searched all the nearby hills but only managed to dig up a few handfuls of bitter wild vegetables, not enough to fill his stomach, let alone find medicine for his granddaughter.

"Grandpa...cold...hungry..." came the little girl's weak voice from inside the shack.

Li Laoshuan felt as if his heart had been pricked by needles.

He raised his head and looked at the gray sky. There were no tears in his cloudy old eyes, only a deathly grayness.

I can't go on living, I really can't go on living.

Perhaps, tomorrow, or the day after, he and Xiaoya will die quietly in this forgotten corner of the world, like those bloated animal carcasses, slowly rotting away, unnoticed and forgotten.

Just then, an unusual commotion arose from the direction of the village entrance, mixed with exclamations, cries, and... a kind of commotion that Li Laoshuan hadn't heard in a long time, carrying a hint of hope.

"They're here! They're really here!"

"It's someone from that prince in the north! They've brought grain!"

"Go check it out! It's over at the threshing ground!"

Li Laoshuan suddenly raised his head, his withered chest heaving violently a few times.

The prince from the north? Sending grain? He thought he must have misheard, or was dreaming.

But the little girl's painful groans in the shack pulled him back to reality.

He struggled to his feet and staggered toward the threshing ground at the village entrance.

The threshing ground, which was originally the only relatively flat and dry place in the village, is now muddy and muddy.

But on the sidelines, several large trucks were parked, completely covered with tarpaulins, and a dozen or so men dressed in matching gray short jackets, with short knives at their waists, and looking very energetic, stood beside them.

They weren't like fierce soldiers, nor were they like arrogant yamen runners; they simply guarded the vehicles silently, their sharp eyes scanning the surrounding, emaciated, and ragged villagers.

In the center of the crowd stood a middle-aged man wearing a slightly worn blue robe, with a lean face and gentle yet unwavering gaze—it was Zhou Tong.

Beside him were several young scholars, as well as two elderly men carrying medicine boxes and looking focused.

"Fellow villagers," Zhou Tong's voice wasn't loud, but it reached everyone's ears clearly. It carried a northern accent, yet strangely, it brought a sense of reassurance. "We have been ordered by the Prince of Jingbei to go south to provide relief to the disaster victims. We are already aware of the disaster situation in Lijiawa."

The prince has decreed that none of the people of our Great Xia should be abandoned in the face of this natural disaster.

Today, we set up a soup kitchen and a medicine distribution point here.

All villagers affected by the disaster can come to receive food rations and medicine by presenting their household registration or having their neighbors act as guarantors.

The elderly, the infirm, women, children, and those unable to cope will be given priority.

As soon as he finished speaking, the people behind him sprang into action.

Several men unloaded several large iron pots from the vehicle, quickly set them up, and started a fire.

Others unloaded bags of grain from the vehicle. When they opened them, they found golden millet. Although it was clearly old grain, the grains were plump and free of mold.

Several men unloaded a few rough but thick pieces of bluish-gray cloth and some bundled herbs from the cart.

"There really is food!"

"It's grain! Not bran!"

"And there's cloth! Thick cloth!"

"That's...that's Bupleurum! I recognize it! It can reduce fever!"

The crowd instantly stirred, and a faint light ignited in countless pairs of previously lifeless eyes.

Some people couldn't resist pushing forward, but were immediately stopped by the men in gray with polite but firm manner.

"Line up! Everyone line up! According to the rules set by the Prince, everyone gets a share, and no fighting is allowed!"

A gray-clad leader shouted, his voice booming and carrying a murderous aura honed on the battlefield, which immediately quieted the restless crowd.

Zhou Tong gestured to the young students around him to unfold a simple notice with basic relief regulations, which included registering names, receiving relief in order, and providing work-for-relief programs.

He personally explained in the simplest and most understandable language possible: "The prince is benevolent and compassionate, showing sympathy for everyone who has suffered from disaster."

These grains, cloth, and medicinal herbs were saved by the prince from the rations of the soldiers and civilians in the north. They were not much, but they could solve the immediate crisis.

However, one should not provide immediate relief but rather help those in dire need. The prince also knew that it is better to teach a man to fish than to give him a fish.

Those who received grain rations and were still in good health were required to do some work for the village, such as clearing silt, repairing damaged roads, digging drainage ditches, and preventing disease outbreaks.

The work performed will be paid according to the amount done, and there will be a food allowance. The elderly, the weak, the sick, and the disabled who are unable to work will be exempted.

The prince said, "Let's work together to clean up the village and repair the roads; only then will we have a way to survive!"

Work-for-relief! This term is novel, but the principle is simple and the villagers can understand it.

Yes, how long can we just wait for handouts? Taking matters into our own hands, cleaning up our homes, and repairing roads is the only long-term solution.

What's more, there's an extra food allowance for those who work!

"Your Highness... Your Highness is so benevolent!" An elderly woman with gray hair was about to kneel down when Zhou Tong quickly helped her up.

"Old man, no! The Prince said that all people in the world are brothers and sisters, and it is only right that they help each other when they are in trouble. If you want to thank someone, thank the Prince, but you should thank yourselves even more. If you are willing to take action, there is a way to survive!"

Soon, the registration process began.

Li Laoshuan squeezed into the crowd and gave his and his granddaughter's names.

The young student in charge of registration was kind and inquired carefully about the family situation. Upon hearing that Xiaoya was sick, he immediately summoned the old doctor who was accompanying the team.

The old doctor had white hair and beard, but he was quick and agile. He followed Li Laoshuan to the shack, carefully took the girl's pulse, examined her tongue, and took out several packets of herbs from his medicine box.

"It is caused by internal invasion of dampness, combined with hunger and cold, and the pathogenic factors entering the body and transforming into heat."

Boil Bupleurum, Kudzu Root, and Licorice Root together and drink the decoction to induce sweating.

This packet of mugwort, when burned to fumigate the shed, will dispel dampness and ward off evil.

The child is weak and needs careful care. Go get a bowl of hot porridge to warm his stomach.

The old doctor spoke gently, placing the medicine packet into Li Laoshuan's hand and whispering instructions on how to prepare and take it.

Holding the packets of medicine still fragrant with herbs, Li Laoshuan listened to the old doctor's gentle words, looked at the thick porridge bubbling in the porridge stall not far away, exuding the long-lost aroma of rice, and then looked at the gray-clad men who, though silent, were already organizing the able-bodied men to clear the mud at the village entrance, and at the banner embroidered with the words "Jingbei Prince's Neighborly Relief" fluttering in the cold wind...

His eyes, which had been dry for so long, suddenly stung, and hot tears welled up, streaming down his deeply lined cheeks and dripping onto the muddy ground.

This is not a dream.

it is true.

Someone really came to rescue them.

It wasn't the imperial court, the government, or those high-ranking officials, but rather a "Prince of the North" thousands of miles away, someone they had never heard of and were even somewhat afraid of.

"Little Ya... Little Ya is saved... We... We are saved..." Old Li murmured to himself, clutching the medicine packet tightly, as if grasping at the last chance of life.

He turned to face north, knelt down in the mud with a thud, and kowtowed three times. His forehead was covered in mud, but he didn't care.

"Thank you, Your Highness! Thank you for saving my life!" he shouted in a hoarse voice.

His actions inspired the surrounding villagers.

More and more people, holding the steaming hot millet porridge they had just received, or a small piece of coarse cloth, or medicinal herbs, knelt down facing north, choking back tears, crying out their gratitude.

The banner of "Prince Jingbei" was no longer a distant and vague symbol in their eyes, but a lifeline and a hope for survival.

Similar scenes played out repeatedly in the disaster-stricken villages, intersections, and temporary gathering points that Zhou Tong's relief team passed through.

The food, cloth, and medicine they brought were limited and could not benefit all the disaster victims, but their arrival was like a stone thrown into a stagnant pond, stirring up ripples of hope.

Their work-for-relief approach not only helped the disaster victims, but also gradually restored order and vitality from the ruins.

Every monument they erected, every patient they treated, every bowl of hot porridge they distributed, and every road they repaired silently tells the story of one name—Xiao Chen, the Prince of Jingbei.

"I've heard that the Prince of Jingbei in the north is a formidable warrior who has subdued the Northern Yan barbarians. I never imagined he'd be so kind-hearted as well..."

"The imperial court? Where is the imperial court's grain? All the officials know is to increase taxes and conscript more people!"

"If only we could go north, I heard there's no more fighting there, and the prince is even allocating land to us..."

"Shh, keep your voice down! But... if that day ever comes..."

Rumors and discussions quietly circulated among the surviving disaster victims.

Disappointment and resentment towards the imperial court, along with gratitude and longing for that prince in the distant north, sprouted and spread like wild grass on the scarred land after the flood receded.

The will of the people, the most elusive yet most powerful force, began to undergo a subtle yet profound shift under the catalysis of disaster and the intentional or unintentional guidance of the banner of "Prince Jingbei".

Zhou Tong stood on a newly cleared high ground, watching the disaster victims below, organized by the Hanyuan Disaster Relief Team, orderly cleaning their homes and receiving relief. Looking at the flag fluttering in the wind, he was filled with emotion.

The prince's move was truly... subtle and gentle, yet it struck right at the heart.

What was given was only some old grain and coarse cloth, but what was gained was an immeasurable amount of public support.

He knew that when these disaster victims survived the winter, when they walked on the roads repaired with funds donated by the Prince of Jingbei, and when they told their descendants who gave them a bowl of porridge and a dose of medicine to save them during the flood, the name "Prince of Jingbei" would be like a seed, deeply buried in their hearts.

Given the right opportunity, these seeds may sprout and grow into towering trees.

The southward shift of public sentiment does not refer to geography, but rather to the direction in which people's hearts and minds are directed.

The small disaster relief team dispatched by Xiao Chen was like a pebble thrown into the turbulent waters of the south, and the ripples it created were quietly spreading to a wider area.

And this may be a more solid foundation than any military victory.