Yang Guo: I defied death and reached the heavens in The Return of the Condor Heroes

After several more journeys, they crossed the Huai River and entered the territory of Henan.

In the towns and villages, Mongol cavalry, Semu merchants, and Jurchen remnants mingled and mingled.

Mongol soldiers rode their horses across the long street, and the people had no choice but to step aside and move to the side of the road.

The officials in charge of the government office and the tax collectors were mostly Mongols and Semu people. They imposed heavy taxes on the local Han people, and if anyone dared to argue, they would be beaten with sticks.

Guo Jing sold the fine horse he had bought in Jiangnan and bought two weak and thin donkeys in return.

They then changed out of their brocade robes and into coarse linen short coats, dressing like ordinary Mongolian people in the north.

He whispered to Yang Guo:

"The area north of the Huai River and the Central Plains of Henan are now under Mongol control. I used to live in the Mongol army for a long time, and it would be easy for my former subordinates to recognize me, which would only bring me endless trouble."

The two deliberately changed their clothes and rode their donkeys at a slow pace.

Along the way, we frequently encountered abandoned villages, with dilapidated houses, overgrown fields, and wild grass growing everywhere.

Many villages were deserted, with most of the people fleeing south to Xiangyang for refuge, while the rest were captured by the Mongols and taken to the north as slaves.

The two arrived at the ruins of a deserted village that had been destroyed by war.

A skeleton was half-buried among broken bricks and rocks, with a few pieces of coarse cloth still covering its body.

Guo Jing dismounted from the donkey, silently picked up the rubble, lightly covered the withered bones, and then moved large stones to build a simple tomb.

He stood alone in front of the grave for a long time before mounting the donkey, without uttering a single word the entire way.

As dusk fell, the two found a dilapidated earth temple to take shelter in for the time being.

Guo Jing lit a fire, warmed up the dry rations he carried, and shared them with Yang Guo.

Outside the temple, the wind and sand howled mournfully, the dilapidated temple gate leaned against the broken wall, and moonlight shone through the holes in the wall, spreading on the ground like scattered silver.

Yang Guo slowly chewed the dry, hard wheat cake, then suddenly asked:

"Uncle Guo, is this the suffering of people during times of war?"

Guo Jing remained silent for a moment, then flipped the flatbread in his hand over the fire.

He said slowly:

Before the Mongols marched south, the people were still relatively peaceful.

"In recent years, with constant warfare and the government's heavy taxation on grain and provisions, the people have naturally found it difficult to make a living."

"Not to mention that after the Central Plains and Henan came under the control of the Mongols, it has always been like this, and there is nothing that can be done about it."

He paused briefly, then continued:

"Uncle Guo grew up in Mongolia, where the herders in the north also suffered a lot."

"Alas, with war raging and battles raging everywhere, it is always the ordinary people who suffer, no matter where they are in the north or south."

Yang Guo said no more, but broke the wheat cake into small pieces and slowly put them into his mouth.

The firelight flickered, casting shadows on his face, making it impossible to discern his emotions.

As he traveled north, the devastation he witnessed along the way stirred a powerful emotion within him, reaching the very depths of his soul.

He didn't ask any more questions, nor did he say anything more.

But there were only those barefoot children picking up grains of rice by the roadside, the lame old man getting half a coarse cake at the teahouse, the poor woman begging for food along the street with her withered child in her arms, and the kind-hearted figure bending down to move stones to bury white bones.

All those images are etched into my heart, and will never be forgotten.

In his previous life, he lived in peace and tranquility for nearly thirty years and had never personally witnessed such a hell on earth.

The phrase "the people are living in misery" is only four characters long on the scroll.

The reality is that starving people are everywhere, villages have been burned to the ground, and poor mothers are begging for food in the streets but receiving nothing.

A heavy weight of sorrow pressed down on his heart, and he remained silent, but a seed of obsession had already been planted deep within him.

That night, he lay on a haystack, listening to the howling wind outside the temple, and tossed and turned for a long time before finally falling asleep.

The two then traveled for several more days before finally arriving at the Zhongnan Mountain area.

Yang Guo looked up and gazed into the distance.

Before me, the Fanchuan Plain is surrounded by towering peaks, with lush pine and cypress trees covering the mountains, and winding streams crisscrossing the landscape. The scenery is so beautiful and elegant that it is in no way inferior to Peach Blossom Island in the East China Sea.

The Quanzhen School received preferential treatment from the Mongol court, and Mongol troops rarely came to harass them.

Therefore, thanks to the protection of the Quanzhen Taoist sect, the village houses are intact and the fields are neat, and the people do not have to live in fear and anxiety like other Han people in the Central Plains.

Those who travel along the mountain path are mostly pilgrims who come to burn incense in the mountains or refined scholars who live in seclusion. There are very few displaced disaster victims along the way.

The two climbed the mountain path for half a day before reaching the foot of Zhongnan Mountain.

In the distance, atop a high hill, one can see an ancient temple hidden in the distance.

The area is surrounded by towering pines, with lush forests and dense shade covering the ground.

The temple buildings are like those of an ancient rural temple, lacking the grandeur and magnificence of royal temples; the buildings are simple and quiet.

The vermilion walls, weathered by time, are mottled and peeling. The gate is half-closed, and several ancient cypress trees lean out from the top of the wall, their branches and leaves lush and verdant, truly a secluded and tranquil place.

Guo Jing reined in the donkey and said to Yang Guo:

"Guo'er, Puguang Temple is just ahead."

"Let's go into the temple for a vegetarian meal and rest for a while before heading up the mountain."

Yang Guo nodded in agreement.

The two tied their mounts to a thick pine tree outside the temple and pushed open the gate to enter the temple.

The courtyard is small and quiet, with only seven or eight monks residing there.

The monk noticed that the two men were dressed in rough clothing, typical of Mongolian people from the north, and his expression became somewhat distant.

He hastily prepared two bowls of vegetarian noodles and a few cold, hard steamed buns for the two of them, placed them on a stone table outside the temple, and then left without paying any further attention.

The noodle soup was bland and tasteless, while the steamed buns were dry, hard, and gritty.

Guo and Yang sat facing each other on a stone bench under the shade of pine trees, eating their meal.

The autumn wind blew through the forest, the pine trees rustled, and the two people's clothes fluttered.

Guo Jing chewed on his simple vegetarian meal, looked up at the Fanchuan Valley, and a faint sense of melancholy rose in his eyes.

This tranquil landscape, so similar to the scenery of Jiangnan, made him think of Peach Blossom Island in the East China Sea.

A slight heaviness settled in his heart as memories of the island, unfulfilled promises, and the unsettled fate of Yang Guo flooded back.

Yang Guo silently lowered his head and ate his noodles.

The beautiful scenery before him was captivating, but in his eyes, it was nothing more than a secluded corner of the world.

After finishing his meal, Guo Jing got up and strolled slowly until he reached the depths of the pine forest, where he suddenly stopped.

Yang Guo followed his gaze and saw that behind a grove of ancient pines, wild grass grew and half-hidden an ancient blue stone tablet.

The monument is covered with moss and mostly obscured by weeds, with only the two characters "Changchun" faintly visible.

Guo Jing stepped forward, brushed aside the waist-high weeds, and lightly touched the cool stone tablet with his fingertips, revealing the entire inscription before his eyes.

"The heavens are vast and blue, yet they do not relieve the suffering of all living beings."

"All living beings are tortured day and night, swallowing their breath and dying in silence."

"I cry out to the heavens, but the heavens do not answer; I toil in vain for something so trivial."

"If only the universe could return to its original chaos, so that the Creator would not create spirits and creatures."

Guo Jing remained silent for a long time, his body trembling slightly.

Qiu Chuji, a senior disciple, was devoted to the common people and had compassion for the world throughout his life, but in the end, he was powerless to save all the people.

All his indignation and compassion were poured into his poems, which, through the long years, deeply resonated in his heart.

Guo Jing recalled Yang Kang's past and felt guilty and uneasy as he saw Yang Guo off to Zhongnan Mountain.

Along the way, seeing the devastation of the land and the poverty of the people, I felt a lump in my throat and hesitated several times before finally speaking. I was filled with immense resentment and sorrow.

In a daze, he unconsciously pressed his palm against the stone tablet, which immediately emitted a clear and melodious sound.

"Guo'er,"

Guo Jing's voice was slightly hoarse.

"This was made by your Grandmaster Qiu."

"Throughout his life, he was kind and compassionate, but in the end, he could not save the people from all kinds of suffering."

Yang Guo stood to the side, glancing down at the inscription on the stele.

In his previous life, Yang Guo was well-versed in literature and poetry, and was familiar with the records of all dynasties.

The poem inscribed on the monument is written with every word written in blood, and every line is filled with resentment and indignation.

He read it in silence, pondering to himself:

The world is like a furnace for forging life, tempering all kinds of suffering in the common people, never showing favoritism or bias.

A heart full of compassion for saving the world, placed amidst the chaos of war, is ultimately futile and powerless, and can hardly quell the turmoil of a land torn apart.

Only by tempering oneself, becoming a strong person, and taking control of the world can one quell the chaos of war and protect the peace of the people across the land.

Seeing his calm expression, Guo Jing assumed he was young and naive, unaware of the vicissitudes in the poem, and sighed softly, saying nothing more.