Chapter Sixty-One: Life for a Life

No wonder Turush surrendered so readily; it turned out he belonged to a small tribe forced to the border. Lu Qing did not doubt him. This time, the invasion by the Oirat had dragged along many small tribes from the frontier, but compared to the main Oirat camp, these minor tribes were insignificant in strength and had always feared the Ming army. Usually, they only slipped past the border walls to commit acts of horse thievery, never daring to truly engage the Ming troops in battle.

Moreover, according to Turush, the dozen Oirat soldiers who died in battle were sent by Getu to supervise them; if these men had survived, Turush would not have dared to surrender so quickly. With their deaths, the weight of the Oirat “lords” was lifted from their heads, and these “pseudo-army” tribes naturally submitted. Had their numbers been greater, perhaps they could have fought the Ming, but Turush commanded only eighty-odd men and would never risk a desperate fight.

Bullying the weak and fearing the strong, shifting with the wind—such was the survival code for these small tribes.

“Where are the Getu men?”

Lu Qing was particularly concerned about the movements of the Getu tribe southward along the Qingshi River. He felt less threatened by the eastern movement of the Ala main camp; it was Getu that posed an immediate danger, a veritable roadblock. If he could glean the exact marching route of the Getu tribe from Turush, then he could avoid them on the path ahead.

Turush, however, shook his head. “I do not know the whereabouts of Lord Getu.”

Lu Qing raised his brow at this, displeasure flickering across his face. He snorted coldly, “Getu left your tribe to guard this fortress—how could you not know his whereabouts? Are you withholding information?”

“I truly do not know! I was coerced here and am not one of Lord Getu’s trusted men. Why would he tell me where he was going... I only know Lord Getu headed south, but what he intends I honestly do not know. His orders to me were only to guard this place; nothing more.”

Turush indeed had no knowledge of Getu’s movements. His expression showed no sign of evasion as he spoke.

“Is that so?” Lu Qing saw Turush was genuinely ignorant and felt a headache coming on.

“Every word I speak is true. If I have lied even once, may I die a miserable death!”

Turush had learned Han speech since childhood and understood Han customs, so he hurriedly swore an oath to prove he was not deceiving them.

“Brave sir, you have seen for yourself—we did not oppose the Ming, only came under duress. When we heard the heavenly army had arrived, we threw down our arms and surrendered. Please accept our submission, and from now on we are willing to serve the Ming Emperor!”

“To serve the Ming Emperor?” Lu Qing sneered. These barbarians were cunning indeed; when nothing happened, they followed the Oirat in pillage, but at the first sign of trouble, they switched faces and offered their allegiance to the Ming. Whichever side was stronger, their lives would be spared—they were slick and shrewd.

Unable to learn Getu’s whereabouts, Lu Qing did not wish to waste further words with Turush. These tribes had already been subdued by the Ming; whether they truly submitted or not, in the face of overwhelming strength, they could only bow their heads. It was not their loyalty to the Ming that mattered, but the power before them. Those who refused to submit had already been slain; those who remained were the cowed, their spirits broken.

Lu Qing was about to speak to Song Bangde, when Jiang Tong strode up, gave Turush a cold glance, then whispered a few words in Lu Qing’s ear. Hearing them, Lu Qing’s expression changed dramatically, and he followed Jiang Tong in wide strides, leaving Turush standing bewildered.

Song Bangde saw this and knew something was amiss. He quickly ordered Lin Xiaoqi and the others to guard the surrendering tribes closely, then led his men to find out what had happened.

...

When Lu Qing followed Jiang Tong to the outside of the Jin Family Fort’s command post, he found Zheng Xiu and a dozen Ming soldiers already there. As Lu Qing approached, everyone instinctively stepped aside, and none spoke.

Inside, even though Lu Qing had heard something of the situation from Jiang Tong, what he saw still made him draw a sharp breath.

Before him lay dozens of female corpses, heaped together, all completely naked.

The women had died in various ways—some strangled, some disemboweled with a long blade, some with their lower bodies smashed and bleeding, others with their breasts gouged out.

To the left of the pile lay a dozen arms, casually thrown, severed from those corpses. If one crouched to examine them closely, one would find blood and flesh under the nails, some even tangled with strands of hair.

The bodies were stacked so thickly that the expressions of the women beneath could not be seen, only the ones on top, glaring with wide-open eyes, unable to rest in death.

Suppressing his sorrow, Lu Qing turned over a corpse whose head had been facing inward. As her head rolled toward him, he froze—her mouth had been torn apart, with not a single tooth left in her jaws, several broken teeth fused with blood and flesh stuck to her split mouth.

Lu Qing could not bear to look further, gently closed her broken jaw, and silently stepped back.

“There are more behind,” Jiang Tong said, his voice so cold and emotionless that it betrayed nothing of his inner state.

Behind the house was a well; its blue-brick rim was stained with blood, and the wooden bucket swung empty from the rope.

Lu Qing glanced around—no bodies in sight—and looked at Jiang Tong in confusion. Jiang Tong said nothing, merely pointed into the well, then turned away, refusing to look.

As Lu Qing took a torch from a Ming soldier nearby, he noticed the veins bulging on Jiang Tong’s neck.

He stepped to the well, leaned over, and peered into its depths by torchlight.

At first glance, nothing could be seen in the dark water below.

On the second look, however, clusters of black hair floated on the surface.

Suddenly, the water rippled gently. Lu Qing started, thinking there was someone alive below and was about to call for help, but then saw a pale, slender arm slowly rise from the depths.

The arm was stiff—utterly lifeless.

No sign of life; it bent out of the water and remained motionless for a long time.

Lu Qing’s hand trembled uncontrollably. For a long while, he withdrew his gaze and stepped away from the well, turning to see Song Bangde’s ashen face.

The two left the command post, their hearts heavy, and outside, a crowd had gathered.

More than three hundred women in ragged clothes knelt on the ground, saying nothing, only the sound of quiet sobbing.

“Let them pay for my child’s life!”

A middle-aged woman, clutching a girl in her arms, bowed deeply to Lu Qing and Song Bangde, her forehead striking the ground so hard it bled, yet she continued to bow again and again, each heavy blow reverberating through the hearts of all present.

As Lu Qing’s gaze fell from the bloodied forehead of the woman to the girl in her arms, his face twisted with rage—he saw that the girl, only seven or eight years old, had blood streaming from her lower body.