Chapter Sixty-Three: Madness

After several Ming soldiers hauled over a large boulder and thoroughly sealed the well, Lu Qing stepped out from the rear courtyard. He lingered for a moment in the house where the women's corpses were piled, then instructed Jiang Tong and the others to carry the bodies outside the fortress for burial, telling them to piece together the remains as best as possible so that these pitiful women would not lie dismembered beneath the earth.

Song Bangde had already taken people to inventory the supplies within the fortress; with his experience, Lu Qing had no need to worry. Lin Xiaoqi had ridden off to inform Eunuch Guo. Lu Qing, meanwhile, found Ji Xiaoqi and told him to settle the rescued women properly within the fortress, and also to have someone prepare hot food so everyone could have a decent meal. Ji Xiaoqi agreed to everything without question.

Still uneasy, Lu Qing made another round of the fortress. Only after instructing Zhou Yunyi, who had just arrived, to lead three squads to strengthen the defenses did Lu Qing finally find a secluded spot to sit alone and collect himself.

They say killing is the work of an instant—a flash of the blade, and a life is ended. If there were no laws, such acts would bring a savage thrill. Yet before arriving in this era, Lu Qing had never killed a person, not even a pig. Now, not only had he personally slain several Tartars, he had also ordered the drowning of over seventy of them. Counting it up, the number of deaths directly at his hands was no less than eighty, perhaps even a hundred.

Eighty living souls erased by his hand—Lu Qing wondered if he ought to be afraid.

At Yanghekou, he had seen many dead—both Ming and Oirat—but not a single one had died by his hand. Then, all he knew was flight; he had never killed, so felt nothing particular about killing. Never did he imagine that one day he himself would become a killer.

It was at Dushi Fortress that he first killed—to protect himself, to survive. This time, however, he killed out of rage, and the number of the dead grew ever greater. He did not know if there were innocents among those Oirat he ordered drowned, but he knew that, though his feelings were complex, he felt no real guilt—if anything, there was an unspeakable pleasure in it.

The pleasure of killing.

As each Tartar was shoved into the well, Lu Qing listened intently, eager to hear the splash, the terrified screams echoing from the darkness below. Yet, apart from the sound of bodies striking water, he heard only a few of the Tartars cry out as he wished; most were thrown in headfirst, and at the moment of entry, many had no time to utter a sound before water choked their throats, and all that followed was the gurgling of bubbles, no screams at all.

Still, the final act did not disappoint him. When he saw the hands of those Tartars, struggling desperately to grasp the edge and climb out, get chopped off by long blades, Lu Qing felt a joy that sprang from the depths of his heart.

A joy of vengeance, twisted and perverse.

Lu Qing did not know when he had come to relish such perverse killing, but he remembered all too vividly the sight of those women's corpses, especially the pitiful woman whose mouth had been smashed apart—her image would haunt him forever.

He knew that this woman had fought desperately to preserve her chastity. She had bitten the Tartar who tried to violate her, and in rage, the brute had smashed her mouth and shattered every tooth with the hilt of his blade.

Madness—perhaps her defiance was madness, for she was no match for the Tartar's strength, her frail body unable to resist in any meaningful way. She had no hope, only the teeth with which to bite her assailant.

She must have known such resistance meant certain death, yet she chose it nonetheless. To die for her virtue—was it madness? Yes, madness.

And the Tartar was madder still, to crush a helpless woman's mouth and teeth so cruelly. What difference was there between him and a beast? He, too, was mad.

The madness of woman and beast alike drove Lu Qing to his own madness. He cast aside the pretense of civilization and unleashed his fury with equal savagery.

When he uttered those words of reassurance to the middle-aged woman clutching her dead daughter, Lu Qing had already made up his mind. He would kill every one of these bastards, Mongol or otherwise. From this moment on, any who made Han blood flow would die.

Within the land of China, there could be but one people, one nation—the Ming of the Han.

If fate allowed, he would wipe out these mongrels ahead of time, so that the China of the future would sing only one people's song, and generations to come need never fear the presence of foreigners among them.

With the cool breeze blowing across his face, Lu Qing's features twisted into a savage mask—the deeds of this day had caused him to see himself anew.

...

Song Bangde soon found Lu Qing, reporting that there were 105 horses in the hands of the Tartars within the fortress, and a matching 105 Oirat sabers—enough to form a full cavalry company.

Lu Qing was not surprised by the captured livestock and weapons, but what Song Bangde said next did astonish him.

Song Bangde had discovered a great haul of loot in a house near the garrison headquarters, taken by the Oirat—over twenty chests brimming with gold, silver, copper coins, silks, and jewels, worth an estimated twenty to thirty thousand taels.

As Lu Qing watched the soldiers carrying out chest after chest, he opened one at random. Inside was a jumble of copper coins and gold and silver ornaments; as he turned over the contents, he found a severed finger.

Though blackened from blood loss, it was clearly a woman's finger, still adorned with a heavy gold ring.

“Sort everything by type and store it away. We'll deal with it when Eunuch Guo arrives,” Lu Qing said.

He had no desire to interfere with the loot, nor any intention of skimming off a private share. Song Bangde was plainly disappointed, wishing to discuss it privately, but seeing Lu Qing's resolute expression and utter lack of greed, he could not bring himself to broach the subject.

The rescued women, under Ji Xiaoqi's care, were settled in the houses of the garrison. There were 361 in total; counting the 74 dead, that made 435, all from the various fortresses of Kaiping Garrison. Other than a score or so women over thirty, the rest were between eight and twenty years old. Most of their clothing was in disarray—it was plain they had all suffered at the hands of the Tartars.

These women had witnessed with their own eyes the Ming soldiers executing their tormentors. No longer did they weep. Led by the middle-aged woman who had lost her daughter, they were now doing all they could to prepare meals for the Ming soldiers, to express their gratitude for being saved.

Lu Qing knew that, though they appeared strong, these women were in fact fragile; each bore a tragic story. He did not wish to disturb them further, only telling Ji Xiaoqi to take special care of them and to provide whatever they needed. Then he went to the gate of the fortress to await Eunuch Guo, troubled along the way by thoughts of how to properly settle these women.