He waved the broken blade in his hand, and the refugees behind him joined in the clamor, letting out blustering roars.
Refugees!
Fang Yuan's heart sank.
Most of these people had likely lost their land to disasters or war back home. Without travel permits issued by the authorities, they had become drifting duckweed with nowhere to belong.
They might have been civilians fleeing calamity, or scattered deserters mixed among them.
People driven to the brink of starvation were capable of anything.
Though they looked like a rabble, there were many of them, and having been forced into a dead end, if they truly started fighting, the convoy would inevitably suffer casualties.
Chen Zhiyuan was already on horseback, his face ashen as he discussed matters rapidly in low voices with the steward.
Clearly, the other side's demand for "half the goods" was absolutely unacceptable. That would be taking more than half the convoy's life.
But forcing their way through was too risky.
Fang Yuan watched the refugees coldly. Though they shouted fiercely, their steps were unsteady.
Beyond the greed in their eyes, there was more of a yearning for a full meal than the ruthless savagery of true desperadoes.
He calculated swiftly, his hand involuntarily pressing against the Chopping knife at his waist.
At that moment, the steward stepped steadily out from the crowd.
Though he was past fifty, he remained solidly built, his gaze composed—a far cry from an ordinary cringing servant.
"Fellow villagers," the steward cupped his hands, his voice neither too loud nor too soft.
"Please make way for us. These two sacks of grain are a modest offering from my master, enough to treat everyone to a bowl of thin porridge."
Behind him, two servants laboriously carried out two sacks of coarse grain and set them in