On the way home, Fu Bo had grown disillusioned with Mizhi and developed an intense aversion to it. There was nothing for it; Jiang Shuo and Li Zicheng could only let him get down from the carriage and continue drifting like duckweed with the line of refugees.
Thinking of the danger his hometown faced, Li Zicheng was frantic with worry. He wished he could sprout a pair of wings and fly straight back.
Mizhi and Yulin were not far apart. Though the roads were difficult to travel, they reached Mizhi in just half a day. Its city wall looked more like the enclosure around a wealthy family's home—so small it seemed merely decorative. After all, this was a remote, sparsely populated place with little strategic value, and this was more than enough. They had not even drawn near when they saw, from afar, great swathes of people weaving like bees among the houses. Amid the din and wails of suffering, they were circling around another group: arrogant yamen runners.
"Zhang Jia, you're still half a jin short of the grain the authorities ordered!" A runner chased down a man, seized him by the collar, and scolded him.
"My lord, there are five of us, young and old. We truly don't have a single grain to spare!" Zhang Si pleaded, looking on the verge of tears.
"You five haven't starved to death, so what have you been eating—dirt, not grain?" The runner paid no heed to Zhang Si's pleas. His eyes suddenly lit upon the corner of a cloth sack poking out from the farmer's arms, and he grabbed it and yanked it free. He pulled so hard and so fast that the sack tore open, spilling grain all over the ground. As if he had found damning evidence, the runner's