Elsewhere, deep in the forest, the veteran soldiers chewed slowly on the dry cakes in their hands. These dry cakes differed from ordinary food; they were a byproduct developed long ago when Daoists refined pills.
In this world, all things possessed their own "qi," though none could compare to human qi. Human qi was hard to come by, and the court kept an especially strict watch over Daoists and Buddhists. If they merely did good deeds, accumulated virtue, and spread their reputation far and wide, that was one thing—the court generally would not rashly resort to arms for the sake of its own reputation. But if practitioners of the Dao or Buddhism dared establish an institution, even if they merely became Land Lords and kept hired hands within their estates, it was the grave crime of rebellion. Not only would their Daoist lineages have their mountains razed and temples destroyed, even their tenant farmers might have their entire families exterminated.
To the emperor, all the people under heaven were his private property, especially those tied to his great undertaking of eternal life. Whoever dared lay a hand on them was guilty of the ten unforgivable evils.
Under such circumstances, necessity bred change. Naturally, the Daoists turned their gaze elsewhere, seeking to gather the qi of mountains and rivers and the essence of myriad spirits, refining pills in hopes of ascending to immortality through this path.
Yet in the end, this path was merely a minor way.
Still, the byproducts developed in the course of pill refinement were numerous. This dry cake, for instance, was a marching ration made chiefly from wheat, millet, and wheat bran, with a little medicinal herb added in.
For an ordinary person, one cake was enough to keep hunger at bay for three days and leave