The future was always impossible to grasp, and a man's fate impossible to foresee. Upon the stockade wall left behind by Great Ming, Zuwaro was silent for a moment before patting Aguda's broad shoulder and asking, "May the Main God bless us! Aguda, bringing back so many horses this time is all thanks to your fighting! But if the Maha Tribe is to feed these horses and captives... the grain required will probably be no small number!..."
"Priest! You're right. I can't feed that many people and horses, so I'll give you half the warhorses and captives! I also need you to ship over more grain, especially that white, filling 'rice'—the more the better!"
Maha Aguda grinned, without the worry Zuwaro had on his face. The pressure of food had indeed always hung high over every Jurchen tribe in the northeast, like the slanting shadow of the white Mountain God, falling grimly from the cold and hungry winter.
But as long as a tribe had blades, armor, and horses in its hands, would it really meekly starve to death? At worst, they would go out and fight, go out and raid, and use up the population they could not feed. Compared to a few years ago, the Maha Tribe was already far, far better off! At the very least, they had enough weapons and equipment, enough marching rations to launch tribal wars, and even stored fuel for the winter. As for the dead, the Wild Jurchen tribes that had come south through the sea of forests had long since grown used to seeing them, and had never feared them...
"Haha! Priest, stop fretting! Come on, tonight we eat, drink, sing, and dance together! This time we came out to buy horses, swallowed two tribes, and got so many horses—this is