Chapter 29: Collective Plunder

She intended to seize the grain that Shen Guilan had saved, as repayment for “raising her” all these years.

The three of them pried open the granary door. By the light of a lantern, they gazed greedily at the neatly stacked sacks of rice.

Just as Mrs. Zhang reached out to lift the first bag, suddenly—

“Swish!”

An arrow sliced through the air, piercing the lantern’s handle and pinning it to the beam above.

The candlelight flickered and went out.

The granary plunged into utter darkness.

“Take another step forward, and the arrow will pierce the grain sacks, spilling rice like blood.”

A low, cold voice echoed from the roof, like a judge risen from the underworld, brimming with murderous intent.

“Ghosts!” The two women screamed in terror, scrambling away in panic.

Mrs. Zhang’s legs gave out; trembling with fright, she fled after them.

In the darkness, all was silent.

Deep within the granary, Shen Guilan sat motionless atop a sack of rice.

In her hand, she tightly clutched a copper coin—the first money she had earned mending clothes that day.

She had not spent it, but immediately placed it into her daughter Xiuwei’s “dowry jar” upon returning home.

The next morning, the entrance to Shen family village was bustling.

Shen Guilan began moving each sack of rice from the granary out to the village square to dry.

But unlike others, she pinned a note to each bag that read: “This grain raises daughters, not parasitic ingrate sons.”

That was not all.

She then neatly arranged the countless pairs of worn shoes Shen Yongzhi had gone through from age four to his early teens outside the embroidery shop.

Beside them stood a large sign that read:

“A child of ten years, wearing five pairs of shoes, consuming three dan of rice, wasting countless clothes. Failing in studies yet blaming his own mother. Fellow villagers, check your own ledgers—does this resemble a scholar, or a prodigal who feeds off his family?”

The village erupted.

Those women who had hesitated now paled.

Whose children had not been patched up repeatedly? Whose grain stores were not carefully rationed?

By comparison, Shen Yongzhi’s so-called “scholarly” reputation immediately became ironclad proof of a squanderer.

Voices of gossip and blame rose, yet no one condemned Shen Guilan anymore; instead, all rebuked Mrs. Zhang for failing to teach her son, raising an ungrateful fool.

Behind a large tree, Shen Yongzhi clenched his fists so tightly his nails bit into his flesh.

His new boots had been worn through somewhere, the pain piercing sharply.

But now, no one cared for him, mending his shoes or speaking in his defense.

He gazed at the busy, upright figure not far off—that mother who had once cherished him as her life—and for the first time felt fear.

She no longer chased after him to feed him, no longer shielded him, no longer bowed to anyone.

She had become like a mountain weathered hard by storm and rain, utterly pushing him away.

Instinctively, he touched the schoolbag at his chest, inside which was a copy of “The Thousand Character Classic” secretly given to him by Scholar Lin.

But now, no one taught, no one cared, no one fed him.

This “scholar” was slowly unraveling in everyone’s eyes, left only with disgrace.

Far behind the village, in the deep mountains, Gu Changshan stood in the wind, watching the smoke rising from the village below.

At his feet lay a freshly polished stone slab, atop which rested a newly drawn map titled “Southern Ridge Marching Map.”

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A few days later, Shen Guilan’s laundry business began to improve.

Some wives of men working away from the village, seeing her reasonable prices and skillful handiwork, were willing to pay to save effort.

With winter approaching and fabric and cotton running low, Shen Guilan packed several embroidered pieces she had saved to take to the market in the city to exchange for money.

At dawn, carrying a bundle on her back and holding Xiuwei’s hand, she set off along the path out of the village.

Not far away, Shen Third Uncle, the elder of the Shen clan, stood at the gate leaning on a cane, his cloudy eyes coldly fixed on the retreating mother and daughter until they vanished around the mountain bend.

He withdrew his gaze, a flicker of ruthless satisfaction crossing his face.

Turning silently, leaning on his pearwood cane, he strode slowly toward the imposing Shen family ancestral hall in the village.

The cane struck the bluestone slabs with heavy, sharp clicks.

Villagers watched him—some fearful, some curious, others eager for trouble.

Hunched and slow, his gaze was fierce; no one dared to stop him.

The two black lacquered doors of the ancestral hall creaked open slowly, then slammed shut behind him with a bang, sealing out sunlight and voices.

Inside, the hall was chilly, rows of plaques with black backgrounds and golden characters standing like sentinels daring any descendant to misbehave.

Shen Third Uncle planted his cane firmly on the floor and swept his gaze over the clan members.

Though his eyes were dim, a fierce determination shone forth.

His voice was low but every word struck like a hammer:

“I called everyone here today for one matter. My eldest brother’s grandson, Shen Yongzhi, is the true heir of the Shen family. Yet his own mother, Shen Guilan, claimed three years ago she could no longer raise him and abandoned him to Mrs. Zhang. Now she openly devotes herself to embroidery, neglecting her son entirely. She is unworthy of being a mother!”

As soon as he spoke, the crowd buzzed with commotion.

Mrs. Zhang immediately pushed through the crowd, feigning sorrow, but in her hand held a piece of burlap covered with writing:

“Third Uncle is right! Yongzhi is a pitiful child! Guilan does not lack means to support him, but finds him a burden! This is a document signed by several clan elders with their seals—since she refuses her son, her two acres of land shall be reclaimed by the clan, given to Yongzhi, and managed by me to support the child!”

“Reclaim it!”