HCT – Chapter 94 Mountain and Wild Sacrificial Offering

Zhu Xiang had no idea that his clingy little nephew was about to ride a boat on the Yangtze River for the first time.

Ying Zheng was extremely excited.

He had a premonition that, even before becoming King of Qin, he might have already traveled to more places than his dream-self ever had. If only the self in his dreams could speak—he would definitely brag to that version of himself.

Zhu Xiang also didn’t know that a certain friend was currently frowning in distress, rushing southward with a contract stamped and signed.

After learning that Zichu and Lin Zhi had made Meng Wu sign a contract, Crown Prince Zhu took out his own princely seal and stamped the contract, turning it into a princely edict.

The old King of Qin found it amusing and added his royal seal as well, turning the princely edict into a royal decree.

Meng Wu was dumbfounded.

His father, who had laid the foundation for the Meng family in Qin, let out a long and heavy sigh.

—Could this be a case of “fools have their own blessings”?

The old King of Qin, who had previously shelved the matter of having his two grandsons study alongside Prince Zheng, now brought it up again.

He ordered both boys to attend the academy in Xianyang, and only after completing their studies could they accompany Prince Zheng. Though it would be a trial, it was also a tacit acknowledgment of the Meng family’s future wealth and rank for generations to come.

Their whole family had now been tightly bound to Prince Zheng’s fate.

One could only hope Prince Zheng grew up safely, or else the Meng family might be in danger.

As for Lord Zhu Xiang—not so dangerous. Even if Prince Zheng died young, the other heirs of Qin would still shamelessly call Lord Zhu Xiang “Uncle.”

Although Zhao Ji had remained in seclusion due to illness since arriving in Xianyang, both the King of Qin and Crown Prince Zhu acknowledged her as the legitimate wife of Prince Zichu. So from now on, any of Zichu’s heirs could rightfully call Lord Zhu Xiang their maternal uncle.

Ying Zheng traveled downstream on the Yangtze River, while Meng Wu came along the Han River. Both were escorting Qin’s military supplies in support of Li Mu, planning to construct a new fortress at the confluence of the two rivers—a strategic foothold for attacking Chu.

Once Zhu Xiang finished his work at Dongting Lake, he too would head to this new city to lend a hand.

Glancing at the map, Zhu Xiang couldn’t help but chuckle. Wasn’t this Qin military outpost the future site of Wuhan?

Eyi was the ancient name for Wuchang. Wuchang, Hankou, and Hanyang were merged during the Republic of China period to form Wuhan—undeniably the same place.

Zhu Xiang quickened his pace, eager to finish his tasks and board a boat to venture even farther afield to farm.

Though Qianzhong Commandery was said to be “recently conquered” by Qin, it had actually been under their control for over a decade, with a relatively solid foundation. This made the implementation of Zhu Xiang’s agricultural reforms quite smooth.

Incidentally, the current governor of Qianzhong Commandery happened to be none other than Zhang Ruo, the former governor of Shu Commandery who had once worked with Li Bing.

Although both Li Bing and Zhu Xiang lamented the suffering of the common people under Zhang Ruo during the floods in Shu, that didn’t mean Zhang Ruo was an incompetent official.

On the contrary, Zhang Ruo had governed Shu for over thirty years and was one of the officials who, along with General Sima Cuo and strategist Zhang Yi, helped build the city of Chengdu. He had also relocated people from Guanzhong into Shu for agricultural development, laying the groundwork for Qin’s governance in the region.

Though the land of Shu had experienced multiple rebellions and the local rulers had been frequently replaced, the position of governor remained unchanged. This alone was testament to Zhang Ruo’s capability.

Zhang Ruo was also an accomplished general.

When Qin conquered Ba and Shu, the state of Chu took advantage of the situation to seize multiple salt springs in western Sichuan, leaving the common people of Shu in dire need of salt.

Zhang Ruo joined Bai Qi in the campaign against Chu, reclaiming the salt springs, and later teamed up with Bai Qi and Sima Cuo to seize the southern lands of the Yangtze (south of the Jinsha River, around present-day Lijiang and Yao’an), pushing into Qianzhong Commandery.

After Bai Qi and Sima Cuo returned to Guanzhong, Zhang Ruo remained stationed in Qianzhong.

Thus, not only did Zhang Ruo serve as governor of Shu for decades, but he also governed Qianzhong across Ba Commandery. He had to frequently travel up and down the Yangtze, a true example of “the capable bear the burden.” The King of Qin had a deep (exploitative) trust in him.

Therefore, neither Zhu Xiang nor Li Bing could hold any personal bias against Zhang Ruo. He might not have been beloved by the people, but he was certainly a competent and loyal minister to both King and country.

Zhang Ruo had thought that with Li Bing now in charge of Shu Commandery, he could finally retire and return to Guanzhong. He had barely made it halfway to Xianyang, smiling and cheerful, when an imperial order redirected him straight to Qianzhong to serve as governor there.

He had thought Li Bing would take over the burden of Qianzhong from him. Who would’ve thought—the King of Qin merely halved his workload.

With no choice, Zhang Ruo returned home for a brief family visit and then headed back to his post in Qianzhong.

“Didn’t expect to meet Lord Changping again,” Zhang Ruo said with a bitter smile. He had thought he’d die of old age on Qianzhong’s soil, never seeing Zhu Xiang again.

“Just call me Zhu Xiang,” Zhu Xiang replied. “I’m not used to being addressed as ‘Lord Changping.’ You might call me several times, and I wouldn’t even realize you were talking to me.”

Zhang Ruo chuckled, “If you’re calling me Lord Zhang, then I should at least address you as Lord Zhu.”

Zhu Xiang rubbed his nose and said, “Actually, I’m a commoner with no family name. ‘Zhu Xiang’ is a name I gave myself. Technically speaking, it’s more of a style name or sobriquet.”

“No wonder people call you Lord Zhu Xiang,” Zhang Ruo remarked.

“Then just call me Zhu Xiang,” Zhu Xiang said. “I still have much to rely on Lord Zhang for. Besides, I’m friends with General Sima Jin, and since you were close with his grandfather, General Sima Cuo, that also makes you my elder.”

Zhang Ruo had been close to Sima Cuo, and there were also familial ties between their clans. When Sima Jin was mentioned, his expression softened.

Sima Cuo’s grandson—he used to carry him around and toss him playfully as a child.

“How’s little Jin doing now?” Zhang Ruo asked. “He followed Lord Wu’an, he must be doing well.”

Zhu Xiang nodded. “He’s doing great. When we were growing potatoes in Changping, he ran around stripping off his clothes in front of the King and had to be kicked into the fields by General Wang He.”

Zhang Ruo’s kindly smile froze.

Zhu Xiang began listing Sima Jin’s antics: running naked before the old King of Qin, dragging Wang He onstage to play instruments, sneaking into his house in Xianyang to eat the medicinal steamed pigeon he had made for Bai Qi—finished every last bite.

If it weren’t for his esteemed grandfather, Sima Jin would probably have been beaten to death long ago.

Zhang Ruo raised a trembling hand to his forehead, taking deep, calming breaths. “This child… hasn’t changed at all, has he?”

Zhu Xiang leaned in. “Was he this mischievous when he was young?”

“Brother Sima spoiled him too much,” Zhang Ruo said with a sigh.

“Do tell me the details,” Zhu Xiang leaned in again.

Zhang Ruo snorted, “And what will you do after hearing them?”

Zhu Xiang grinned, “Naturally, I’ll go back to Xianyang and mock him to his face—then share all the juicy stories with our mutual friends.”

Zhang Ruo couldn’t help laughing and shaking his head. “Fine, I’ll tell you.”

Because of the commotion stirred up by Zhu Xiang, Zhang Ruo’s attitude toward him became noticeably more relaxed.

In Zhang Ruo’s eyes, Zhu Xiang changed from a sage adorned with mysterious auras into a lively, overly energetic yet well-traveled and amusing junior.

Not only was Zhu Xiang interesting, but he also knew how to take care of others—especially the elderly and children.

After tasting the dishes Zhu Xiang personally cooked, Zhang Ruo finally understood why Ying Hou and Lord Wu’an would rather retire at Zhu Xiang’s house than return to their own homes. 

Zhang Ruo even joked to himself: if he were more accomplished, could he also petition His Majesty to retire at Zhu Xiang’s home?

Alas, he was still not good enough and would likely end his days in Qianzhong Commandery.

“I really envy the posthumous reputations of Ying Hou and Lord Wu’an,” Zhang Ruo said, sipping the red date and goji berry tea brewed by Zhu Xiang. He sighed, “The newly appointed Prefect of Shu Commandery, Li Bing, is also a remarkable person. I can’t compare to those before me, and now I’m being overtaken by those after me.”

Zhu Xiang looked at his favorability list, at Zhang Ruo’s avatar already marked with one heart, and said, “There’s no need for you to envy others, Master Zhang. You are also someone who will be remembered in the annals of history.”

Zhang Ruo chuckled. “Me? I’m far from that level.”

Zhu Xiang shook his head. “Even if future generations don’t remember your name, the things you’ve done will cause ripples in history, influencing generations to come. Master Zhang, you laid the foundations for the development of Shu Commandery—history will not forget you.”

Even though people like Xu Ming and Xiang He didn’t leave names in historical records, the system still recognized them as individuals who had an impact on the course of history.

So someone like Zhang Ruo, who even occupied an avatar in the favorability list, surely had his place too.

Although most people in later generations would only know that Chengdu, modeled after Xianyang during the Qin dynasty, was built by Sima Cuo and Zhang Yi, few would know of Zhang Ruo. But his name would still likely appear in historical records.

Even if it didn’t, his contributions would still be etched into the long river of history—never to disappear.

Zhang Ruo was silent for a long time before sighing with a smile. “Zhu Xiang, your words are oddly persuasive.”

Zhu Xiang smiled. “I have a good eye for people. When I say someone is a great talent, then they definitely are. Master Zhang, trust me.”

“Alright, alright, I believe you.”

After Zhu Xiang’s reassurance, Zhang Ruo felt much better.

He had spent most of his life working in Shu and Qianzhong Commanderies and considered his political achievements quite notable. But when he learned of what Li Bing had accomplished, he felt disheartened. And then came the crushing talent of the young general Li Mu, newly assigned to Qianzhong, which hit him again. The old man began to wonder if he had lived in vain.

Zhu Xiang’s words helped pull him out of that gloomy state.

Others are others, and oneself is oneself.

Just because others perform well doesn’t mean he performed poorly.

If even Zhu Xiang—who was said to be guided by immortals—recognized him as a worthy figure for the ages, then what was there to wallow about?

After this bout of self-pity, Zhang Ruo became even closer to Zhu Xiang. His favorability increased by half a heart, and in terms of actions, he also became more cooperative and indulgent.

For instance, when Zhu Xiang said he wanted to eradicate the freshwater snails (Oncomelania), Zhang Ruo immediately had the stationed troops follow Zhu Xiang’s orders directly, skipping the usual complicated procedures.

As the governor of Qianzhong Commandery, he had that degree of autonomy. He had always been cautious and would not normally take such responsibility on his own.

But facing Zhu Xiang, Zhang Ruo felt that shouldering a bit of responsibility wasn’t a big deal.  Trusting Zhu Xiang wouldn’t lead to a mistake.

Zhu Xiang’s reputation hadn’t yet spread to Qianzhong Commandery. But his appearance was just too divine, and the exaggerated praises of the Qin soldiers who came with him made the story of Zhu Xiang being a living immortal spread like wildfire through Qianzhong.

His debate with the alchemists at the Xianyang Academy became a tale of an immortal disciple triumphing in magical combat.

They said Zhu Xiang trod on auspicious clouds and soared into the sky. When his jade-like hand pointed downward, flames bloomed on the ground—red, yellow, purple, like flowers in full bloom.

Those alchemists who challenged him were immediately writhing on the ground, revealing their terrifying true forms.

Then Zhu Xiang lifted both hands, and a breeze swept the exposed alchemists into the air. Their ferocious expressions turned peaceful, the evil aura on their bodies was washed away, and they became human again. Each knelt on the ground, grateful for Zhu Xiang’s mercy, and vowed to become his disciples and serve at his side.

But Zhu Xiang waved his hand and said, “Relying on mountains, the mountains may collapse; relying on water, the water may dry up. People must rely on themselves. Do not beg for the favor of gods and immortals.”

“Is that true?” Zhang Ruo asked in surprise.

Zhu Xiang slammed his face on the table. “It’s fake! All of it is fake! Who’s spreading this nonsense?”

Zhang Ruo stroked his beard and chuckled. “They say it’s from the school of ‘Novelists’.”

Zhu Xiang: “……”

It took him a while to remember that this “Novelists” wasn’t the ones who wrote fictional stories as he knew, but rather one of the minor, unrecognized branches among the Hundred Schools of Thought.

Since coming to this era, Zhu Xiang had studied a lot and developed a deeper understanding of the various philosophical schools. For example, the “Novelists,” who rarely appeared in modern TV dramas, he only learned about after arriving here.

During the Zhou dynasty, the opinions of city-dwelling citizens were valued. There were officers who collected folk rumors and unofficial histories to present public opinion to the Zhou king.

The thought of the “Novelists” wasn’t about teaching people how to write novels, but rather emphasized the importance of street-level hearsay and hoped rulers would take seriously these songs and tales formed by common people’s fantasies.

They compiled and organized folk ballads and legends and occasionally created their own stories that subtly criticized current affairs.

Because they focused on the voices of the common people and lacked systematic political philosophy, they quickly became regarded as unorthodox. Still, their ideas continued to be passed down.

From Tang-Song legends, Yuan dramas, to Ming-Qing storybooks, many outstanding writers used fantasy tales to reflect social conditions and satirize reality. So like the Mohists and Agriculturalists, while their organized academic systems disappeared, their ideas survived into later generations.

“I just hope they don’t exaggerate too much when collecting stories,” Zhu Xiang said, holding his forehead. “I did all this to debunk superstition, and now I’ve become a new superstition?”

Zhang Ruo laughed. “I understand your frustration. But since many among the common people are ignorant, they need a deity to believe in. Better to believe in you.”

Zhu Xiang’s mouth twitched. “I really don’t want to be turned into a clay idol and left to be smoked in incense inside some temple.”

Zhang Ruo burst out laughing.

Zhu Xiang had originally thought it was just some awkward rumors—not a big deal. At most, it made things a little more convenient for him. He didn’t expect that those rumors would actually bring him a major event.

After Li Mu reclaimed Yunmengze—the area around Lake Dongting and a former vassal state of Chu—Zhu Xiang, having finished overseeing terraced field construction on the western side of Qianzhong, set off for Yunmengze to examine the land and water situation and determine how to drain water and build farmland.

When Zhu Xiang arrived at Yunmengze and was observing the presence of the freshwater snails by the shore, a child suddenly emerged from the water, startling the guards so badly they almost loosed their arrows.

The child spoke in garbled Chu dialect, kowtowing repeatedly to Zhu Xiang until his forehead bled.

Zhu Xiang had learned basic Chu dialect in Xianyang, and in halting Chu said, “Speak slowly. What happened to you?”

Zhang Ruo tried to stop him. “Zhu Xiang, you should punish him first. If you don’t, you’ll face endless trouble later. Every time they run into something they can’t solve, they’ll come to you.”

Zhu Xiang sighed. “I understand. Fine, have him punished by sending him to the military camp as a slave. But I still want to hear why he dared to stop me. Commoners fear officials and soldiers the most—especially a child his age. For him to risk his life like this, there must be something serious going on.”

Zhang Ruo stared speechlessly at Zhu Xiang for a long time, then told him to step aside while he interrogated the child who had suddenly emerged from the water.

Zhu Xiang sheepishly walked away and muttered to himself, “Has Lord Zhang already started disliking me, even though we haven’t known each other for long?”

The royal guard assigned by the King of Qin to protect Zhu Xiang really wanted to say something, but as a subordinate, he couldn’t speak out of turn and could only endure it.

Lord Zhu Xiang, please reflect on yourself!

Zhang Ruo had initially been impatient, assuming it was another trivial matter—someone dying from illness or starvation. But as the child explained further, Zhang Ruo’s expression gradually turned grave.

Zhu Xiang waited under the shade of a tree for a long time before Zhang Ruo finally approached.

“What a headache,” Zhang Ruo sighed. “Qin places great importance on witchcraft and spirits, but Chu… truly lives up to its reputation as a land of barbarians.”

Zhu Xiang’s eyelid twitched. Even people from Qin call other nations barbarians?

Zhang Ruo said, “Zhu Xiang, you should return to the nearest city and rest. I must lead troops away for a while.”

Zhu Xiang was surprised. “Lead troops? Don’t tell me that boy said there are bandits somewhere?”

Zhang Ruo pressed his brow and replied, “It’s more troublesome than bandits. You know Chu reveres the gods, don’t you?”

Zhu Xiang nodded.

Zhang Ruo said, “Chu doesn’t just revere ancestors and ancient deities—they also see mountains, rivers, trees, and animals as gods. This is especially true in villages, even more so than towns.”

Zhu Xiang frowned. What Zhang Ruo described sounded like primitive animistic worship still prevalent in Chu’s rural areas.

And most primitive worship rituals were bloody, often involving blood sacrifices. Could it be that there had been a large-scale blood sacrifice somewhere?

This wasn’t some horror story—it was a real occurrence in this era.

Due to constant war and the intertwined systems of feudalism and slavery, blood sacrifices once used slaves. But with the number of slaves dwindling in many places, war captives or even civilians were being used instead.

When these primitive religious forces in the countryside grew powerful enough, they would sometimes slaughter entire villages plagued by disease or filled with outsiders, treating them as sacrificial offerings to the gods.

Zhu Xiang looked at the child again.

He realized something—although the area around Yunmengze belonged to Chu, it was now home to various tribal-like small states formed by exiled remnants of nations destroyed by Chu. So, the locals here might not even speak Chu’s official dialect.

Zhu Xiang himself could speak Chu’s official language, but when dealing with locals, he still had to rely on gestures.

However, this child could speak fluent official Chu dialect—meaning he likely wasn’t native to this place.

Zhu Xiang asked, “Is he someone fleeing the war, a non-local from Chu’s heartland?”

Zhang Ruo’s brow twitched slightly. Had Zhu Xiang already guessed the truth? He marveled—Zhu Xiang’s intelligence truly lived up to his reputation.

This wasn’t a classified matter, so since Zhu Xiang had already figured it out, Zhang Ruo no longer kept it secret.

“They are indeed outsiders. Chu once tried to solidify control over this region by relocating many civilians from the capital and E City to develop this land. But after Lord Wu’an drove Chu out, Chu’s heartland shifted from the Yangtze River to the Huai River. The officials and soldiers withdrew.”

In short, after Chu relocated its capital, these settlers were abandoned. So when the local tribes needed to offer sacrifices to the gods, the villages of these outsiders became their targets.

Moreover, the remnants of nations destroyed by Chu already bore deep hatred toward Chu. Naturally, conflicts between the groups escalated.

The remnants had external support, while the settlers became isolated and helpless after Chu’s withdrawal. Many of them had essentially become slaves. Every year, during local festivals, live humans were offered as sacrifices.

The people had a high tolerance for suffering. If only a few were chosen each year, the rest of the village would pressure the most vulnerable into becoming sacrifices, trading their lives for the village’s safety.

But this time, the opposing side wanted to sacrifice the entire village—leave no one alive. That’s why this child had fled with his village’s last hope, hoping to find Zhu Xiang for help.

Despite all the suffering they had endured, they hadn’t thought of seeking Qin soldiers. They truly believed that the gods they worshipped through blood sacrifices could control wind and rain.

When Zhu Xiang’s reputation reached them, they thought he was a living immortal—so they came to him for salvation.

These villagers were not only willing to offer most of their wealth to Zhu Xiang but even volunteered to give him young men and women annually as sacrificial offerings, just to ask him to destroy the evil god and protect them.

Zhang Ruo hadn’t intended to tell Zhu Xiang all this. He knew that once Zhu Xiang heard their “offer,” he would feel extremely conflicted. But since Zhu Xiang had already figured things out, he couldn’t keep it hidden.

Zhu Xiang’s face twitched uncontrollably. He didn’t know what kind of expression he should be making.

Offering me virginal boys and girls as emergency rations—well, thank you very much. This world is becoming more and more absurd. So absurd, I don’t even know what to say anymore.

He held his forehead, trying to force a bitter smile, but the corners of his eyes reddened and burned. His chest felt like a heavy rock had been placed on it, making it hard to breathe.

“Is blood sacrifice really such a common thing here?” Zhu Xiang asked. “Do they often try to please these so-called gods with living people?”

Zhang Ruo didn’t answer.

Zhu Xiang walked over to the kneeling child, crouched in front of him, and slowly asked in Chu dialect, “Is blood sacrifice something common? Do you often offer living people to the gods?”

The child trembled with fear, but answered as if it was the natural order: “Yes, we respect the gods very much, so please don’t kill us—we will willingly offer sacrifices.”

Zhu Xiang asked, “If they chose you as the sacrifice, would you accept it willingly too?”

The child became even more anxious. He stammered, “I… I…”

He gritted his teeth, kowtowed, and said, “I’m willing to be a sacrifice. Please, Immortal Lord, save our village!”

Zhu Xiang fell silent.

Zhang Ruo walked up beside him. “He still has some will to live. The ones I’ve seen who revere these so-called gods even more… they’re actually overjoyed when they or their loved ones are chosen as sacrifices. They believe the offering becomes a divine envoy, to follow the gods and enjoy eternal wealth.”

Zhu Xiang’s throat moved, his jaw clenched tightly.

After a long pause, he took a deep breath, stood up, and said, “The common people will never stop worshipping gods. As long as there are things they can’t solve themselves, they’ll always place their hopes in the divine.”

Zhang Ruo said, “Yes. That’s why I only act when it gets to the point of mass civilian slaughter. If I interfere while they’re still offering sacrifices, it could spark large-scale rebellions.”

He gave a bitter smile.

Although Zhang Ruo wasn’t someone who pitied the common folk, he wasn’t ignorant either—he couldn’t accept the idea of offering human lives to the gods.

But even if he couldn’t accept it, he couldn’t stop these people from voluntarily offering themselves or their family to the so-called gods.

“Worshipping deities is inevitable, but it’s possible to define which gods are allowed,” Zhu Xiang clenched his fists. “This is now Qin’s territory. How can they still be worshipping Chu’s gods? That’s debased, heretical worship—it should be eradicated. Only deities recognized and canonized by the King of Qin are legitimate gods allowed to rule over rivers and mountains.”

Zhang Ruo was dumbfounded. “Huh?!”

He really wanted to dig at his ears, wondering if old age had dulled his hearing.

The surrounding Qin soldiers were also stunned, staring at Zhu Xiang who had just uttered such wild words.

What did Lord Zhu just say—bestowing divine titles? A mortal bestowing divine titles?! Was he joking?!

“A deity is one who brings blessings to the people. Those who bring harm are merely demons. If we judge whether something is a god based on whether they benefit the people, then isn’t it right for humans to determine their divine status?” Zhu Xiang took a deep breath, pushing down the heavy anger in his chest. “If we’re talking about proper deities like the Heavenly Emperor, when have they ever demanded sacrifices from the common folk? Isn’t it commonly said that only minor spirits with weak powers demand offerings?”

Zhang Ruo tugged at his beard, accidentally pulling out a few strands. “That’s true. Only the lesser mountain and wild spirits ask for sacrifices. It’s said they need them to gain enough divine power.”

Zhu Xiang said, “But can’t they draw power from other sources? Like incense, belief; or from imperial recognition, by being incorporated into the national destiny?”

“Ah… this…” Zhang Ruo suddenly felt a bit flustered. He cautiously asked, “Zhu Xiang… Lord Zhu, are you joking, or do you mean this seriously?”

Zhu Xiang was silent for a long moment before saying, “Of course I’m not serious. But if this world requires deities, then we should build a system of divinity that suits it—and place that system under imperial control.”

Zhang Ruo’s mouth went dry, unable to utter a word.

Though he had never believed in the lesser spirits of the wilderness, he had also never imagined bringing all of them under government administration.

This was… far too arrogant!

Zhu Xiang clenched his fists, his back straight, lifting his chin. His appearance wasn’t exactly dignified—his expression was twisted, even a bit ugly.

The wind by the lakeside was strong. Zhu Xiang’s white hair blew wildly. With his strange, contorted expression, he looked like a madman having a breakdown.

A man completely and utterly mad.

A thought suddenly struck Zhang Ruo.

Perhaps… Zhu Xiang truly wasn’t divine. Zhu Xiang was just a man—a mortal.

Only mortals could utter such blasphemy against the gods.

“What is a god?”

“A god is one who brings blessings and fulfills duties.”

“The Dragon King should govern rain and sun. River and lake gods should govern floods. The Earth God should oversee harvests.”

“All gods should be kind to humanity. If they can’t do that—then replace them.”

“There are countless non-human beings in this world who desire to be gods—just as there are countless people who want to be officials. If they can’t fulfill their roles, others will.”

Zhu Xiang loosened his fists. His palms bore bright red crescent marks where his nails had dug into the flesh.

“I will seek permission from His Majesty to bestow divine titles,” Zhu Xiang growled. “Cut down the mountains, raze the temples!”

The moment Zhu Xiang uttered those four words, Zhang Ruo’s long-tense body suddenly relaxed.

He carefully examined Zhu Xiang, as if seeing him for the first time.

He recalled the rumors he’d heard about Zhu Xiang in the past.

It was said that Zhu Xiang, when still a mere commoner and a retainer in Lin Xiangru’s household, had willingly risked death to save Zhao prisoners at Changping.

It was said that after arriving in Xianyang, he had repeatedly contradicted the King of Qin for the sake of his nephew.

It was said that after coming to Shu Commandery, he had ventured deep into plague-ridden lands for the sake of the commoners.

It was said that though he often claimed to fear death, Zhu Xiang frequently did reckless and outrageous things—completely unlike someone afraid to die.

The Zhu Xiang he had seen so far was a talented young man who respected his elders—he showed no signs of being a wild madman. Zhang Ruo had assumed those stories were exaggerated jokes by his old friend Sima Cuo.

But now it was clear—Zhu Xiang truly was a madman. A charismatic one who dragged others into his defiant path.

Now he understood why Zhu Xiang’s companions all had such strange reputations.

Zhu Xiang was truly a terrible influence.

“Zhu Xiang, as for razing mountains and temples, you don’t need His Majesty’s approval. I can authorize it,” Zhang Ruo said, a youthful smile blooming on his aged face.

He had once been that fearless young man who followed Sima Cuo into Shu and Bai Qi into battle against Chu.

But decades of service as governor and commander, and repeated rebellions in Shu, had slowly molded him into a steady, cautious man.

Now, watching Zhu Xiang’s audacious challenge to the gods, Zhang Ruo suddenly felt that he was not so old after all.

Zhu Xiang looked at Zhang Ruo.

On that aged face, his eyes were as bright as stars—nothing like the clouded gaze of an old man.

“Lord Zhang,” Zhu Xiang cupped his hands, “this time, I will accompany you.”

Zhang Ruo replied, “If we run into anyone using black magic, your help will indeed be needed.”

Zhang Ruo looked down at the child kneeling at their feet, who had willingly offered himself as a sacrifice.

“There are no gods in Qin who require human sacrifice,” Zhang Ruo said. “Such gods are not gods of the Qin people. This is Qin now—you are a Qin citizen. From today on, there will be no more blood sacrifices here.”

The child understood the Chu dialect Zhang Ruo spoke and stared at him in disbelief.

Zhu Xiang gently added, “Since you believe I am a divine being—even more powerful than the mountain gods you worship—then the rituals in this land should be up to me to decide, right?”

The child nodded in innocent confusion.

Of course, they had all thought Lord Zhu was a mighty god in human form. That’s why they had come to beg for his help.

So… could Lord Zhu really decide what kind of rituals would be performed here?

If Lord Zhu said no more blood sacrifices, would they really never have to become offerings again?

Really?

The child didn’t know if Zhu Xiang’s words were true or false, and Zhu Xiang and Zhang Ruo didn’t try to convince him.

Instead, the two of them mobilized troops. Zhu Xiang personally drafted the declaration of war, rallying soldiers to march forth—to cut down mountains and raze temples.

The Qin soldiers were shocked upon hearing those four words, but their ingrained discipline made them follow orders.

And when they heard it was Lord Zhu Xiang who gave the order, they became fearless.

Wasn’t this just like when Lord Zhu fought the Daoist sorcerers? Beating up a few disobedient little gods was nothing. Lord Zhu was going with them—what was there to fear?

What wild god could possibly cause trouble in front of Lord Zhu?

Since Lord Zhu said future rituals would be handled by him, then so be it. Their job was simply to fight.

Whether their blades faced the six other states or the gods themselves, Qin’s soldiers feared nothing.

And so, the first thing Zhu Xiang did upon arriving at Yunmengze wasn’t eradicating snails or spreading agricultural knowledge.

It was a bloody campaign of razing mountains and destroying temples.

Historical records state that the local resistance was fierce. The flames of the Qin army blackened several mountains, with wildfires raging for a month without end.

This was the first recorded campaign against rogue temples in history. Later emperors would follow this precedent.

It became one of the most controversial moments in Zhu Xiang’s life—praised by some, condemned by others as excessively brutal and harming the innocent.

Zhu Xiang would never hear the judgments of future generations, but he could guess what they might say.

Because he personally took part in this campaign—he saw with his own eyes how many misled civilians now regarded him as their enemy, cursing him bitterly.

Among them were elders, children, and young women already tied up as “brides” for the gods.

They all cursed Zhu Xiang, all defended their gods and the traditions of sacrifice.

And they all fell beneath the blades of the Qin army.