Chapter 653 - Transformation

After reading the notice, Liu Dalin found its meaning somewhat puzzling. The beginning clearly contained a plea of grievance, expressing the "inevitability" of fighting against the imperial army. Yet the latter part boasted of the glorious martial achievements of the great victory. This contradictory attitude left him bewildered.

His own heart was equally conflicted. In his view, the government's dispatch of a punitive expedition was entirely proper—for all under heaven belongs to the emperor. Though the Australians in Lingao had not openly raised banners of rebellion, they had never submitted tribute or sought incorporation. Their conduct was already that of a hostile nation.

Yet the Australians had never committed any wrongdoing here or anywhere else in Guangdong. The common people had benefited from them. Especially in Lingao, these past few years the people had enjoyed peace and prosperity—all thanks to their efforts. On grounds of sentiment, the government's expedition did not enjoy popular support.

The court stood on principle; the Australians had the hearts of the people.

The thought suddenly startled him. He recalled Mencius's teachings on "the hearts of the people" and felt a chill run down his spine. He did not wish to think further, but he could no longer simply view the bald bandits as "overseas barbarians" as he once had.

As he sat lost in thought, a servant arrived from his wife's quarters:

"The mistress asks whether the master will be going to lecture at Jasmine Hall tomorrow, as it is the scheduled day?"

Liu Dalin paused to consider. Now that the Australians had fought the imperial army, the kindest interpretation would liken them to "great pirates" like Liu Xiang or Zheng Zhilong. Whether he should continue lecturing at Jasmine Hall had become a thorny dilemma.

His wife, friends, and former classmates all urged him to cease, lest he become entangled in future troubles.

After much deliberation, he nodded: "I will go tomorrow as usual."

The servant's face showed hesitation: "Tomorrow?"

"Yes! Of course I will go!" He spoke with emphasis. Jasmine Hall was not a school run by the Australians—it was Lingao's centuries-old charitable school. Having accepted a teaching position there, he could not abandon it.

With that, he continued staring at the distant beams of light for a while before finally seeming to wake from a dream: "Let us return to the main quarters!"

The servants respectfully pushed his wheelchair back to rest. Once the master retired, the servants dispersed. A young attendant was putting away the master's wheelchair. The steward instructed him: the wheelchair felt a bit stiff; tomorrow he should take it to the Tiandihui store in the East Gate Market to have it serviced.

"And while you're at it, buy me a few packs of cigarettes." He gave his instructions, then pulled out a stack of circulation vouchers from his vest, carefully counting out several for the young man. "Get 'Bairren Rapids,' not 'Gaoshan Ridge,' understand? And here's a twenty-five-cent note for your pocket money."

Steward Zhao smiled smugly. Making money this way required no effort at all.

When the imperial army had been about to attack, the circulation vouchers had briefly depreciated. Everyone rushed to spend them, triggering a modest "panic buying" at the markets. Many people hurried to exchange vouchers for goods, silver, or copper cash. The crisis was quickly suppressed through forceful intervention by the Finance Committee and the Planning Committee. But some hasty individuals suffered heavy losses from selling their vouchers at low prices during the brief financial panic.

Steward Zhao, however, had profited from the turmoil. He did the opposite—using his copper cash to buy up circulation vouchers. When the storm passed, he calculated and found he had made a tidy sum. Steward Zhao's faith in the Australians came from his son, who now worked for them as a "cadre" in a government office called the "General Affairs Office," specifically attending to the "chiefs'" daily lives. And his grandson was studying at Fragrant Garden. So Steward Zhao understood the Australians' affairs well. When the imperial army came to attack, he kept his mouth shut about who would win or lose—but in his heart, he had already known.

Having arranged the evening duties, he sat in the gatehouse by the main entrance, preparing for his night watch. He smoked a cigarette while laying out cards, playing "Australian Solitaire." This card game had recently become popular; since it could be played alone and involved no gambling, it was favored by households of strict moral standards.

Outside, the singing grew louder—probably the parade from Nanbao heading toward Bairren. The steward knew they were singing songs of the new Australian religion; his grandchildren also knew them and often practiced at home. The grandchildren, like their father, had shaved their heads in Australian style and wore mandarin-collar jackets, looking very smart and speaking in new words he couldn't understand.

Steward Zhao found this very gratifying. He often said: "Our old Zhao family's fortunes need to change—we can't be servants forever." Starting from some unknown ancestor, generations of his family had served as retainers and servants. Steward Zhao himself had come to Lingao from the mainland as a young man, following Liu Dalin's father when he was an official. Over decades, he had risen from book-boy to steward—the pinnacle of servitude.

The arrival of the Australians had unexpectedly given this family an entirely new possibility. Steward Zhao's son had originally gone to work for the Australians only because he could not fill a vacancy in the Liu household—many thought him terribly reckless at the time. Now, not only had his status changed, but he had even acquired a house of his own; his standard of living rivaled that of local landlords. It made many jealous. Those who had once made snide remarks were now inquiring how to get a position with the Australians.

Listening to the singing outside, the steward imagined his grandchildren were probably in the parade, singing along. The eldest grandson was already ten; in a few more years, he could serve the Australian masters. The family's fortunes were rising day by day.

He laid out his cards, humming the tune of the Grenadier's March.

Parade columns converged on the great stadium from all directions. In the center, a bonfire heap as tall as a small hill now blazed, flames shooting skyward. The torches on the colonnade and the great torch on the ceremonial platform were all lit. The entire stadium was bathed in firelight. Dozens of small searchlights danced across the sky. Against the black night, eight massive beams of light seemed almost tangible, striking the low clouds and appearing to pierce through to the heavens.

Weapons captured in the Chengmai campaign—cannons of all types—were arrayed around the bonfire, bronze and iron gleaming in the firelight. Swords, spears, armor, firearms—piles of equipment formed huge pyramidal stacks. Most striking was a towering cone composed of thousands of helmets, glinting strangely in the flames.

Along the colonnade hung banners—imperial military flags captured at Chengmai, torn and bloodstained, mud-spattered, suspended in rows beneath the wings of pillars.

Columns of students, militia, police, garrison companies, and marines marched along the running track, torches and banners in hand, changing formation to the rhythm of music. Though the event had been hastily organized and the formations could not be too complex, the effect was already enough to leave the spectators deeply shaken. They lost all sense and judgment, merely waving their lanterns and torches in time with the music, erupting in thunderous cheers.

Those ordinary folk who had not been organized into the parade but had come only to watch stood wide-eyed, utterly overwhelmed by the spectacle. Trembling with fear, they kept their distance yet gazed on, mesmerized. Uniforms, formations, firelight, stirring marches—the blood of young men was stirred.

"This scene looks familiar—a cheap knockoff. All you're missing are crisp black and brown uniforms." From a corner of the reviewing stand, a blonde woman filming with a DV camera made a sarcastic remark.

Ding Ding immediately silenced his girlfriend's comment. But several people had already heard.

Wei Aiwen nodded repeatedly: "I think it's excellent! The best possible result given our current conditions."

Others said nothing. The familiar scene filled them with mixed emotions, reminding them of the roles they now played in this new world. Some felt a sudden dread at the new society and new order their own hands had created, now sprouting and growing. Others were filled with wild joy and anticipation for the future.

Fang Fei was among those seized by sudden fear. He was the creator of all these rituals. He had invented nothing—only transplanted and adapted them for this new environment. Though the scene before him was magnificent, he privately preferred the sight of pretty girls in skimpy outfits flirting at ChinaJoy.

Fang Fei glanced surreptitiously at the figures standing on the reviewing platform in order of rank: Wen Desi, Ma Qianzhu, Wu De, Cheng Dong, Ma Jia... each in crisp uniforms, standing in the center of the platform. Spotlights illuminated them and the great wooden emblem on the stone wall behind them—the prow of the holy ship, the halo, gears, wheat sheaves, sword and shield. Standing beneath the massive emblem, bathed in spotlight beams, they seemed tall and extraordinary. A camera panned slowly across their faces. Some smiled and waved; others wore solemn expressions, as if pondering weighty matters.

Huang Bingkun was squeezed into the crowd, watching this unprecedented spectacle. Shocked to his core, he still muttered: "A demon's dance!" He had never truly believed the imperial army had suffered such a crushing defeat at Chengmai—he thought they had merely lost a small vanguard detachment. But the piles of weapons and cannons in the square, the banners beneath the colonnades, could not be fakes. Not even the bald bandits could fabricate so much equipment and so many flags. The Huang family had cooperated with imperial troops multiple times and knew their equipment well. These items could not be counterfeited, nor would there be any point in counterfeiting them.

He silently squeezed through the crowd and climbed into his sedan chair heading toward the county seat. Ever since rumors of the imperial expedition against the bald bandits had spread, he had been staying at Li Xiaopeng's house. The two had joined forces during the "field survey" affair and forged a "deep bond of struggle." Together, they had secretly dreamed of welcoming the imperial restoration.

Li Xiaopeng had originally been quite radical, willing to sponsor several hundred taels to fund their effort. He had urged Huang Bingkun to secretly organize militia to ambush ox-carts on the highway, attack lone policemen and cadres, send arsonists, and so on.

But Huang Bingkun knew that armed resistance against the bald bandits in support of the imperial army was utterly impossible. Unless the bald bandits fled on their own and he could trail behind with a few hundred men making noise, any direct confrontation would be suicide. So their secret activities amounted to little more than cultivating discontented elements and holding a few meetings. Being a man of some cunning, Huang Bingkun suggested that if they couldn't raise armed militia to support the army, they could at least gather intelligence. They assigned people to spy on bald bandit troop movements, map Bairren City and Bopu, and chat up "cadres" at teahouses to learn their enemy's strengths and weaknesses. Huang Bingkun planned to compile the intelligence and send it to Chengmai.

But he soon learned the meaning of the saying: "When scholars rebel, ten years pass with nothing done." One licentiate assigned to scout near Bairren City's military camps had set out full of righteous fury, ready to sacrifice himself—but after a few trips, he was suddenly stopped and questioned. Terrified out of his wits, he returned and immediately pleaded illness, never showing his face again. Huang Bingkun had first been relieved that the man, though useless, had at least kept his mouth shut. But in the following days, several others also pled illness or claimed family emergencies, and enthusiasm faded. With the Australians patrolling vigilantly, everyone gradually grew slack—even meetings became poorly attended. And when Li Xiaopeng developed an eye for a female "cadre" among the bald bandits, his ardor for expelling them suddenly cooled. Huang Bingkun's plan to welcome the imperial army collapsed.

Just as Huang Bingkun was at a loss, Huang Shoutong sent for his son. Father and son spoke long in a private room. Huang Shoutong warned his son not to act rashly, and above all, not to personally go out to welcome the army—lest the burden on Huang Family Stockade become too great if the army actually came. And if the army were defeated and the bald bandits took revenge, Huang Family Stockade would be razed.

Father truly sees more clearly, Huang Bingkun thought in the sedan chair. If he had proceeded with his original plans, the stockade might already be destroyed! Word had come from acquaintances in Chengmai that the bald bandits had wiped out several prominent estates in the county. He secretly breathed a sigh of relief.

It seemed that opposing the bald bandits required subtler, softer methods—as his father had always said: "Delay." They could only bide their time, waiting in patience for an opportunity.

But where would that opportunity come from? After this defeat, it would be three to five years before the imperial army could muster another expedition. And judging by tonight's spectacle, the ignorant masses had already prostrated themselves in worship. Huang Bingkun racked his brain all the way to Li's house without finding an answer.

He continued staying at Li's house to monitor the bald bandits' movements. Returning to his lodgings in the west study, he found the room dark—not even a lamp lit. He silently cursed his personal page, Huang Ping, for being so negligent, then went inside to light the candles himself.

He was about to call for someone to bring water for washing when Huang Ping came in. The boy was only fourteen or fifteen, his face alight with excitement.

"Where were you?! It's late and you didn't even light the lamps!" Huang Bingkun scolded.

But Huang Ping was too eager to apologize. He rushed to deliver momentous news:

"Second Young Master! Fourth Young Master Li has enrolled to study at Fragrant Garden!"

"What?" Huang Bingkun was startled. Fourth Young Master Li was Li Xiaopeng's younger half-brother by a concubine, only eleven this year. He had always studied in the family's private school. Why would he suddenly go to the bald bandits' school? He knew Fragrant Garden taught Australian learning, entirely unrelated to the teachings of Confucius and Mencius.

Australian learning was indeed practical, useful for governance and understanding the nature of things—but it was useless for the civil examinations.

He nearly blurted out, "Has Master Li gone mad?" But on second thought, he understood: the Li family was preparing to sell themselves out! Sending an unimportant concubine's son to Fragrant Garden was akin to sending a hostage as a token of loyalty.

The bald bandits had never demanded that Lingao's gentry and wealthy households do this. Now, by being the first to act, the Li family would surely gain the bald bandits' favor—and many benefits.

Realizing that the Li family had made such a dramatic about-face without a word, Huang Bingkun felt not just resentment but fear—what if the Li family sold out his secret organization to welcome the imperial army? Huang Family Stockade would be finished.

After a moment's silence, he decided the Li family would not go that far. Sending only a concubine's son proved that much. The Li family merely wanted to have a foot in both camps. Indeed, anyone who showed willingness to side with the bald bandits had prospered. No one could remain unmoved.

But this thought also inspired him. Since the bald bandits could not be defeated from without, the only way was to infiltrate them and learn their true secrets. For instance: why were their firearms so formidable? How did they make impossible things possible? Huang Bingkun believed that once he understood all this, he would find their weakness—and then he could drive them out, or even destroy them.

With this in mind, his gaze fell on Huang Ping. The page was watching him uneasily.

"What are you so excited about, just because their young master is going to Fragrant Garden?"

"It's not that, young master..." He hesitated. After persistent questioning, Huang Bingkun learned that several bald bandits had just arrived at the Li residence—and one of them was a female bald bandit! They were in the flower hall, speaking with someone.

"A real Australian woman!" Huang Ping emphasized.

"Oh?" Huang Bingkun's curiosity was piqued. The Li family had never associated with the bald bandits. Why this sudden visit tonight? Combined with the news of the concubine's son enrolling at Fragrant Garden, his curiosity grew.