Seventh Year of Great Master Shangwei (1769bc)

It is a time of endless conflict. The years of the Great Zhi stand far into the future, as all men exist to serve Heaven. In these days, the will of the Weishun, those who dominate the realm, reigns truly supreme, and all rotates around the arbitrary decrees of the divine. These are the days of the Juwarin Dominate, when tyranny is more abundant than the sun and the rain. Bazhu, as subject races know it, composes merely a fraction of the juggernaut that the Great Zhi Empire will eventually become, yet the grip of the Banners remains tight. In these twilight years of the Juwarin, the customs of the oppressed have seeped upwards, like weeds in an untainted garden. With Weishun Lords and Ladies maintaining vast slave collections, the culture of the vastly overpopulated subjects has gradually overridden the libertine culture of the Weishun. We follow one family, struggling with society, politics, and life itself as the cracks in the Juwarin start to show. This family is on the outskirts of the Lianggia Hafeng Clan, in the village of Shanglong. one of the most obscure Weishun families, destined to die, and fade into obscurity. The matriarch, the traditional source of authority in Weishun Clans, is sick, though maintains her clasping grip over the family’s finances, in this time of winter. The father, known as Hongliu, is symptomatic of the assimilation of the alleged masters into their own slaves. Hongliu, in times of his wife’s sickness, manages the family slave reserves, forcing him to employ the Zheng language on a daily basis. The two have but two children, well below the rate Heaven commands. In times past, when the Weishun race was at the zenith of power, it was possible for clans to mandate numbers of progeny with legal force to comply with the Great Master’s whims. Yet, in these declining years, few clans bothered with breeding edicts. The family’s son Dalgin, was already enamoured with the traditional craft of the Weishun people, warfare. Since times eternal, the men and boys of the Weishun Race were destined for ‘glorious’ warfare, raiding, and service to their rulers, their clans, and the King. The family’s daughter, Salinggia, had a single choice to make. The Juwarin expect all girls to represent their Clans at court, to serve the Great Master as his consorts, and give life to the next generation. Should they fail to pass the examinations, a decade of service in the great palaces of Bazhu awaits them, where they may bring honour to the Clan through humility. The other choice, long romanticised by the Juwarin, was to commit to joining their brothers in military and hunting service, though in separate battalions. The pair would have many opportunities to prove themselves, as in the late Juwarin Dominate, war and intrigue are central to life. The Kings and Lords commit their people, in an intricate game of chess. For every death in battle, grants Heaven another warrior in the endless struggle to restore Tianqing, Lord of Heaven and the World, to paramountcy. In the Fifth Year of Great Master Shangwei, the Lianggia Hafeng Clan fell under the jurisdiction of the new King, a Zheng popular champion. Zheng Dynasties were uncommonly raised to kingly status, though even in the rare occasion, they must show due deference to their Weishun subjects. As such, the new King Xiao III took the initiative to pay homage to the three Weishun Clans within his territory. To reach Shanglong, outsiders from the other Weishun tribes may traverse the long roads along the east. It would be from this route that King Xiao beckoned, from his fiefdom to the west. Surrounding Shanglong on all other sides, was Great Forest, the impassable barrier for all but the Weishun. To protect the lands of the Weishun from encroachment by the unwashed hordes in the hosts of lesser men. In times of peace, the challenge of policing this green border would fall to the banners, who also expanded, and contracted the forest as the domains of the Weishun expanded and contracted. During war, or times of plenty, the mighty rulers of Juwarin would ride out in a great conquest, taking slaves and loot from neighbouring inferiors. Now, slaves are transported by trade and carriage, rather than by raids and chains. The Great Forest was essential to Weishun life on the frontier, providing them with food, shelter, and materials, so long as it was sufficiently nurtured. Nominally, King Xiao serves as the protector of the Weishun, and is obliged to serve them, though in reality, all the Weishun families, dressed in their rural garb, would not dare to make an enemy of their King. Salinggia, Dalgin, and Hongliu stood outside their house, in their best tribal garb, little more than rags. The road, laid by Hongliu’s generation, when Shanglong was founded, was decorated with the precious little bronze at the disposal of the community. The local clan leaders already decided that the new King would be paid tribute, in the form of a gold ornament, and a regiment of soldiers. His carriage, pulled by ornate horses, was covered in stone. Little compared, however, with the regalia adorning Xiao’s body, his armour was immaculate, covered in decorations, with the greatest bronze. The bronze chestplate bore a great bear, prepared to strike. His face, sullied by battle and age, bore the hallmarks of many victories. His crown of wood, was no doubt of exquisite make, tailored to his exact size, and was engraved with words of praise for its wearer. The family was lectured, grant this Zheng King no sign of submission, and may speak out of turn, to assert the ancient right of Weishun rule. The King prostrated himself before each household, hearing the petitions of his new subjects, before moving on. Once he had finished with each family, his armour was polished clean, greatly exacerbating the length of this visit. As the great King moved towards the family of Salinggia, he prostrated himself fully before the family, expecting to be permitted to speak by the highest ranking Weishun. Hongliu spoke in Zheng, as was demanded of Weishun when interacting with their lessers.

“Great greetings and welcome to Shanglong, your Highness. The voice of the humble King would be appreciated by my family.”
Hongliu’s Zheng was well practised and well rehearsed, Salinggia remembered watching her father practising in the mornings. When probed, he had spoken fondly of when he was young, though she had not particularly appreciated such words. The King’s voice was far more confident, with his natural charisma quickly making itself known.

“Is the dignified matron of this family not feeling well? Why is she not present? Have I offended her?”
The feigned, pompous care for her mother irked Salingga, though she allowed no sign of discontent beyond what her mother demanded. Hongli nodded repeatedly, in a manner similar to how the slaves panicked and rushed to obey any task.

“The humble King is astute, indeed, my wife is deeply sick…” He paused, reconsidering his wife’s instructions, before continuing in a more confident tone. “You have offended her not by words, but by your blood. You are unworthy of her.”
The King nodded, as he listened closely, letting Hongliu finish before snapping his fingers. This was the que, for one of the King’s Zheng servants to run, throwing a small barrel of mud upon his lord. Once the King was covered in the disgusting mud, he fell to his knees before the family, causing even Dalgin, who had remained in silent contempt, to recoil. The King wept, making a show of his pitiful, weak blood, clutching the robes of each of the family. Dalgin and Salingga stepped back, though they did not forbid the King from speaking, they dared not.

“I beg to make amends for the failure of my birth. Glory is inevitable for the people of Shanglong, and I pray to the heavens that you shall help me.”
The King put his head to the floor, prostrating himself in full humility. For the first time, Dalgin, who most wanted to serve this King, spoke with the harshest tone.

“Glory comes naturally to our people. Why must we elect to join your hosts?”
Salingga sparsely heard her gentle brother speak in such a tone, practically spitting each word. The King, who ate up the tone, was practically crying, even as he gave a full speech.

“Far be it from a humble upstart King to comment upon the virtues of the mighty, alas glory is not natural. It must be watered, and fed through devotion and effort, like watering the plants and nurturing the spirit. Many of your kin have joined my hosts of their own will, and I am concerned that the other lords shall not respect the ancient dignities of your people as I may.”
The last words were stronger, more malicious, and caused Dalgin much pause. The explicit threat, tying the people of Shanglong to the fortunes of this King, was rather effective. Salingga clutched her brother’s arm, and he gave a reassuring nod, before returning towards the King. Dalgin smiled, as he spoke with the naturally kind, affirming tone that Salingga was used to.

“My sword shall strike where you request, King. Yet, the people of Shanglong shall ever be the true masters of their own destiny.”
The obviously faked, high cultured words of Dalgin prompted a chuckle from Salingga.

“Allies, never vassals, young man.”
The King nodded, reaffirming the relationship between our peoples. Salingga rushed forward to join her brother, with indignation.

“If you take my brother for your conquests, then you must take me, King.”
The King smiled salaciously, meeting Salingga’s gaze, before bursting into greater tears. He roared with joy, as Hongliu retreated in despair, at the prospect of losing both his children.

“Weishun women like yourself shall show us the future, madam.”

Salinggia, ever attached to her brother, and his ambitions, elected to serve the Clan through war.

Fruits of Old Victories

Following the King’s meetings with each family, he travelled south, taking flight on his ornately decorated horse. The beast, tended to by little men in bronze helmets, had leisurely stomped around the town’s palisade, and drunk from our water stream. Diplomatically, such excesses would have once painted the King in a poor light, though he issued no apology, nor did the people of Shanglong truly demand one. The townsfolk gathered to wish the King well on his journey to consolidate his holdings, though not before he bestowed upon Dalgin and Salingga a scroll, adorned with ornate writings. Neither of the two could actually understand the texts, due to the rarity of outsiders approaching Shanglong. The two embraced each other, Salingga being compelled by a deep sense of fear, seeking reassurance in her brother, though Dalgin, much taller than her, clutched her harder. Hongliu, the two’s father, suggested quietly that they must speak to their mother, to report their commitment to the King. The family’s dwelling was unremarkable in its meekness. Meagre decorations adorned the straw roofs, idols arranged in ceremonial formations to ward off evil spirits. Within the home, which was small, confined and cosy, incense was vital to daily life. The smells functioned to protect the elderly from sickness, and to invite the benevolent spirits in, and coerce them to remain within the home, blessing all residents. Lying upon a bed of wood, with the windows firmly shut, the matriarch remained, as she had since last year, when her sickness became worse. The various religious doctors of Shanglong provided remedies to relieve pain, though she showed little improvement in condition, and at night, her wails became loud, and she grew frustrated easily, with even minor stimuli. Her face, once beautiful, had grown covered in acne, pours and ugly dark spots, which were exacerbated by persistent scratching. Upon seeing the cowed face of Hongliu, she spoke in a hoarse voice.

“Hongliu, did the dreadful King leave?”
The matriarch’s voice was punctuated with coughs, though she let her contempt for the Zheng man be known. Hongliu kneeled, bringing himself to eye level with his wife, even in sickness. He clutched her hand in elderly love.

“Yes, love. The new King took stock of the town, and begged for our assistance.”
Normally, the people of the town gave ‘gifts’ to the King, rather than formal taxes, though in recent years, the frequency of these gifts had increased, resembling informal tribute. Kings would never openly demand, though implicit threats were often laced in their words. The matriarch sighed, and asked the most pertinent question.

“Did little Dalgin oblige?”
Cutting to the point quickly, Hongliu nodded, all in the family, and most in the Clan knew of Dalgin’s wish to ride to war. The prodigal warrior stepped forward, and beckoned Salingga with him. For the briefest of seconds, Salingga hesitated, before joining her brother in the matriarch’s penetrating gaze.

“Yes, so did Salingga.”
Dalgin placed an affectionate, reassuring hand on her shoulder. In the culture of the Weishun people, touch was beyond intimate, only the family, and romantic partners may breach this physical barrier. The matriarch spoke directly to Salingga, with neither disdain, nor approval.

“Is that so? Why did you choose the martial path? So bright was your future, cradled in the arms of a great warrior.” The matriarch’s gaze relaxed for a moment, and she leaned back, before continuing. “Cared for.”


“It would be wrong of me to watch Dalgin sign up alone, I love him, and I want to care for him.”
Salingga gulped, as her words caused her mother to fall silent for a moment. She too, had served in battle in her youth, though she had told the children little of it. The matriarch spoke with a firm tone, but with a slight smile.

“You walk a fine path, death, humiliation, or glory. I hope that you shall reap nothing but victory. Worship at the familial shrine before bathing in blood, let the spirits serve you, and shield you.”

“Yes mother!” Salingga bowed deeply before her sick mother, remembering the scroll in her hand only afterwards, presenting it while on one knee for her mother’s advice. Mother slowly picked up the extravagant scroll, her eyes darted around the document, scanning it intensely, though shook her head. She gestured for Salingga to rise, before speaking.

“This is in the language of the lesser people, bring it to the slaves at town hall, have them translate it.”

“Thank you for the advice, mother.”
Both children spoke, bowing before leaving Hongliu to console mother in her sickness. Once outside of mother’s sight, Salingga moved towards the aforementioned familial shrine at the centre of the living room, to perform the appropriate rites of worship, Dalgin clasped her hand firmly, before releasing completely, waiting by the door. He spoke gravely, clearly uninterested in mother’s advice.

“Mother is not long for this world, the spirits have already cursed her with sickness. To pray for yourself in her home will deprive her of much spiritual energy.”

“If mother commands, we must obey!”

“Salingga, in the future, you shall become a great mother yourself. For now, you must make your own destiny. Rely on yourself, more than the spirits.”
Reluctantly, Salingga nodded, and slowly left the home, looking back over at the small dwelling that had nurtured her since childhood, then to Dalgin.
A strong gust of winter wind against her head, her dark hair fluttered, Salingga felt the spirits chant in agreement, whispering cries of war into her ears. She heeded the call of both her brother and the paranormal, travelling instead to Shanglong’s central assembly, where representatives of each family made themselves heard before the town’s council. The assembly building was designed as a large temple, by the original founders of Shanglong, for collective worship, however, it was renovated into the town’s administrative and community centre during Hongliu’s youth. The crowd of concerned townsfolk shouted loudly, protesting at the powerless council, many wished not for their families to contribute, or criticised the King for his audacity to request at all. Dalgin cared not, and dragged Salingga away from the petitions pyre, towards the slave quarters, those men, of Zheng low birth, who had been taken as captives in war, now dedicated to maintenance of the building. Dalgin was the only member of the family with any experience dealing with the community slaves, due to his various errands he ran for the council. The slaves were forbidden from speaking unless directly asked a question, though speaking with them at all was a town taboo, unless absolutely necessary, as their spiritual energy had been drained, and their lives were worthless. For the superstitious people of Shanglong, one’s spiritual power was central to their identity and purpose. Locating the slaves was not difficult, as the slaves performed odd tasks throughout the quiet sections of the assembly building, usually cleaning, serving drinks, or catching pests. They wore dirty rags, vile even by the standards of lower class Weishun. The clothes themselves stank, and while sweeping the floor by hand, the slaves kept totally silent, even as the dirt penetrated their lungs. Dalgin gestured for three slaves to rally, and the meek souls approached. Their faces were aged by constant work, ruined by their labour and pitiful lives. Yet, both Dalgin and Salingga expressed mild curiosity, and excitement, as these lowly dregs would be the first step to a glorious future. Dalgin spoke with confidence, in his best Zheng.

“Slaves, your services are required.”
The two bowed pitifully, as Dalgin’s eyes rolled in contempt. Salingga was thoroughly used to their meek, worthless existence. Her mother, in past years, owned a single slave, earned through battle, though he perished when Salingga was very young. He used to sing joyous songs in the cold winter, to entertain the children, despite his own malnourishment.

“We are at your disposal, Bazhu!”
The three slaves spoke in unison, as they prostrated themselves before their masters. The word ‘bazhu’ was commonly heard by Dalgin, though it felt so alien to Salingga. The vocal expression of total deference, mandated to be spoken by all non Weishun subjects, when in the presence of their betters. Looking down at the slaves with a certain glee, Dalgin gestured for the trio to lift their heads from the floor, granting Salingga her first glimpse of the suffering Shanglong maintained. The trio were composed of an elderly male, who had walked with a horrible hunchback, and two younger men, in their forties, yet they looked decrepit. Their voices were hoarse, and Salingga giggled involuntarily, as she presented the edict to the eldest slave. He kept his head cowed, not even daring to take the scroll while Salingga looked down at him.

“Can you translate this scroll, slave?”
Salingga felt a rush, a sensation of power as she spat out the words. The slave, no doubt tired from a life of hardship, relented and took the scroll. His ancient hands shook from terror, he knew well the penalty for defying his superiors. Despite his experience, and his lack of resistance, the parchment slipped through his fingers, falling to Salingga’s feet. Weeping, the old slave slammed his head against the ground several times, drawing blood and making her recoil in shock. Dalgin remained firm, with a look of contempt for the old man. Salingga motioned to bring the old man back to eye level, though the old man began to weep.

“I deserve death! I beg for death! I have served fifty two seasons!”
Both siblings simultaneously, without any communication, felt both morbid curiosity, pity and disgust. For a moment, the old slave wept, with the petitions of the council being heard distantly in the background. Dalgin reasserted himself, shouting dramatically.

“Silence! You will suffer until the heavens deem it needed! Translate!”
Salingga glanced over at Dalgin, with a tremor of fear inside her mind, though it was still nothing compared to the meek slaves’ terror. One of the younger slaves pulled his elderly colleague back to his knees, upright, whispering reassurances. The Elderly man continued to weep, as he read the edict.

“All heroic volunteers, please report to Xialin Point, four hours south of Shanglong, after four nights. Your subject, the King.”
The old slave wept out every word, Xialin Point was a minor hill, a sound strategic location for rallying forces, the journey would be a small one, compared to the siblings’ future ventures. Salingga’s first true experience with slavery would be curious, although definitely not her last.