A wind chilled with winter smoke rattled the shutters of Hong Xiuquan’s hut before dawn, stirring him from a restless sleep. Beyond the thin earthen walls, the villagers of Jintian huddled in small knots around dying hearths, whispering of the coming day’s work. Grain shares meant hope, but the hunger in so many eyes was a reminder that promises alone would not fill empty bellies.

  Hong rose and donned his patched robe, the coarse cotton scratching at his skin like a constant admonition. He poured water from a clay jar into a wooden bowl, the liquid cold and sharp on his tongue, and let the dawn light guide him to the edge of the hamlet. In the pale glow, the Liu family granary loomed ten steps away: a squat, timber-backed structure reinforced with earth-packed walls, its red lacquer doors scarred by centuries of rain. This storehouse had held the region’s surplus since the Qianlong years—surplus siphoned through cruel taxes and sold to coastal merchants by landlords like Liu Yang.

  Under the hush of early morning, Hong gathered his seven bound converts by a wobbly fence of split bamboo. They eyed the granary warily. Mei’s fingers trembled; Old Zhao’s gaze drifted to the distant ridge where Qing patrols sometimes rode. Hong inhaled the misted air, tasting adventure and trepidation in equal measure. He spoke softly—no bluster—reminding them of the bargain: the rice inside belonged to the people, not the county magistrate or the Liu clan.

  He led them through a narrow side gate, where the earth had softened from last autumn’s rains. Soldiers were scarce—most Qing garrisons were tied up along the coast, chasing smugglers and foreign gunboats—but Liu Yang had hired a dozen retainers to guard his stores. Their broad shoulders and heavy swords looked menacing in the early light. At Hong’s signal, Mei unbound her sash and waved it like a banner, calling the guards over with a practiced flourish of authority.

  While two of the villagers engaged the guards in idle chatter—asking after families, weather, the latest rumors of foreign devils—Hong slipped behind the granary’s side wall. He knelt in the freezing mud, fingers probing at a loose board hidden beneath creeping moss. His heart pounded as he measured the space with a scholar’s precision. With a single push, the plank gave way, revealing a narrow aperture just tall enough to slip through.

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  Inside, the silence was thick with dust and centuries of half-rotten grain. He took a lantern from Mei, its flame quivering against the low ceiling, and slid forward until the beam caught on sacks stamped with the Liu family crest. The air smelled of stale rice and rat droppings. Gently, he trailed a finger along the woven fibers, calculating yields and voicing the weight in hushed tones so the others could tally it.

  A sudden cough behind him sent his lantern bobbing. One guard had realized the ruse. Hong did not hesitate. He whispered an order so soft it might have been wind, and his converts sprang into motion. Old Zhao lashed out with a plank, knocking the man off balance, while Mei and Xin seized the lantern and lobbed it against the far wall. The fire caught at the straw, sparks leaping like fireflies.

  Chaos erupted. Hong seized a length of rope from a corner post, looping it through a sturdy beam. He tied two sacks around his waist and kicked away the board to seal the cut. Behind him, shouts and the crackle of flame mingled with the cries of startled villagers pressing in to carry their share. Outside, the retainers rushed in from the courtyard, but by then Hong had vaulted through the side gate, the weight of grain pulling them across the mud toward freedom.

  They tumbled back into the grey morning sky, dust and chaff swirling like autumn leaves. As the first wave of guards emerged, the villagers raised their meager torches and set to work heaving more sacks onto primitive litters and oxcarts. The system’s voice hummed inside Hong’s mind:

  Objective Complete—Liu Granary Seized.

  +50 Heavenly Energy

  >Skill Unlocked: Siegecraft

  He tasted victory as fiercely as the acrid smoke in his nostrils. Around him, the seven shared quick grins and wide eyes, the grain slipping through their fingers like precious jewels. Ahead, the distant ridge was still empty—no Qing patrols in sight.

  Hong allowed himself a rare moment of triumph before tightening his grip on the rope ladder and turning back toward Jintian. Today, the granary’s stores would feed the poor. Tomorrow, Jintian would stand ready to challenge an empire. And he, as Heavenly King, would ensure every tooth that crunched this borrowed grain remembered the price of defying a system crafted by mortal hands.