The sun rose, and with it, the tense atmosphere in Suzhou city began to dissipate as the dawn broke.
The city stirred back to life, not quite as bustling as before, but not far off either.
The morning market kicked off.
At the steamed bun shops, furnace fires glowed red, vendors’ calls rose and fell, the sounds of kneading and slamming dough echoed near and far, batch after batch of buns emerged hot from the ovens. Especially at Wu Da’s Steamed Bun Shop in Xiliu Lane by the South Gate, business boomed, a long queue snaked out front, each fresh batch snatched up the moment it hit the counter.
Many refugees who’d fled to Suzhou lined up for these cheap, durable, hunger-quelling buns, buying a dozen at a time, a bun and a bowl of hot water with a pinch of salt made a hearty meal.
At the shop’s entrance, two plainly dressed but tidy kids hawked cooked bones, lungs, and livers, their sweet voices and bright eyes drawing customers, their two big bamboo baskets nearly sold out.
The slaughterhouses buzzed too, a foreman-like figure cleared the way ahead, shouting, “Hurry, hurry up, faster, we need to slaughter quick, we’re rushing these out to reward the troops,” followed by a dozen carts, each laden with a fat pig, wheeled into the butchery, soon came the squeals of slaughter.
Street food vendors rolled out their wares, wontons, fried rice, mutton stew, sheep heads, offal, fried dough twists… Bathhouses had stalls selling face-washing water, fastidious night owls bought it to freshen up, tea stands peddled medicinal brews.
All told, the city brimmed with stalls of every trade, clogging streets and alleys, crowds flocked to the morning market.
Truth be told, today’s market started late.
Normally, it’d be underway before dawn, well before the fifth watch, shops lighting candles to open, bun vendors churning out five batches, by this hour, the market would be winding down.
Today, blame those damned Japanese pirates, attacking before sunrise.
When word spread, people panicked, souls shaken, weeping in terror, fearing the city would fall, they’d be massacred. Japanese pirates breaking cities meant burning, killing, looting—utter savagery.
With lives at stake, who’d care about the morning market?
Busting their backs for a few coins, barely warming their pockets, only for the pirates to storm in—what’s the point!
As folks heard the pirates’ war cries outside, trembling, they hastily folded paper ingots to burn for themselves, figuring if the city fell and they died, at least they’d have cash in the afterlife, not penniless ghosts.
Who’d have thought, a great victory would come instead? If not for relatives on the walls witnessing it, they wouldn’t believe it.
Just 2,000 Zhejiang troops at Fengqiao camp held off the pirates, slaying over 10,000, staining the Feng River red, especially their commander, the current top scholar, Deputy Judicial Commissioner of Jiangsu and Zhejiang, Zhu Ping’an, as the pirates nearly breached the line, at that critical moment, he waved his hand, summoning thirty-plus bolts of celestial thunder, blasting 7,000 or 8,000 pirates to bits, scaring 50,000 into fleeing ten miles in chaos…
Thanks to Lord Zhu and the Zhejiang army, repelling the pirates, they could open the morning market.
One thriving tea stall occupied dozens of square feet of street frontage, serving not just tea but frying dough twists in two big oil vats, selling meat buns, tofu pudding, soy milk, and spicy soup.
The stall had over a dozen tables, all full, some stood to eat.
Beyond tasty food, a key draw was the storyteller.
The stall owner was a sharp businessman, he gave the storyteller a table, free breakfast, and promised all tips went to him, if tips fell short of 100 wen, the stall would make it up.
This lured customers.
Today, the storyteller recounted Zhu Ping’an leading the Zhejiang army to smash the pirates that morning.
The stall was packed, many stood eating breakfast, listening to the tale.
“Listen up, those Japanese pirates were fiends, a massive horde, their ships stretched three miles, 50,000 strong, every one a bloodstained brute, wielding twelve-foot Japanese blades, slicing iron like mud, hair-snapping sharp, whirling like a storm through fallen leaves, killing soldiers and generals alike, true demons of slaughter.”
“The four pirate chiefs were no pushovers, the big boss Xu Hai, a tenth-generation villain reborn as a wicked monk, devouring babies to hone his dark arts, commanding black winds and clouds, summoning ghosts to fight.”
“Second boss Chen Dong, third boss Ma Ye, old thieves raised by the sea, sea demons reincarnated, growing up on human flesh, immune to poison, stirring waves with sea yakshas as minions.”
“Fourth boss, Beitiao Dao San, second son of a Japanese feudal lord, backed by 3,000 samurai from his father, worshipping wild gods, mastering evil arts by eating human hearts and livers, especially those of youths, each liver adding a jin of strength, legend says he ate 10,000, gaining 10,000 jin, able to drag three oxen and hurl them a hundred metres…”
“Last night at midnight, the four chiefs rallied 50,000 elite pirates, their warships blotting out the sky, Xu Hai rode black winds and clouds to cloak their tracks, summoning ghosts to blind us, Chen Dong and Ma Ye commanded sea yakshas to tow their ships, slicing through waves like flight to Taicang’s estuary, up the inland rivers to Suzhou, dragging ships over shallows without breaking a sweat…”
“The four chiefs led their horde to storm Suzhou, set on victory, but heaven’s will trumps man’s schemes, and man’s plans bow to fate.”
“Heaven blessed us, sending the top scholar Zhu Ping’an to lead the Zhejiang army and shield Suzhou.”
“Who is Lord Zhu, you ask? He’s the Star of Literature descended, topping the exams before twenty, of the world’s ten measures of talent, he claims eight, a casual word from him weaves a tapestry of brilliance.”
“With fiery eyes of gold, no illusion escapes him, a pinch of his fingers, he foresaw the pirates’ coming, ordering dozens of beacon towers built within fifty miles of Suzhou, penning ‘See Through’ on each, posted high.”
“With Lord Zhu’s blessing, the beacon guards gained clairvoyance and keen ears, piercing Xu Hai’s concealing winds and clouds, hearing the pirates’ chatter, spotting them early, lighting the beacons to warn us…”
“…”
“The 50,000-strong pirate army hit the Zhejiang line, Lord Zhu commanded with poise, our soldiers charged fearless, repelling wave after wave, leaving the field strewn with pirate corpses, rivers of blood.”
“Unwilling to fail, Xu Hai summoned ghosts to aid, the four chiefs threw in 20,000 elite pirates for another assault.”
“With just 2,000 Zhejiang troops against 20,000, they fought to the death, but the pirates had numbers and ghosts, breaking through to the front, the line faltering, then Lord Zhu raised his hand…”
“Guess what? Lord Zhu, the Star of Literature, once wrote couplets for the Thunder God up high, they’re old pals, with a wave, he signalled, and the Thunder God sent thirty-plus celestial bolts, you all heard it, right? Suzhou shook, 20,000 pirates and countless ghosts blasted to bits by those thirty thunders…”
