Chapter 11 – Six Days

I called a meeting. Or rather, Hao called a meeting while I stood next to him and fed him the talking points.

We gathered at the village center — the flat area between the Zhao compound and the Liu house that served as Hekou’s de facto commons. Forty-six households plus eight refugee families, every adult and older child who could stand. Over a hundred faces in the torchlight, most of them confused, a few of them scared because the Liuwan refugees were among them and their fear was contagious.

Hao stood on an upturned crate because I’d told him to. Height mattered when addressing a crowd. People listened upward.

“The Prefect’s tax collectors are moving south along the northern road,” Hao said. His voice was clear, steady, and warm enough to hold their attention.

“They’ve already hit Tongshan and Liuwan. Our friends from those villages can tell you what that looked like. The collectors are demanding twenty percent of working-age men or the equivalent in grain and iron. They’ll reach Hekou within the week.”

There were murmurs throughout the crowd. Zhao Ping’s face went hard. The Wei brothers exchanged a glance.

“We’re not going to panic,” Hao continued. “We’re going to prepare. My brother has a plan.”

Every face turned to me. I hadn’t expected Hao to redirect that cleanly. He stepped off the crate and gestured for me to take it. I didn’t. Speaking from the same level as the crowd was deliberate — I wasn’t their leader.

“The collectors will assess our village and make demands based on what they see,” I began to say. “That means what they see is what matters. We have six days to control that.”

I laid it out in plain language with specific instructions so there’s no room for interpretation.

“First. The surplus grain from the increased yields goes into the sealed bins in the old Chen shed tonight. I’ve already spoken with the Chen family and they’ve agreed to it. The shed looks abandoned from the outside and nobody is going to search a building that appears empty. We keep two-thirds of our visible grain stores at normal levels.”

Zhao Ping spoke up. “How much do we show them?”

“Enough to meet a reasonable tax assessment for a village of Forty-three households.” I let that number sit. “Not fifty-one. The refugee families aren’t on the Prefect’s register. As far as the collectors know, those families don’t exist.”

Duan from Liuwan flinched. Gao Ren didn’t. He’d already figured out where I was going.

“The Tongshan and Liuwan families stay out of sight when the collectors arrive. They’ll be working the eastern fields beyond the tree line, far enough from the village center that a quick inspection won’t reach them. We have six days to make that look natural.”

I moved through the rest of the list. The forge needed to be disassembled temporarily because an active smithy suggested resources and ambition that a farming village shouldn’t have.

Gao Ren took that one without argument, just a curt nod that told me he understood the cost and accepted it.

The drying rack stayed because it looked like what it was supposed to look like.

The fence stayed because it was a fence and anyone who saw fortification in it was already looking for trouble.

“Livestock,” I said. “We’ll set aside three chickens and two pigs as a reserve. If the negotiations get difficult, we offer the livestock as supplementary payment. It makes us look cooperative and costs us less than the grain equivalent.”

“You’re planning the negotiation before they’ve arrived,” Zhao Ping said. It was an observation from a man who was beginning to understand.

“I’m planning three versions of the negotiation. One where they accept the initial tax payment and leave. One where they push for more and we offer the livestock concession. And one where they demand men.” I paused. “If they demand men, Hao talks.”

Hao looked at me from the edge of the crowd. We’d discussed this. In the third scenario, his job was to volunteer himself as the village’s sole military contribution, one strong young man in exchange for no further conscription this cycle.

The collectors would see a broad-shouldered farmboy with a willing attitude and think they’d gotten a good deal.

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it’s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

They would never get that far.

I’d designed scenarios one and two to prevent it.

But Hao needed to believe scenario three was real because his willingness to sacrifice himself was the emotional bedrock that made the first two scenarios work. If the collectors sensed that the village was protecting its people at any cost, they’d push harder.

If they sensed that the village was resigned to compliance but bargaining within those bounds, they’d take the efficient option and move on.

I’m manipulating my own brother’s willingness to die for these people into a negotiation tool.

Add that to the list of things I’ll think about when the guilt hits me at night.

“What do you need from us?” Zhao Ping asked.

“Follow the instructions. Keep the visible grain at the levels I’ve specified. Move the surplus tonight. Get the refugee families comfortable with the eastern field rotation by day three. And when the collectors arrive, let me handle the conversation.”

“You?” Wei Bolin’s father looked skeptical. “You’re fifteen.”

“Which is why they won’t see me as a threat. A village where a fifteen-year-old does the talking is a village without real leadership. That’s what we want them to think.”

Silence.

Then Gao Ren spoke from the back, his flat voice cutting through the murmur. “The boy’s right. Collectors look for strength first. If the strongest thing they see is a kid who talks too much and a fence that keeps chickens in, they’ll fill their cart and move south. I’ve watched it happen from the other side.”

That settled it.

The crowd dispersed with assignments. Hao organized the grain transfer. Zhao Ping coordinated the livestock selection. The Wei brothers began coaching the refugee families on the eastern field schedule. Gao Ren dismantled his forge with efficiency, storing the components in a covered pit he’d dug beside the creek bed in under an hour.

I stood in the emptying commons and watched the village move.

This is the test of whether forty-six households and eight refugee families can act as a coordinated unit under pressure.