Chapter 495

In the twenty-third year of the Hongwu era of Datang, a great drought gripped the Central Plains. The scorching sun baked the cracked earth, and the bed of the Wei River lay exposed, like the shed skin of a withered snake. Outside Chang'an City, the once-golden wheat fields were reduced to brittle, yellow stalks that rustled and groaned in the hot wind. "Oh, Heavens! Have mercy and open your eyes!" A shrill, heart-wrenching cry pierced the deathly silence. Wang Wu, an old farmer, knelt on the ridge of his field, his forehead pressed against the burning soil. Before him sat a bowl of murky, muddy water—the last thing in his house that could be called water. Behind him, in a thatched hut, his wife and three children lay still; they had not tasted a drop of clean water in two days.