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Peng had once been young, young enough to ride the gale into the heavens. From the depths of the abyss, the gr…

Peng had once been young, young enough to ride the gale into the heavens. From the depths of the abyss, the great peng soared, ascending to the very sun to pluck filaments of light like gold leaves, pressing them into withered, skeletal hands. She was not like the "geniuses" commonly found within the Mohist. Most "geniuses," however brilliant, display their mastery only within the pages of books or the intricacies of their inventions. But set them to deal with the world, to force a smile for greedy officials while yielding not an inch, to slip half a string of copper coins to a cunning sergeant for a crippled youth, or to confront a derelict peasant who drank away the seed grain lent by the Mohist... These geniuses would likely stammer a few clumsy excuses before fleeing back to their mountains in tears, retreating to the safety of their scrolls and mechanisms. But Peng was different. Peng was no mere bird suspended in the heavens; when called for, she could be the fish lurking in the lightless depths. Managing wealth, vying for power, playing all sides, trimming her sails to the wind, sizing up her mark... So long as she could wrench grain from the mouths of the rich to feed the famished, she cared not if she walked alongside greed, folly, and the absurd. In her youth, she accomplished a feat of great renown. Back during the Changxing era, the official farm tools were shoddy and dear. Loath to see the season squandered, she exploited a loophole to procure modular planks and wheels, fashioning them into mechanisms for the villages. Should the officials come to inspect, they would find nothing but a heap of inscrutable timber. The ruse was so masterfully executed that even the minor clerk, having pocketed her silver, could only click his tongue in awe during his rounds. Peng did not let the moment slip. She brewed a pot of coarse tea-stalks and invited him to rest. Gazing at the wheat, the minor clerk drained three cups of that base brew. Upon leaving, he "forgot" the silver on the table. She encountered the minor clerk a second time upon the streets of the county. He was gnawing on a cold, hard bun while pasting up notices of a new levy. At the sight of her, he straightened his back, feigning nonchalance as he spoke of a recent petition he'd submitted, mentioning, in passing, matters of the harvest, iron-smelting, and inspections. He clumsily adopted an official air, boasting that his words now held a measure of weight. She smiled and offered a few claps of her hands. "One day, they truly shall," she said. She was a person of no consequence; so was he, and so were countless others, near and far. Yet these souls, divided by leagues of distance, by silken robes and coarse cloth, by seas of ink and waves of grain, now tread the same path toward a destined glory. When that day dawns, all who strove for it shall cheer and laugh, brandishing their hoes, their tunics, or their official caps, bound in a fierce, shared embrace. They are small, and they have no names. They are great, and their deeds shall be etched in the annals of time. Soon, the Edict Allowing Commoners to Forge Implements and notices of a new tool-tax were posted in the villages she frequented. While he basked in the joy of providing the folk with sturdy, self-made tools, she stood in the shadows, her gaze fixed heavily upon the notice. "...They never took this tax before," she said. "Before, one had to buy from the state. Now you pay a small fee to forge your own. It is a far better bargain." "If you rent a man's field, you pay rent. If you walk a man's road, you pay a toll. These fees have their reasons; no one is overcharging you." "...They never took this before," she repeated. "All under heaven is the Emperor's land. Even if it went untaxed before, it is only right to collect it now." He stormed off. On the day the last scrap of meat and grain was seized from the village, he hanged himself from a tree by the entrance. A single belt was all it took. She brought a pot of tea to the crowded burial mound and poured three brimful cups. She drained the first. All under heaven is the Emperor's land. But I forged those tools... they are mine, not theirs. She refilled the second. The tools are not theirs; nor is the road. That path was trodden by generations of villagers. It belongs to the ancestors, not to them. She libated the third. The fields, too, are not theirs. The sun, the moon, and stars; earth, wind, water, and fire, these have no master. Only when someone, on a whim, pointed at the earth and cried "This is mine!" did they gain an owner... Before the sea of dark graves, she raised her staff, leveling it at the sun like a long spear. "Then I declare," she proclaimed, "this place is mine."