The Story of the Lianghe Nandian Tusi

　　Overview of the Nandian Tusi Story

　　Zhou Decai (Curator, Lianghe County Cultural Relics Management Institute)

　　The Nandian Tusi was a product of the feudal system during the Ming and Qing dynasties. As the Nandian Tusi himself put it: "This land of Nandian was won by our ancestors through military campaigns waged alongside successive emperors." Because of this, they would never relinquish their hereditary domain, firmly maintaining their position as the ruling Nandian Xuanfu Envoy. Over the course of centuries of political and military dominance, numerous lesser-known stories and historical events emerged. Drawing from firsthand accounts shared by Yang Wenxian, the former director of the original institution, along with research into relevant historical records and oral traditions passed down through local communities, the author has compiled the following tales.

　　1. Hundred Elephants Battle

　　Hulu Mouth, located on the eastern bank of the Daying River at the intersection of the Liang (River) and Yingjiang (River), serves as a vital passage from Nandian to Yingjiang—and was once a fiercely contested strategic stronghold. Standing beneath the towering ancient green tree at the hilltop’s edge, you can gaze down upon steep, sheer cliffs that rise dramatically on both sides, with the mighty Daying River winding through the narrow canyon below. In calmer stretches, gentle swirls form intricate patterns in the water, while in choppier sections, towering waves crash against the rocky banks with breathtaking force. Perched precariously along the cliff face is a narrow, winding path that feels as though it’s carved directly into the heart of towering, split boulders. A short distance farther up the gently sloping hillside lies a small, west-facing hut, its entrance partially enclosed by a low earthen wall—this quaint spot has long been a welcoming rest stop for travelers, where they could pause to enjoy tea. After the Republic era, however, the structure was repurposed as the residence for the local “Road Protection Team.” Just a few dozen feet above this serene retreat, remnants of World War II-era trenches still stand tall—long, weathered fortifications stretching over ten zhang in length, with depths varying between three feet at their shallowest points. From this vantage point, the terrain reveals itself as wide at the front but narrowing sharply toward the rear, resembling the shape of a gourd—a resemblance that earned the site its evocative name, “Hulu Mouth” (Gourd Mouth). Its rugged, commanding position made it nearly impregnable, embodying the legendary defensive principle: “One man guarding the pass can hold off ten thousand.” Indeed, this very location witnessed one of history’s most famous battles—the “Battle of Xiao Liangjiang,” also known as the “Hundred Elephants Battle”—a pivotal clash during the Yuan Dynasty. Though today much of the ancient fortress has been bisected by the modern Liangying Highway, its original, awe-inspiring character remains largely intact.

　　In the 13th year of the Yuan Dynasty's reign (1276), the Yuan dynasty established the "Six Routes of Jinchi," with Nandian designated as Nandian Road. Its jurisdiction extended as far as Myanmar's Irrawaddy River. At that time, King Narathu Khabo of Pagan in Myanmar harbored deep resentment toward the Yuan regime. By March of the 14th year of the Yuan Dynasty (1277), King Narathu dispatched his general Dorobike and five deputy commanders, leading their forces to infiltrate the Zhensi West Road region (roughly corresponding to today’s Yingjiang area). The vanguard had already reached Nandian’s border, posing a serious threat to an imminent attack on Dali.

　　Upon hearing the report, the imperial court dispatched Dali’s Mongol commander Hutu, Dali’s chief administrator Xinzharri, and captain Luotuo Tuohai, among others, to lead their troops and march into Nandian. On this day, the opposing forces took up positions on opposite banks of the "Xiaoliang River." On the southern side, the fully armed Mongol army stood proudly beneath their battle flags, flanked by a loyal contingent of Dai soldiers. Across the river, on the northern bank, the Burmese forces from Pagan were arrayed in crisp, black-clad formation—a massive, intimidating presence. Leading the charge were mounted knights, followed closely by an impressive elephant corps, and finally, ranks of disciplined infantrymen. Notably, this elephant corps was no ordinary force—it was known as the "Hundred-Elephant Army," with each majestic beast equipped with a fortified fighting platform atop its back. The platforms featured sturdy, two-foot-high railings on all sides, and each elephant carried two large bamboo tubes strapped across its body, brimming with arrows and a mix of short and long firearms. Perched atop these deadly contraptions were well-armed Burmese warriors, ready to unleash relentless firepower against the enemy. The sheer ferocity of the advancing Burmese formation sent shivers down the spines of even the seasoned Mongol cavalry, who hesitated at the sight. Observing the daunting scene, Hutu declared, "Though our numbers are fewer, we must avoid a head-on clash. Instead, let us strike first—break through the enemy lines on the northern bank! I’ll personally lead 281 horsemen across the river, while Xinzharri moves upstream along the riverbank, and Luotuo Tuohai will launch a feint attack with his 187-man unit directly ahead." Just then, Chief Gonglu stepped onto a raised platform and called out, "Hold on! Elephants are colossal creatures native to our region. Their thick, impenetrable hides resist even ordinary arrows, often only fueling their wild instincts to charge—and the closer you get, the more dangerous it becomes!" As murmurs of debate erupted among the assembled troops, opinions clashed fiercely: some argued, "If we tie flaming torches to the arrowheads and fire them straight into the elephant platforms, the blaze should panic the beasts, causing their entire corps to collapse!" Others countered immediately, "No way! Strong winds could snuff out the flames before they even reach the targets—this plan is simply unworkable!" Amidst the heated discussion, Chief Gonglu suddenly piped up, "Listen up! We need to find ‘fire grass’—a highly flammable type of plant—from the dense mountain thickets. Bind it securely to the arrowheads; once lit, the fire won’t be extinguished by the wind, and in fact, the stronger the breeze blows, the fiercer the flames will burn!" His suggestion sparked instant approval, and within moments, the troops sprang into action, eagerly dispersing to gather the elusive fire grass and prepare for the decisive battle ahead.

　　"Xiao Liangjiang" is no great river—during the dry season, it’s shallow enough for horseback riders to cross. That evening, the Mongol army stealthily slipped across, setting the stage for an intense battle. Instantly, swords clashed, and arrows whistled through the air as cries of war echoed across the heavens. The riverbanks erupted in clouds of flying sand, while the Bagan forces, caught completely off guard, quickly lost their composure. Soldiers panicked, unable to locate their commanders, and officers found themselves leading troops that had scattered in disarray. As for the elephant corps, chaos ensued almost before the fighting even began. The Mongols unleashed a barrage of fiery arrows straight into the charging elephants, igniting their towering howdahs. Sparks landed directly on the elephants’ thick, protective hides, scorching the animals’ skin. In sheer terror, the massive beasts began thrashing wildly—rearing up, kicking backward, and lunging forward—all while trampling the soldiers perched atop their howdahs. Some poor souls were thrown to the ground, only to be crushed beneath the relentless hooves of the rampaging pachyderms. Meanwhile, the panicked elephants themselves stampeded chaotically, knocking over anyone unlucky enough to stand in their path. Before the fallen soldiers could even scramble back to their feet, many were already reduced to bloody pulp underfoot. Amidst this maelstrom of destruction, the Bagan forces turned on each other in a desperate bid to survive, but they were relentlessly pursued by the Mongol forces. Just as the Burmese army was retreating downstream along the river, suddenly, Hudu’s forces surged unexpectedly from the south, launching a brutal onslaught. Caught between two devastating attacks, the Burmese troops were forced to flee in every direction. Seizing the moment, Hudu’s army pressed forward with unrelenting ferocity, swiftly overwhelming and capturing seventeen enemy camps. By dusk, the Yuan forces had chased the fleeing Burmese troops for thirty miles, reaching the narrow, gourd-shaped pass known as Hulu Kou. Here, the Bagan army’s elephants, horses, and soldiers became hopelessly entangled, their cries of panic mingling with neighs, neighs, and ghostly wails that seemed to pierce the very soul. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the sounds of clashing blades finally fell silent, replaced by eerie stillness. Yet amidst the chilling quiet of the mountain hollow, corpses lay strewn everywhere—elephants piled atop horses, horses piled atop men, their bodies filling even the deepest ravines. With victory secured, the Yuan army withdrew to regroup at their camp. But the next day, they resumed their relentless pursuit, pushing further into the region of Gan'ya (modern-day Yingjiang County). In October, Yunnan dispatched Du Yuan Shuai Na Lading, the Imperial Commissioner and Supreme Commander, leading a formidable force of Mongol cavalry alongside elite Dai and Achang troops. Together, they marched westward, advancing deep into Myanmar until they reached the strategic stronghold of Jiangtoucheng, situated along the banks of the Irrawaddy River. By the twentieth year of the Yuan dynasty’s reign (1283), Yaocihai received orders to lead another expeditionary campaign. In October, his massive army arrived at Nandian. From there, Right Vice-Minister Taibu launched a daring offensive, advancing toward Luobudian (modern-day Luoboba)—a key stronghold controlled by the local Dai people. Meanwhile, Nandian’s Dai troops, moving swiftly down the Daying River, seized Jiangtoucheng, Jian Du, and Taigongcheng one after another. In response, the indigenous Shan communities in the region promptly pledged their allegiance to the Yuan dynasty, marking a decisive turning point in the region’s political landscape.

　　The small yet pivotal Battle of Liangjiang, fought to defend the homeland and safeguard the nation, has come to an end. The Hu army returned victoriously, reporting their triumph to the imperial court. In recognition of their bravery and strategic contributions during the battle, Nandian Gonglu was generously rewarded and bestowed with the surname "Dao" by the emperor. In the 26th year of the Yuan Zhizheng era, the Nandian Military and Civilian Administration Office was established, placing Nandian under its direct control—and Gonglu himself was appointed as the head of one of the three administrative divisions, or "dian," within the region.

　　2. Mendi Tribe

　　During the Later Han Dynasty, four powerful Dai tribes—Mengmao, Mengyang, Mengshengwei, and Mengnai—emerged in the western Yunnan region. Mengnai, also known as Mengdi, is the collective term for the Nandian Basin in the Dai language. Nestled inconspicuously at the southwestern corner of Luojunxun City, where the Daying River meets the Nangsong River, the Mengnai Dai tribe quietly began to rise—and it was here that the founder of the Nandian Pacification Office first established his presence.

　　Inside the thatched-roof议事厅, Tao Lu turned to his younger brother and said, "Right now, our faction finds itself caught between the Ming Dynasty and the Si clan—caught in a precarious position, torn between two masters. It’s truly a difficult situation. After all, the Si clan is merely a local chieftain from a remote frontier region, while Zhu Yuanzhang rules over a mighty imperial dynasty. If we want to survive and thrive, we must choose the right tree to perch on. What do you think, little brother?" Gong Luan hesitated, replying with a sly grin, "What do you think?" Tao Lu, growing increasingly irritated, snapped, "You’re slipperier than an eel wriggling through muddy fields! At this point, why even bother asking your opinion?" His younger brother, clearly puzzled by his older brother’s cryptic remark, fidgeted nervously but remained silent. Seeing this, Tao Lu pressed further, "We’re like fruits growing on the same vine, born from the same mother—we’re blood brothers! So what’s holding you back? Why are you still keeping your thoughts to yourself?" At last, the younger brother couldn’t contain his laughter any longer. But Tao Lu wasn’t amused—he scolded, "Laughing? What’s so funny? This isn’t exactly the time for merriment!" In truth, the younger brother had already harbored secret ambitions of aligning himself with the Ming Dynasty; he’d just been too afraid to voice them openly. Now, however, the moment had arrived, and the two brothers instantly found common ground. With a slow, deliberate nod, the younger one finally replied, "Brother, I’ll follow your lead without hesitation." Tao Lu clapped his hands in approval and playfully punched his brother on the shoulder, saying, "Exactly!""Although I’m currently serving as an official under the Si clan, the Ming Dynasty is rapidly rising in power. If we remain loyal to the Si, we may find ourselves unable to protect ourselves. Instead, we must seek out a stronger, more dependable master." Gong Luan nodded eagerly in agreement. As they continued their heartfelt conversation, the firewood crackled steadily in the hearth, burning brighter and brighter. Before long, dawn broke, signaling the end of their late-night talk. It was the 14th year of the Hongwu era (1381), and the local chieftain of Mengdi had officially pledged allegiance to the Ming Dynasty.

　　On the 14th day of the ninth lunar month, it’s the Dai people’s “Chut Wo” festival. A few deep, resonant gong strikes pierce the tranquil morning air, instantly awakening the village. Young and old, men and women alike, bustle back and forth, busying themselves with their respective tasks—slaughtering chickens and ducks, roasting pigs and fish, each attending to their own duties. At either side of the village gate stand four soldiers, clad in traditional checkered homespun clothing, their heads wrapped in intricately tied turbans. Each wields a sturdy staff—a tool the Dai call "Huan," while Han Chinese refer to as the "Qimen Gun." Around the perimeter, earthen walls are adorned with stacks of "Niu Shi Ba Ba" cakes, one of the Dai people’s primary fuel sources. The top of the walls is crowned with layers of "Ta Fan" leaves, or agave fronds—though the walls themselves are weathered, low, and incomplete, they still serve as an effective fortress, making it nearly impossible for intruders to breach. In the center of the village stands a towering bamboo pole, from which hangs a broad white cloth measuring five inches wide and twenty feet long. Embroidered with vibrant patterns and embellished with several small round mirrors, this sacred banner catches the sunlight, its reflective surfaces sparkling brilliantly under the rays. Suddenly, a lone warrior gallops into view, racing toward the village gate to deliver urgent news. As word spreads, the entire community gathers at the entrance, their drums pounding in unison. All eyes turn expectantly toward the gate, where they await the triumphant return of Chieftain Gonglu, who has just returned from leading his troops alongside the Yuan army on their campaign against Burma. An hour later, the drums erupt once more, signaling Gonglu’s grand arrival. With regal poise, the chieftain rides atop a majestic warhorse, spear firmly gripped in hand. His presence is nothing short of awe-inspiring; he wears a distinctive "Bai Dang Ku"—a pair of baggy trousers so voluminous that the split ends remain hidden beneath the folds, resembling the flowing skirts of a woman. Across his arms and back, intricate dragon motifs are proudly displayed through elaborate tattoos, a tradition deeply cherished by the Dai people. Perched atop his gleaming steed, Gonglu carries upon his saddle a lavish bounty bestowed upon him by the emperor himself: sumptuous silks, shimmering silver ingots, and other precious treasures. Slowly dismounting before the village temple, he steps gracefully into the sacred space, removing his shoes as a sign of reverence. Kneeling humbly before the altar, he bows deeply, offering incense to honor the Buddha. Afterward, a young novice monk presents a tray filled with freshly harvested rice grains. Gonglu reverently scoops up a handful, carefully placing it into his mouth—a symbolic gesture meant to bless the Dai community with abundant food, drink, and enduring peace year after year. Following the solemn ritual comes the lively "Ga Yang Dance," accompanied by colorful cow and horse figures that leap and prance to the rhythm of the music. Finally, the villagers showcase their martial prowess in a thrilling display of traditional fist-fighting techniques. As dawn breaks, the festivities continue into the night, with the entire village reveling joyously. For three full days and nights, Old Official City pulses with energy, its streets alive with laughter, music, and celebration—marking yet another unforgettable chapter in the rich cultural tapestry of the Dai people.

　　The Daying River boasts an extremely unstable riverbed, earning it the timeless saying: "For thirty years on the east bank, forty years on the west." Soon after, the Nandian Dam fell under the control of the Luchuan Si clan, who appointed Gong Meng—the 23rd hereditary chieftain of Nandian—as "Zhaolu," a local official responsible for governing a community of over ten thousand people. Later, Gong Meng was further elevated to "Taolu," a position that placed him above even the Zhaolu himself, making him the supreme authority overseeing both political and military affairs in the region. Though the people had switched allegiances, the land remained firmly in the hands of the indigenous chieftains. Despite their diminished status, these local leaders retained their revered authority and continued to grow in influence. The Si clan, ever wary of this rising power, initially sought to co-opt and exploit the Nandian chieftains—but beneath the surface of cordiality lay deep-seated rivalry and intrigue. One fateful day, tensions erupted when the Taolu clashed sharply with an emissary sent by the Si clan. "Mengdi," the Taolu retorted coldly, "is my ancestral homeland. Your decision to bestow upon me the title of 'Taolu' is nothing but an unnecessary gesture. I hereby return this so-called honor to your master." Yet the envoy, though holding a lower rank, spoke with arrogant defiance, his voice brimming with arrogance as he declared, "A mere local chieftain like you cannot hope to stir up much trouble. My ancestor, Si Kefa, once unified the entire realm—anyone who dares defy us will surely meet their doom!" The Taolu listened intently, every word sinking deep into his mind. From that moment onward, he resolved to nurture a bitter seed of vengeance, determined to one day exact retribution against the Si clan for their audacious insult.

　　Inside the thatched-roof议事厅, Tao Lu turned to his younger brother and said, "Right now, our faction finds itself caught between the Ming Dynasty and the Si clan—caught in a precarious position, torn between two masters. It’s truly a difficult situation. After all, the Si clan is merely a local chieftain from a remote frontier region, while Zhu Yuanzhang rules over a mighty imperial dynasty. If we want to survive and thrive, we must choose the right tree to perch on. What do you think, little brother?" Gong Luan hesitated, replying with a sly grin, "What do you think?" Tao Lu, growing increasingly irritated, snapped, "You’re slipperier than an eel wriggling through muddy fields! At this point, why even bother asking your opinion?" His younger brother, clearly puzzled by his older brother’s cryptic remark, fidgeted nervously but remained silent. Seeing this, Tao Lu pressed further, "We’re like fruits growing on the same vine, born from the same mother—we’re blood brothers! So what’s holding you back? Why are you still keeping your thoughts to yourself?" At last, the younger brother couldn’t contain his laughter any longer. But Tao Lu wasn’t amused—he scolded, "Laughing? What’s so funny? This isn’t exactly the time for merriment!" In truth, the younger brother had already harbored secret ambitions of aligning himself with the Ming Dynasty; he’d just been too afraid to voice them openly. Now, however, the moment had arrived, and the two brothers instantly found common ground. With a slow, deliberate nod, the younger one finally replied, "Brother, I’ll follow your lead without hesitation." Tao Lu clapped his hands in approval and playfully punched his brother on the shoulder, saying, "Exactly! Though I’m currently serving as an official under the Si clan, the Ming Dynasty is rising in power. If we stay loyal to the Si, we might not be able to protect ourselves. We’ve got to seek out a stronger, more reliable master instead." Gong Luan nodded eagerly in agreement. As they continued their heartfelt conversation, the firewood crackled steadily in the hearth, burning brighter and brighter. Before long, dawn broke, signaling the end of their late-night talk. It was the 14th year of the Hongwu era (1381), and the local chieftain of Mengdi had officially pledged allegiance to the Ming Dynasty.

　　The Ming Dynasty was engaged in years of continuous warfare, during which the local chieftain of Mengdi was required to supply grain and provisions. Thanks to his outstanding military achievements, he was promoted from "Captain of 100 Soldiers" to "Captain of 1,000 Soldiers." In the 15th year of the Hongwu era of the Ming Dynasty, the Nan Dian Native Chiefdom Prefecture was officially established within his territory. On the day the official plaque was unveiled, the imperial decree bestowed by the emperor—carefully inscribed on a black background with gold characters—leaned diagonally against an elegant eight-foot-high table placed at the entrance. Crowds gathered around, eagerly peering at the magnificent piece: five feet long and three feet wide, its intricate gold script partially obscured by a delicate red silk bow that flickered in and out of view. Seated on the stage, several dignitaries—including a Han Chinese official, Tao Lu, along with Tao Lu’s younger brother and the village chief—rested their hands gently on their knees. After a brief nod exchanged between the Han official and Tao Lu, all rose simultaneously as the imperial edict was read aloud: "By the grace of Heaven and the mandate of the Emperor, it is hereby decreed that the Nan Dian Military and Civilian Administration Office shall henceforth be renamed the Nan Dian Native Chiefdom Prefecture. The hereditary title of Native Chief Governor is conferred upon Chieftain Dao Gongluan. So ordered!" Amidst thunderous applause and celebratory cannon fire, the grand plaque was slowly raised and securely affixed to the doorframe. As the red cloth covering it was ceremoniously drawn back, the words "Nan Dian Native Chiefdom Prefecture" emerged in bold, elegant gold lettering—displayed simultaneously in both Chinese and Dai scripts, exuding an air of timeless sophistication and dignity.

　　After eight years of three major campaigns against Luchuan during the Ming dynasty, Simoji fled to Mengyang in Myanmar, seeking refuge in Mubang. Yet the Ming court never ceased its efforts to monitor, lure, or capture the Luchuan forces. To further fragment and control Luchuan, the Ming government established the Mangzhang Prefecture Administration and set up the "Three Xuan" (namely Nandian, Gan'ya, and Longchuan) directly within China itself. The Ming court even ordered the Nandian chieftain to dispatch a contingent of soldiers to join forces with Mubang in defending their shared border. As a result, at that time, Nandian commanded the largest territorial domain, stretching northwest across the Yingshui River and extending all the way to Myanmar’s Irrawaddy River. Later, as the Ming dynasty’s authority over the southwestern frontier’s indigenous chieftaincies began to wane, the Burmese kingdom grew increasingly restless, frequently clashing with Mubang (now part of northern Shan State, Myanmar) and Mengyang (today within Kachin State, Myanmar). Anticipating possible Burmese aggression from the west, the chieftains of Nandian, Longchuan, and Gan'ya convened a formal alliance on March 15th of the 10th year of the Zhengtong reign at the Menglian Monastery in Nandian.

　　3. The Threefold Alliance and Oath

　　After eight years of three major campaigns against Luchuan during the Ming dynasty, Simoji fled to Mengyang in Myanmar, taking refuge in Mubang. Yet the Ming court never ceased its efforts to guard against, entice, or capture the Luchuan forces. To further divide and control Luchuan, the Ming government established the Mangzhang Prefecture Administration and the "Three宣" (namely Nandian, Gan崖, and Longchuan) within China itself. The Ming court even ordered the Nandian chieftain to send a contingent of soldiers to join forces with Mubang in defending their shared border. As a result, at that time, Nandian wielded the largest territorial domain, stretching northwest across the Yingshui River and extending all the way to Myanmar’s Irrawaddy River. Later, as the Ming dynasty’s authority over the southwestern frontier’s indigenous chieftaincies began to weaken, the Burmese kingdom grew increasingly restless, frequently clashing with Mubang (now part of northern Shan State, Myanmar) and Mengyang (today within Kachin State, Myanmar). Anticipating potential Burmese aggression from the west, the chieftains of Nandian, Longchuan, and Gan崖 convened a formal alliance on March 15th of the 10th year of the Zhengtong reign at the Menglian Monastery in Nandian.

　　Menglian Temple, facing west and oriented toward the east, is nestled discreetly amidst a dense bamboo grove, its grounds enveloped in swirling incense smoke that carries with it delicate, fragrant aromas. Above the central beam of the temple’s three-bay structure hangs a grand black-and-gold plaque inscribed with the words "Protecting the Frontier." Within the courtyard stands an enormous, ancient green tree so thick that it takes several people to encircle it—its sprawling shade completely blanketing the small enclosure, earning it the Dai name "Tunse." Surrounding this serene space are natural barriers of "Jin Gang Zan," a thorny, prickly plant that forms an impenetrable hedge, deterring both humans and animals from entering. Just 300 paces east of the temple lies a row of neatly arranged barracks, each topped with traditional Dai flagpoles adorned with vibrant banners and military standards—a clear nod to one of the four frontier settlements established by the Ming Dynasty: Menglian Village. Beyond the village itself, a sturdy perimeter wall known as "Ta Lue"—crafted from bamboo latticework coated with chicken blood and embellished with intricately woven "Elephant-Eye" plumes—stands guard, firmly barring unauthorized intruders. Despite the bustling activity within the temple grounds, where hundreds of people gather, there’s an unmistakable sense of reverence and solemnity. Though the crowd is large, no one dares to speak out; instead, everyone remains utterly silent, acutely aware of the profound significance of this momentous occasion. Standing prominently at the front of the assembly are key figures of the region: Dao Le Ying, the Southern Dian Pacification Commissioner; Guan Yuan, the local chieftain of Nandian Prefecture; Duo Guangfu, the Pacification Commissioner of Longchuan; Dao Pa Ying, the Pacification Commissioner of Gan Ya; Guan Zuo, serving as an assistant official under the Gan Ya administration; and Guan Jun, the commanding officer of Tengchong.

　　Today is the Dai people’s Day of Ancestral Village God Ritual, a day when the village god—believed to be the guardian deity of the community—is honored. Amidst ongoing instability along the border, this auspicious occasion has been chosen for the "Three-Party Alliance Ceremony," a joint effort to safeguard the region, secure its borders, and establish mutual defense mechanisms. Indeed, it’s a perfect opportunity to achieve two vital goals at once. The ritual begins with the construction of a small thatched hut beneath a towering ancient banyan tree. At the heart of the ceremony, live pigs and chickens are first offered as sacrifices—a practice the Dai call "Ling Sheng." Once this initial offering is complete, the officiating priest solemnly holds up the alliance document and recites aloud: "Long ago, true alliances were forged with unwavering resolve. Consider how Yan Zhenqing, facing dire circumstances, embraced martyrdom, shedding tears and blood as he rallied his forces. Or recall Jin Wenqiao’s courageous strategy to aid the emperor in times of crisis. How much more critical is such unity now, especially during these turbulent times! Our neighboring territories are closely intertwined, their fates bound like lips and teeth. To restore order from chaos and steer our communities back toward stability, we must unite with one common purpose. Today, as we gather here, each of us—from every clan—stands united in resolve, vowing never to yield to betrayal or oppression. Yet, despite our shared determination, many among us have already endured the devastating consequences of rebel invasions by Myanmar: some have suffered brutal devastation, while others have been held hostage against their will. Such suffering has left us all deeply wounded, fueling an unyielding vow to eradicate this menace once and for all. Together, we pledge to rally our clans, reclaim our lost lands, and rebuild our fortresses—though sadly, even today, our cities remain under siege, and turmoil persists unabated. We fear that without this alliance, divisions may creep in, sowing discord among us once again. Therefore, let us reaffirm our commitment to uphold this sacred pact. Should any threat arise, we vow to stand shoulder to shoulder, ready to defend our homeland—whether by confronting invaders head-on within our own borders or intercepting enemies along distant routes. Together, we will share the burden of protecting our people, alleviating crises, rescuing those in peril, and responding swiftly to emergencies without waiting for formal pleas or rewards. From this moment onward, let our unity become unbreakable, transforming our collective strength into an impenetrable fortress. Whether advancing offensively or retreating defensively, we shall rely on the solid foundation of mutual support and cooperation. By enhancing both natural advantages and human solidarity, we not only ensure the enduring peace of our borders but also lay the groundwork for overcoming future challenges. Finally, as we seal this covenant with a sacrificial ritual—sharing blood and pledging allegiance before the divine—we entrust this promise to the gods themselves. May our descendants forever honor this sacred oath, passing it down through generations. Should anyone dare to break this bond, may the heavens and earth bear witness to their treachery—and may they face divine retribution for their betrayal. May we remain steadfastly united, as inseparable as limbs of the same body, bound by loyalty that surpasses even the most precious treasures. Let our unity shine brightly, like the radiant light of the sun and moon, transcending all boundaries and forming an unshakable shield of protection. Through this alliance, we aspire to turn chaos into harmony, securing peace for our land and paving the way for prosperity and stability—for generations to come."

　　After the chanting was complete, everyone slaughtered and cleaned a live pig and a live chicken, then carried them to the thatched hut to perform the ritual offering—known as "Xian Bai." Next, the pig and chicken were cooked in an iron pot balanced atop three stones, followed by another offering—this time referred to as "Hui Shu." At this point, the official handed out pre-prepared alliance documents, one for each of the prominent leaders present. The assembled crowd raised their documents high above their heads, knelt down to pay homage to heaven and earth, and then drank a bowl of raw chicken-blood wine—a symbolic gesture marking their solemn pledge of alliance. Afterward, as the crowd dispersed, it became clear that most of those gathered were men. Many wore white robes draped diagonally across their shoulders, revealing tattoos of intricate dragon and tiger motifs on their bare, muscular shoulders. Their hair was neatly tied at the nape of the neck, and several sported gold teeth or elaborately painted teeth as part of their distinctive appearance. Notably, nearly all of them were barefoot, their feet calloused from years of hard labor—so thick, in fact, that even the sharp thorns of the tangli fruit couldn’t pierce through. These men, drawn together from individual households, formed what was known as the "Qinbing"—the village’s elite warriors. Each man then made his way to the kitchen to collect a portion of the communal meal: rice mixed with stir-fried pig intestines and offal, cooked in rich pig blood. They didn’t sit around formal tables; instead, eight or nine people would squat together in the courtyard, casually picking up bites of the hearty dish with their hands. This shared, no-frills feast—the "Hua Sheng"—was more than just food—it symbolized unity and camaraderie among the villagers. Through this elaborate ritual honoring the village deity, they sought not only peace and prosperity for their land but also the divine protection and blessings of the revered mountain spirit.

　　"The Three Declarations Alliance" played a positive role in resisting foreign invaders and safeguarding the nation's territory. The original manuscript of the alliance still exists today, serving as a testament to history and a valuable cultural relic.

　　4. Act first, report later

　　After the Nandian Xuanfu Office relocated from Dadi Laoguan City to Tuanshan in Manggan (modern-day Jiubao) and resumed court proceedings, the imperial regalia—carefully bestowed by the emperor—were neatly arranged on either side of the courtroom. The atmosphere was solemn: "Silence," "Avoidance," "Dragon Head," "Guandao," "Golden Gourd," "Axe and Mace," "Chao Tian Deng," "Pacifying the People, Eliminating Poison," and "One Hand Holds Heaven and Earth." Over the past few years, virtually no major cases had occurred within the jurisdiction of the office, rendering the courtroom largely unused. As a result, these ornate ceremonial items had become little more than decorative displays, while even the infamous blood-hole guillotine had grown rusty and neglected. The "Three Campaigns Against Luchuan" were essentially over by this point, yet many soldiers originally stationed at Shamulong in Longchuan remained behind. On one hand, they compelled the local chieftain to supply them with military provisions; on the other, they seized civilian farmland for their own use. In areas like Luoboba and Xiaolongchuan, they established military settlements systematically numbered according to the Thousand Character Classic (for instance, Tianchengdian and Dipingdian in Mangdong). Meanwhile, the chieftain retained only administrative authority over civil affairs and was officially barred from collecting rent from these lands. Yet, pressured by the overwhelming military presence, the chieftain found himself caught in an impossible situation—like swallowing bitter herbs without being able to voice his grievances. Consequently, the power and influence of the local chieftainry had been severely eroded.

　　As the saying goes, "If you don't open for three years, when you do, it'll last you three years straight." There were no cases to speak of—until suddenly, one case emerged that sent shockwaves through the entire office. On this day, the petition drum in the bureau was pounded urgently, and the local chieftain, hastily throwing on his robe, hurried into the courtroom. As he glanced down, he saw a farmer kneeling on the ground, with a frontier commander standing silently nearby. The chieftain immediately sensed that this case involving a soldier and a civilian would be anything but ordinary.

　　The farmer burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably as he pleaded, "Your Honor, you must see justice done for the people! That man—(pointing to the officer standing nearby)—murdered my son and wounded my grandson, all because he wanted to seize our family’s small temple field..." The local chieftain froze in shock, then calmly replied, "Speak. Tell me exactly what happened." Taking a deep breath, the old man steadied himself and began his detailed account: "My family’s temple field sits right on the edge of the mountain terrace, bordering the colonists’ irrigated farmland to the south. For years, we’ve clashed repeatedly with them over who gets to farm that land. One fateful day, a group of soldiers armed with guns and swords arrived at the field entrance. They confronted my son and declared, ‘This plot is one of the flattest sections among the terraced fields—perfect for building our military camp. You’ve got three days to clear it out.’ But my stubborn son refused to back down. He argued with the soldiers, leading to a heated verbal exchange—and soon after, a violent brawl erupted. My son, armed only with a simple hoe, stood no chance against the heavily armed soldiers. Within moments, he was knocked sprawling onto the edge of the rice paddy. Before anyone could react, the soldiers unleashed a brutal assault, raining down blows from every direction. Just then, my ten-year-old grandson, witnessing the chaos, bravely rushed forward to shield his father—with nothing but his bare hands. But even those frail fists couldn’t stop the onslaught; the soldiers quickly overwhelmed him, striking mercilessly. As if fate had turned against us, a noose suddenly dropped from above, snaring the boy’s wrist. Another wave of savage beatings followed, leaving him battered and bloodied. By the time reinforcements finally arrived from the surrounding villagers, the soldiers had already fled the scene. My son was dead where he fell, while my grandson lay severely injured, covered in bruises and cuts."

　　After listening, the Tusi was taken aback. He thought to himself: "This isn’t just some petty theft—it’s a serious case involving a life-and-death matter. I must handle it with utmost seriousness. If I fail to deliver justice, how can I ensure the safety of my Nandian people? Yet, on the other hand, if I act fairly, that very same commander represents the official government and wields military authority. Wouldn’t I be challenging the very powers that be? How could I possibly protect my realm—and my own official hat?" The Tusi pondered deeply, weighing his options. Finally, emboldened by the resounding thud of the court gavel, he spoke up: "Commander, is this true?" The commander replied with unwavering arrogance: "So what if it is? And even if it isn’t, what difference does it make?" With that, he casually pulled over a fine chair, plopped down, and crossed his legs in a brazenly disrespectful manner—showing blatant disregard for hierarchy and propriety. The Tusi calmly ordered, "Tell me truthfully: did you really beat the old man’s son to death?" The commander shot back defiantly: "I didn’t just kill his son—I’ll finish off that stubborn old fool as well!" Enraged, the Tusi barked, "One life for another! Bring him here!" Before the words were even finished, three groups of bailiffs surged forward, overpowering the commander and swiftly securing him with the four-sided iron collar around his neck. Still roaring, the commander shouted, "You’re rebelling against me! How dare you, you little Baiyi chieftain!" But the Tusi stood firm, countering boldly: "In my domain, the sky is my sky, the land is my land, and my people are my people. Here, *I* call the shots!" The commander sneered, "Pshaw! The heavens were bestowed upon me by my dynasty, and the earth itself was granted to me by imperial decree. As for you, you’re nothing but a mere shrimp without any real power—so don’t even think about trying to harm me!" The Tusi retorted sharply, "We’ll see about that. First, I’ll deal with you myself!" To which the commander shot back instantly: "Ha! Do you really think you have the authority to execute someone without proper approval from above?" Caught off guard by this pointed question, the Tusi paused briefly, then turned to his trusted advisor seated nearby and murmured softly, "What do you think?" The advisor leaned in close and whispered, "That commander is utterly insolent and arrogant—truly beyond control. If we let him go unchecked, where would our authority lie? Who would safeguard our territory then? Besides, this man is clearly a dangerous criminal. We must investigate thoroughly—but first, we need to formally report him and arrange for his immediate detention." With a decisive nod, the Tusi declared, "Very well. Begin with fifty lashes, then lock him away in the dungeon pending further investigation."

　　In the dimly lit, damp prison cell, the school captain paced back and forth, rubbing his sore bottom where he’d been beaten—each step sending sharp, stinging pain through him. In a fit of anger, he gripped the wooden bars tightly and burst into a furious rant: "You arrogant dog of a chieftain! What makes you think you can bully me? I’m a high-ranking official from the heartland—far above someone like you, a mere Bai Yi!" After pacing a few more steps, seething with rage, he glared at the infamous "four-sided shackles" and the "foot-trapping beams," his temper flaring even higher. With a violent kick, he declared, "I’ve earned my glory on the battlefield—this cruel torture device was never meant for me!" But his forceful kick landed awkwardly, and the pain shot up through his toes so fiercely that tears welled in his eyes. After shouting himself hoarse, the school captain felt utterly drained. His stomach growled loudly—signaling how desperately hungry he was—but there was no food yet. The guards hadn’t arrived with his meal. He spat out a mouthful of saliva, his vision growing hazy as hunger kept him tossing restlessly in bed. Finally, exhausted and weak, he collapsed onto the floor and slipped into unconsciousness. Hours—or perhaps it felt like an eternity—passed in a daze. When the sound of footsteps finally roused him again, he blinked groggily to find someone sliding a small bowl of steaming rice and vegetables through a tiny circular opening in the iron bars. Without hesitation, he snatched it up and devoured every bite, gulping down the cold rice, savoring the tangy sour soup, and relishing the crispy, charred soybean cake—foods he’d never imagined tasting under such dire circumstances. Yet, despite the meager feast, his body still ached with exhaustion. After filling his belly, he leaned against the wall once more, drifting off into a restless slumber. But just as he began to drift into deeper sleep, a sudden, urgent jolt jolted him awake—a wave of unbearable urgency pressing against his bladder. Frantically, he scanned the cramped cell, searching for a place to relieve himself—but everywhere he looked, there was nothing but bare walls and cold stone floors. His face flushed red as the pressure mounted, veins throbbing visibly beneath his skin. Then, miraculously, he spotted a cluster of slender bamboo tubes leaning casually against the far corner of the cell. Summoning all his strength, he yanked one free—and in a clumsy, uncoordinated motion, sent its contents splashing across the room, filling the air with a pungent, unmistakable stench. (Back then, the Dai people didn’t have proper toilets; instead, they relied on bamboo tubes like these to collect waste.) And so, day after grueling day passed in this brutal, inhumane existence. But one fateful morning, the heavy iron door creaked open with a deafening clang. Standing outside were his wife, family members, and even a contingent of soldiers. Only then did he realize that, during his imprisonment, his loved ones had tirelessly rallied support, exhausting resources and funds to secure his release.

　　On the bustling parade ground stood a towering bronze horse—five feet tall and seven feet long, so lifelike it seemed almost real. Its hollow interior was soon filled as soldiers eagerly began tossing bundles of firewood inside. Within minutes, the outer shell blazed red-hot, radiating scorching waves of heat under the blazing sun, making it impossible for anyone to approach closely. All around the square, armed soldiers stood at attention, while inside, a few members of the disgruntled tribal chieftain’s family—families who dared to harbor resentment but dared not speak out—watched in silent anguish. As the appointed hour arrived, the camp commander and his troops escorted the elderly chieftain forward. In an instant, the family members rushed toward their beloved leader, only to be firmly held back by the soldiers. Amidst this chaotic scene, the chieftain’s desperate wife,不顾死活, charged ahead with her son, throwing herself onto her father’s knees. Tears streamed down both their faces, yet no words could escape—they were left speechless, consumed only by overwhelming grief. Meanwhile, the chieftain’s grown eldest son, wiping away his own tears, drew his sword and lunged at the commander and the soldiers, determined to sacrifice himself in a last-ditch effort to shield his father from harm. But the odds were stacked against him. Overwhelmed by sheer numbers, the young man was swiftly overpowered;His precious blade was snatched away, and his hand was brutally wounded. Before he could even recover, a soldier thrust his spear through the boy’s clothing, piercing deep into his flesh—and blood began to flow freely. Just as the situation reached its most perilous moment, a remarkable figure emerged: an elderly Dai ethnic minority man, renowned as the legendary Dai martial arts champion known as "Dao San." Hearing of the chieftain’s tragic fate, Dao San had braved immense danger to arrive just in time, vowing to rescue the injured youth at all costs. Yet even with his unmatched skills, the seasoned fighter found himself hopelessly outnumbered. Surrounded on all sides by relentless attackers, he fought valiantly—but ultimately, his strength waned. With one final, powerful kick, he managed to send several soldiers sprawling backward, creating a brief opening that allowed him to leap forward and deliver a decisive blow to the executioner, freeing the wounded chieftain’s son from certain death. However, despite his heroic efforts, Dao San himself was soon overwhelmed by the tide of enemies. Though he fought fiercely until the very end, the relentless assault proved too much for him. As the soldiers closed in once more, the elderly chieftain, now calm and resolute, stepped boldly between his people and the advancing soldiers. With unwavering determination, he bellowed, “Dare you, Dao San? Kneel before me—kneel before us all!” As the crowd obeyed, bowing low in submission, the aged chieftain slowly mounted the bronze horse. Instantly, thick plumes of acrid smoke erupted, mingling with a foul, choking stench that enveloped the entire area. To everyone’s astonishment, the chieftain’s rear end caught fire—but still, he remained utterly motionless, his body drenched in sweat that trickled down his forehead and beard, dripping onto the scorching bronze beneath him. All of this unfolded silently, witnessed intently by the young chieftain standing nearby. From that harrowing day forward, a bitter seed of hatred took root deep within the child’s fragile heart, forever shaping his perception of justice, power, and vengeance.

　　After accepting this murky and unclear assignment, the household guard couldn’t shake the confusion, muttering to himself, "What would anyone want with a woman’s sweaty pants? What on earth would they do with them…?" Lost in thought, he accidentally bumped into someone—and when he looked up, it was none other than the personal maid of the commander’s wife. At first, the guard didn’t notice; he simply apologized and the two went their separate ways. But suddenly, an idea struck him. Sneaking after the maid, he followed her down the steps. And wouldn’t you know it—fate had another twist in store. It turned out the maid was there specifically to hang the commander’s wife’s laundry: shirts, trousers, and even the very pair of women’s underwear the guard had been searching for. After hanging everything neatly, the maid quietly slipped away, leaving the suspicious guard with his sinister plan intact. Without hesitation, he swiftly grabbed one of the discarded undergarments and made his escape.

　　The school captain’s younger brother lived just a wall away from the old chieftain of Nandian—his brother’s residence was situated on higher ground, while the chieftain’s quarters lay lower down. The Nandian basin had a peculiar characteristic: it was often swept by strong north-to-south winds that whipped up sand and stones, leaving even the bravest unable to keep their eyes open. Even a tiny scrap of paper floating in the air could be carried far, far away—and would linger high above the ground for what felt like an eternity before finally drifting back down. Innocently strolling over to his brother’s home, the school captain casually wandered until he reached the balcony. There, discreetly slipping one of the undergarments he’d brought along onto the clothesline, he deliberately left it hanging without securing it with a clip. Not content yet, he decided to position the panty precariously—leaving it dangling only about a third of the way down the pole. After carefully observing the scene, he quietly retreated. By midday, as the fierce wind began to howl, the stolen undergarment caught the gusts and danced wildly through the air, eventually landing squarely on the window bars of the old chieftain’s residence. But before long, another powerful whirlwind swept it inside—right into the chieftain’s living quarters. Witnessing the plan unfold perfectly, the school captain returned home and immediately summoned his trusted strategist. Together, they drafted a formal complaint, boldly filing it with the Tengyue Prefecture (modern-day Tengchong County).

　　Three days later, in the "Flower Case Chamber" flanking the public hall of Tengyue Prefecture, sat the school captain and the elderly tribal chief. The Flower Case Chamber was traditionally reserved for handling disputes involving relationships between men and women—yet today, both parties were men. The county magistrate hurried back and forth between them, finally settling into his seat and bellowing, "How dare you, esteemed tribal official, attempt to seduce the school captain's wife!" The tribal chief, taken aback, had initially assumed the case would focus on the school captain’s alleged murder of an old man’s son. Now, suddenly thrust into the role of defendant in a scandalous affair? He stammered defensively, "No, no! My relationship with the captain’s wife is entirely innocent—I’ve never even laid eyes on her! How could there be any illicit affair?" But the judge retorted sharply, "Innocent? Yet the stolen evidence lies right here in my hands. Do you really expect me to believe your denial?" Before the judge could finish, the school captain chimed in, holding up the red floral-patterned undergarment his wife had been wearing—complete with a distinctive black patch. A silent exchange passed between the captain and the judge, and the latter declared, "Bring forth the incriminating item!" Instantly, a court attendant emerged with a wooden stick, carefully prodding the garment into view. Laughter rippled through the crowd as everyone realized the underpants matched exactly the description provided by the school captain. Embarrassed beyond words, the elderly tribal chief stood frozen, staring at the damning proof while his face turned crimson. For a moment, he was speechless, his cheeks trembling violently as his beard quivered uncontrollably. The school captain leaned forward coldly and said, "Still denying it now?" The tribal chief shot back indignantly, "You’re spreading baseless accusations!" But the captain fired back without hesitation: "Evidence speaks louder than words. You’ve clearly been caught red-handed." At this point, the tribal chief erupted in rage, accusing the captain of revenge—a claim fueled by their bitter past conflict. "It’s all part of your twisted plan to get back at me!" he snapped. "A few days ago, I presided over your own case, where you illegally seized villagers’ land and brutally killed one of our people. I handed down a light punishment, but you’ve never forgiven me. Now you’re striking back—with this outrageous lie!" The captain remained unfazed, calmly responding, "Your defiance only strengthens the ironclad evidence against you. Judge, deliver your verdict!" Impatiently, the judge interrupted, cutting off the heated exchange. "Enough! For now, mete out fifty lashes to the Nandian tribal chief—and leave the rest to the school captain. Court is adjourned." As the elderly tribal chief, well into his fifties, collapsed onto the tiger bench under the weight of the brutal punishment, family members rushed to help him up. Staggering unsteadily, he tottered toward Nandian—but just as he stepped outside the courtroom, he was abruptly seized by the school captain’s men. Little did anyone know that the school captain had long harbored intentions of bringing the tribal chief to justice. And now, thanks to the judge’s unexpected decision, the opportunity had fallen squarely into his hands.

　　On the bustling parade ground stood a towering bronze horse—five feet tall and seven feet long, so lifelike it seemed almost real. Its hollow interior was soon filled as soldiers eagerly began tossing bundles of firewood inside. Within minutes, the outer shell blazed red-hot, radiating scorching waves of heat under the blazing sun, making it impossible for anyone to approach closely. All around the square, armed soldiers stood at attention, while inside, a few members of the disgruntled tribal chieftain’s family—families who dared to harbor resentment but dared not speak out—watched in silent anguish. As the appointed hour arrived, the camp commander and his troops escorted the elderly chieftain forward. In an instant, the family members rushed toward their beloved leader, only to be firmly held back by the soldiers. Amidst this chaotic scene, the chieftain’s desperate wife,不顾死活, charged ahead with her son, throwing herself onto her father’s knees. Tears streamed down both their faces, yet no words could escape—they were left speechless, consumed only by overwhelming grief. Meanwhile, the chieftain’s grown eldest son, wiping away his own tears, drew his sword and lunged at the commander and the soldiers, determined to sacrifice himself in a last-ditch effort to shield his father from harm. But the odds were stacked against him. Overwhelmed by sheer numbers, the young man was swiftly overpowered; his precious blade was snatched away, and his hand was brutally wounded. Before he could even recover, a soldier thrust his spear through the boy’s clothing, piercing deep into his flesh—and blood began to flow freely. Just as the situation reached its most perilous moment, a remarkable figure emerged: an elderly Dai ethnic minority man, renowned as the legendary Dai martial arts champion known as "Dao San." Hearing of the chieftain’s tragic fate, Dao San had braved immense danger to arrive just in time, vowing to rescue the injured youth at all costs. Yet even with his unmatched skills, the seasoned fighter found himself hopelessly outnumbered. Surrounded on all sides by relentless attackers, he fought valiantly—but ultimately, his strength waned. With one final, powerful kick, he managed to send several soldiers sprawling backward, creating a brief opening that allowed him to leap forward and deliver a decisive blow to the executioner, freeing the wounded chieftain’s son from certain death. However, despite his heroic efforts, Dao San himself was soon overwhelmed by the tide of enemies. Though he fought fiercely until the very end, the relentless assault proved too much for him. As the soldiers closed in once more, the elderly chieftain, now calm and resolute, stepped boldly between his people and the advancing soldiers. With unwavering determination, he bellowed, “Dare you, Dao San? Kneel before me—kneel before us all!” As the crowd obeyed, bowing low in submission, the aged chieftain slowly mounted the bronze horse. Instantly, thick plumes of acrid smoke erupted, mingling with a foul, choking stench that enveloped the entire area. To everyone’s astonishment, the chieftain’s rear end caught fire—but still, he remained utterly motionless, his body drenched in sweat that trickled down his forehead and beard, dripping onto the scorching bronze beneath him. All of this unfolded silently, witnessed intently by the young chieftain standing nearby. From that harrowing day forward, a bitter seed of hatred took root deep within the child’s fragile heart, forever shaping his perception of justice, power, and vengeance.

　　After the old tusi passed away, chaos engulfed the Nandian Tusi territory. Though the young tusi had officially taken office, he still needed his officials to guide him. Meanwhile, malevolent figures grew bolder, frequently seizing villagers' land and even forcing themselves upon young women. Open defiance of the tusi’s authority began to surface in court, fueling widespread public resentment. The young, newly appointed tusi, consumed by bitterness and vengeance, resolved to restore order in the region—and to avenge his father’s tragic death at the hands of these ruthless adversaries. Fate seemed particularly cruel: years earlier, the same military commander had failed to achieve his sinister goal of acquiring more farmland. Over the years, however, he’d relentlessly pursued his agenda, constantly shifting tactics to challenge the tusi’s authority. When the elderly farmer refused to yield his fields, the commander orchestrated schemes to undermine him—first draining the irrigation canals during a crucial farming season, then poisoning the fish the old man carefully tended. One fateful day, the farmer, spying from a hidden vantage point, witnessed a group of men gathering and setting fire to his precious yellow rice crop. When he stepped forward to protest, he was met with brutal insults and a savage beating. Devastated by the attack, he returned home, collapsed into bed out of sheer despair, and passed away within days. The case soon landed on the steps of the Nandian Xuanfu Office, where the commander’s brazen arrogance left no room for doubt. Facing the tusi’s stern rebuke, the commander sneered dismissively: “Ah, you’re just a remote frontier chieftain—a mere ‘barbarian’ with no official sanction to execute me!” Their verbal sparring continued, with the commander responding with ease while the tusi, though fluent in Chinese, struggled momentarily to keep up. Just then, the tusi quietly turned to his Dai advisor standing nearby, and the two exchanged a few words in the Dai language. Unfazed, the commander confidently assumed his taunts had rattled the timid Bamar people—but little did he know that the tusi’s cryptic remark had already sent shivers down his spine. As the tension reached its peak, the tusi suddenly roared, summoning the executioner: “Bring forth the blood-stained guillotine!” The executioner and his assistant hurriedly wheeled in the rusty, decades-old blade—a ceremonial instrument bestowed by imperial decree but never before used, now caked with dust and spiderwebs. At first, the executioner tried to lift the heavy blade effortlessly, only to find it stubbornly stuck fast. Desperate to free it, he finally braced himself with his left foot against the ground and yanked with all his might—nearly losing his balance in the process. Realizing too late what was about to happen, the commander froze in terror, his once-boisterous confidence evaporating like a punctured balloon. In that agonizing moment, as the tusi let out three deep, deliberate coughs—the unmistakable signal for execution—he calmly declared: “Though this tusi rules from the distant southwestern frontier, he remains steadfastly committed to safeguarding his homeland and fulfilling his sacred duty to maintain peace and stability in this region. Today, your actions have claimed two innocent lives, an unforgivable crime. Normally, such matters would require immediate transmission up the chain of command to the capital. Yet given the vast distance and the mounting public outrage, I must act swiftly. Fetch the executioner—let justice be served, and dispatch word of this grim deed to the capital without delay.” With those chilling words, the commander’s head rolled lifelessly to the ground. Later, the tusi formally submitted a report to the emperor, who, reluctantly, had no choice but to approve the tusi’s bold decision to carry out the execution first and seek approval afterward.

　　5. Campaign Against Yue Feng

　　The Xuanfu Office occupied a central position within the Tusi hierarchy: above it was the Xuanwei Office, followed by the Xuanfu Office itself, and below it came the Anfu Office. All were military positions granted by the central government, each entrusted with the duty of "defending their assigned territory." In times of crisis among the Tusi chieftains, "when one side faces trouble, support comes from all directions"—a principle formally enshrined in the alliance charter established during the Sanxuan Alliance Ceremony in the tenth year of the Ming Zhengtong reign. On ordinary days, this pact existed merely as a piece of paper, but in moments of urgency, it proved to be an invaluable tool. The campaign against Longchuan’s Yuefeng, for instance, vividly demonstrated how the Nandian Tusi put this alliance into practice.

　　Around the time of the Ming Dynasty's Wanli era (1573), Burma's King Nyaungyan, the second ruler of the Toungoo Dynasty, began raiding China's border regions. He repeatedly invited Longchuan’s Pacification Commissioner, Duoshining, to march deeper into Chinese territory. But Duoshining saw right through this—wasn’t it a blatant attempt to lure him into betraying his own land and undermining his authority? How could he possibly go along with such a treacherous plan when he had already been generously bestowed with imperial honors and titles? Firmly resolved not to comply, Duoshining vowed to fight to the death rather than submit. Enraged by their failure, the Burmese harbored an unyielding hatred toward him. In 1577, a Jiangxi merchant named Yuefeng arrived in Longchuan. Clever and resourceful, Yuefeng quickly won Duoshining’s trust. In fact, Duoshining went so far as to marry his own sister to him, forging a bond that grew as close as that between brothers.

　　In those days, strict rules determined who could dine with the tusi—and who couldn’t. At the Longchuan tusi’s residence, around ten tables were set up each day for meals, yet diners were seated separately in different areas. Despite the large number of guests, the atmosphere was surprisingly quiet, especially during the tusi’s own banquets, which typically included only the tusi himself and a few family members. One fateful day, as the tusi was eating, Duoshining kept pouring drink after drink, while Yuefeng, seated nearby, gently urged him to slow down. Just as Yuefeng refilled Duoshining’s cup, he subtly shifted the position of the poisoned glass—though Duoshining remained oblivious. Before long, after downing the tainted wine, Duoshining’s face turned pale, and he collapsed unconscious beneath the table. But Duoshining’s wife and his maidservants, realizing Yuefeng’s treacherous plan, quickly turned to flee. Unfortunately, before they could escape, Yuefeng had already drawn his sword and fatally stabbed them through the chest. Seizing the moment, Yuefeng overthrew the existing regime, donned the official court robes, and ascended to the throne of the Longchuan Xuanfu Si. Later, he went on to expand his control, annexing territories such as Gan Ya and Zha Fang. Fearing that the imperial court might launch a counterattack, Yuefeng secretly sought refuge in Burma. Under Yuefeng’s strategic guidance, Burma’s King Dongwu eventually managed to gain full dominion over the Baiyi lands.

　　In the winter of the 10th year of the Wanli era (1852), a group of people were tied up at the headquarters of Mang Yingli—Mang Yinglong’s successor—and they cried out in agony. Though it was winter, Myanmar’s low-altitude regions still experienced relatively high temperatures. Exposed to the scorching sun (locally known as "roasting the sun"), they began to sweat profusely, soaking their Dai-style clothing and parching their throats with thirst while gnawing at empty stomachs. Among them were Dao Luoxian and Dao Sideng, two local chieftains from Nandian whom Mang Yingli had captured during his raids. Laid out before them was a pile of confiscated official seals belonging to the fallen chieftains. Without these powerful seals, the entire region plunged into chaos, as rival forces quickly moved in to seize control of the territory. Meanwhile, Burma’s influence grew increasingly bold, casting covetous eyes toward inland areas like Tengchong, Yongchang, and Dali. This escalating crisis caught the attention of the imperial court, which dispatched General Liu Ting, the guerrilla commander of Tengyue, along with Colonel Deng Zilong, the military governor of Yongchang, to lead a punitive expedition. As their journey took them through Nandian territory, Nandian’s chief chieftain, Dao Leyou, rallied his clan leaders—including Dao Lesai, Dao Gonglao, Guan Guangxian, and Guan Guangzhi—to join forces with soldiers from the neighboring Kan Ya garrison, all marching southward together under the command of the expeditionary force.

　　Deng Zilong and five other units marched grandly into the Panzhihua region, where soldiers immediately got to work—building walls and digging trenches (note: these weren’t modern-day trenches but rather cleverly adapted from natural mountain gullies, effectively blocking enemy paths). With a storyteller’s flair for drama, just as one group of Burmese troops stealthily crept into the ambush zone—complete with their elephant corps, cavalry, and infantry—their movements were painfully slow. But when they drew close enough, Deng’s forces let out a thunderous roar. First came a cascade of massive boulders hurtling down from above, followed swiftly by an explosive charge of hidden warriors bursting forth. The sudden assault threw the enemy formation into chaos, leaving them utterly disorganized. In the ensuing melee, countless Burmese soldiers were captured alive, along with three majestic elephants. Afterward, Deng’s army pursued the fleeing enemy all the way to a treacherous spot called “Jia Xiang Shi” in Ladi—a location so perilous that it seemed almost impossible to traverse. Here, two towering, colossal rocks stood ominously facing each other, each towering thirty feet high yet barely three feet wide—just enough room for a single person to squeeze through sideways. On either side loomed sheer, unfathomable chasms, with no safe path in sight. Even for humans, navigating this narrow passage was a daunting challenge; now imagine how daunting it must have been for elephants—or even an entire army! Despite these overwhelming odds, Deng’s troops pressed forward, ultimately beheading 51 enemy soldiers and capturing one more war elephant. They then went on to secure victory over the surrounding area of Manha.

　　After briefly regrouping, the Deng and Liu armies split into two separate forces. Liu Ting’s troops crossed the Shanmulong Pass, successfully capturing the traitor Yue Feng. Meanwhile, Deng’s army advanced directly from the Ba Wei area, blocking Yue Feng’s escape route back into Myanmar. Later, the Deng and Liu forces converged, completely encircling Longchuan city—so tightly that not a single person could slip through. Outside the fortress, chaos reigned as panicked figures darted about, their shouts and roars blending into a deafening roar. Yet despite the Ming soldiers’ desperate cries, no one understood them, since most of the defenders were Dai soldiers loyal to Yue Feng. Unmoved by the pleas, these troops showed no sign of surrendering. At this critical moment, Nandian chieftain Dao Le Lin stepped forward and volunteered, “General, let me try.” He positioned the Dai troops at the front of the formation, then began rhythmically clashing their guns, swords, and spears together while loudly shouting in the Dai language toward the city walls. His messages conveyed clear warnings: “Yue Feng, come out!” “Betrayal will lead to your downfall!” and “Defending our nation’s territorial integrity is the sacred duty of every citizen under my rule!” Hearing these powerful yet persuasive words, Yue Feng’s men—overwhelmed by the righteous call to protect their homeland, pressed by the overwhelming might of the massive Ming army, and shaken by the relentless political pressure from the Dai soldiers—finally dropped their weapons. Even Yue Feng himself, along with his son, raised their hands in surrender. By the 12th year of the Wanli era, Dao Le Lin once again accompanied Liu Ting on a victorious pursuit of Ava. Tasked with pacifying the local tribes after the campaign, he demonstrated remarkable leadership by rallying the Nandian Dai troops to play a pivotal role in securing victory. This mission underscored the spirit of national unity and highlighted the extraordinary courage of the Dai people, who fought valiantly alongside the Ming forces to safeguard China’s territorial integrity.

　　6. Relocating to Yong'an

　　Man Gan (modern-day Jiubao) lies 100 li southwest of Huanglinggang, offering access to Gan Ya and Zhanda; and 200 li southeast, where climbing through the Shanmuling Pass grants passage to Longchuan and Mengmao. Surrounded by the Daying River in front and backed by lush green hills dotted with redwood forests, this strategic location provides both offensive and defensive advantages. As a result, it has always been a fiercely contested stronghold for military strategists—and today, it’s home to the Nandian Xuanfu Temple Office. The complex features four distinct courtyards arranged in ascending tiers, with neatly aligned side wings adorned with intricately carved beams and vividly painted ceilings, topped off by elegant blue-tiled roofs. Inside, towering ancient trees stand majestically alongside rare and exotic flora, complemented by serene ponds, pavilions, and water features—all contributing to the area’s timeless charm.

　　In the 31st year of the Qing Emperor Qianlong's reign (1767), the Burmese Mokso Dynasty rose to power and began raiding large portions of our Dehong region. The following year, the imperial court dispatched General Ming Rui, the Governor-General of Yunnan and Guizhou, to lead a campaign against the invaders. At that time, troops were steadily reinforced within Nandian territory, with local laborers conscripted to carry supplies, transport officers, deliver military provisions, and maintain equipment—tasks that placed an unbearable burden on the region’s resources, eventually draining even the administrative offices’ financial reserves. Later, the Left Camp Commander stationed in Zhangfeng, Longchuan, faced a dire situation: due to the severe summer heat and widespread malaria, more than half of his soldiers fell ill or died. After careful deliberation by the provincial authorities, the camp was relocated to Nandian, where it now commanded a force of over a thousand troops, tasked with guarding the strategically vital Eight Passes—including Copper Wall Pass, Divine Protection Pass, and Ten-Thousand-Foot Pass, among others. The Left Camp Commander’s headquarters was established directly adjacent to the Nandian Pacification Office, featuring 662 barracks for soldiers, along with separate administrative buildings for civil and military officials, as well as a dedicated armory. However, despite these facilities, discipline quickly deteriorated under the new leadership. Soldiers grew arrogant and unruly, openly looting villagers, harassing local women, and even openly discriminating against ethnic minorities—a situation that left the local population utterly miserable. As troop numbers continued to swell, the cramped quarters at the newly built Left Camp Command proved woefully inadequate to meet the needs of the growing garrison. One day, Zhou Fang, the magistrate of Yongchang, sent several soldiers to the Third Hall of the Nandian Pacification Office, where they met with the local chieftain. They bluntly announced their intention to purchase the chieftain’s residence, hoping to convert it into a military barracks. But the chieftain remained noncommittal, leaving the negotiations deadlocked for hours on end. At the time, the hereditary chieftain, Dao Sanxiao, was still quite young, so his mother, Lady Si, had taken charge of managing the chieftainship. Despite being a widow, Lady Si handled affairs with the same decisiveness and clarity as any man. She calmly laid out two copper coins—one marked “one,” the other “two”—emphasizing her unwavering resolve: “This office is the legacy of my ancestors; I dare not put a price on it, nor would I ever abandon it.” Her firm refusal delivered a harsh reality check to the soldiers, who had secretly hoped the chieftain might sell off his ancestral home. Disappointed and disheartened, the soldiers quietly withdrew.

　　A few days later, a chef rushed in, out of breath, and said to Old Grandmother, "There’s absolutely nothing left in the kitchen—how am I supposed to cook dinner now?" Old Grandmother calmly replied, "These are turbulent times, marked by chaos and internal strife. On top of that, we’ve been forced to collect grain and supplies year after year to support military efforts. We must remain calm and handle this situation wisely." After a moment of thought, Grandmother added, "Custodian, gather up all the women’s gold and silver jewelry from the household and sell it at the market—it’ll help us stretch our meager resources until we can find another solution." With that, she herself took off her earrings, necklace, and bracelets, handing them over to the custodian without hesitation. At this point, the custodian hesitated, pointing out, "Sir, there are sixty or seventy people living in the compound, and even on quieter days, at least six or seven tables are filled with diners. How long will this small sum from the sale really last?" Grandmother nodded thoughtfully, replying, "For now, let’s focus on addressing the most urgent need—and we’ll figure out what comes next as things stabilize."

　　Three days later, the Tusi kitchen once again ran out of rice. Thinking carefully, Si summoned all members of his clan to discuss the situation and proposed relocating the Nandian Xuanfu Office away from Manggan—to establish the new headquarters in Naluanba. At first, some argued: "This Manggan office has been home for over 300 years; changing it won’t be easy." Others countered: "Given the current chaos and turmoil, moving far away is the only way to avoid humiliation." Ultimately, following Si’s strong advocacy, the decision was made to relocate the office. In response, Si Zutai personally led the people in dismantling the main hall of three rooms at the original office complex. Meanwhile, the remaining structures were designated by Wu Kai, the magistrate of Tengchong, though they officially remained under the ownership of the Tusi.

　　Naluanda, situated with the Daying River flowing in front and Fernleaf Dam looming behind, boasts exceptionally fertile land and a pleasantly mild climate—truly a paradise perfect for human life. The Si family was overjoyed to possess such a geographically blessed and spiritually auspicious spot. On the day the new administrative headquarters was finally completed, Chief Si summoned all his officials and declared: "After much perseverance, our government office is finally ready. As you, the finest scholars and literary talents, have gathered here today, let’s brainstorm and choose a fitting name for this place." Following his opening remarks, lively discussions erupted among the assembled officials. Some suggested "Nandian," while others proposed "Naluanda City." With so many ideas tossed around—and even more disagreements arising—it took quite some time before they could settle on a consensus. Finally, it was the chief advisor who spoke up: "Our Nandian administration has its roots in the ancient city of Dadi Lao. Though we later relocated to Manggan, over the years we’ve weathered countless storms and upheavals, enduring repeated conflicts that left our people living in constant turmoil. Especially in recent years, amid widespread chaos and warfare, though we remain influential local leaders, our resources have dwindled dramatically, forcing us to endure unimaginable hardships. Yet today, having found ourselves in this serene and prosperous haven, I believe it’s the perfect moment to bestow this place with a name that reflects both peace and prosperity." Hearing these wise words, the officials nodded in agreement and eagerly asked in unison: "Then, what name do you suggest?" The advisor replied thoughtfully: "In my view, why not embrace the spirit of 'May the people thrive in peace, and may the realm enjoy eternal tranquility'? How about naming it 'Yongan'?" The proposal was met with unanimous approval, and thus, "Yong'an Government Office" was instantly adopted as the official name for the newly established headquarters.

　　Actually, a name is just a label—yet after the office relocated, how much chaos ensued, and how many events were set in motion, remains to be told later.

　　7. The Elephant's Worth

　　In the ninth year of the Qing Guangxu era, the third hall of the Nandian Xuanfu Office was completed. Located in the center of the back wall behind the main entrance, a circular gate was installed—locals affectionately nicknamed it the "Sun Gate." Normally, this gate was discreetly concealed by a double-layered "yin-yang cloth," colored red on one side and black on the other. Men and women of lower status were strictly forbidden from lifting the curtain to enter; instead, they had no choice but to take an indirect route around the building. Yet, when high-ranking officials or esteemed guests arrived at the office, a grand red carpet would be unfurled, accompanied by the resounding beat of gongs announcing their approach—only then could they step through the gate with dignity. But here’s the intriguing twist: oddly enough, a male elephant could stroll right in and out as if it owned the place. Legend has it that the local chieftain kept two majestic elephants. When the first two halls were being constructed, massive timber had to be transported from distant, rugged mountain ranges—routes that were notoriously difficult and perilous. Moving those enormous, heavy pillars proved nearly impossible for human labor alone. That’s where the elephants stepped in, showcasing their unmatched strength and grace. With just a flick of their trunks, they effortlessly guided the colossal beams into position, swiftly completing the task. However, halfway through construction, disaster struck: one of the elephants accidentally stepped on a sharp thorn called "tangli," causing its foot to bleed profusely. For nearly two weeks, the injured animal struggled to pull the timber down the mountain, delaying the project by an entire month. Despite this setback, the chieftain grew even more devoted to his beloved elephants. Though technically animals, these giants possessed extraordinary power far beyond what mere mortals could achieve. From that day forward, the chieftain granted them a special privilege: they were allowed to share the third hall with humans, though they still slept separately in a dedicated, smaller stable nearby. The elephant stables were meticulously equipped with everything needed—lush hay piles, sturdy feeding troughs, and even a sharp chopping tool for preparing fodder. Each morning, a pot of thin rice porridge was prepared specifically for the elephant’s breakfast. And if the mighty beast ever let out a sneeze, the chieftain would promptly instruct his servants to mix medicinal herbs into a lightly toasted rice ball—a treat uniquely tailored to soothe any discomfort. No matter how busy the chieftain’s official duties became, he always made time to visit the elephant stables, ensuring the giant creature received proper care and attention. In essence, the bond between the chieftain and his elephant was nothing short of unbreakable—so close that it seemed the line between human and beast had long since blurred. For the elephant’s caretakers, meanwhile, selecting the right individual was an art in itself. They lived alongside their charge day and night, guiding it during daily grazing sessions in the mountains. When the elephant returned home, it felt like coming home too—making the animal not just a working partner, but a cherished pet deeply cherished by the chieftain himself.

　　Behind Zhadao Hill lies a marshland known as "Wild Duck Pond," which varies in width, stretching roughly a hundred zhang across at its widest point. The deep pond is entirely encircled by lush, carpet-like green grass that clings tightly to the water’s surface—so much so that it seems almost impenetrable. If you step onto this verdant "carpet" and give it a gentle shake, the entire pond begins to ripple, earning it the local nickname "Great Sweat Cave." On this particular day, an elephant herder had come here to graze his herd. Amidst the serene mountain forest, all that could be heard was the occasional chirping of mountain birds—and then, suddenly, the unmistakable crunching sound of two massive elephants munching on fresh grass: "chaa-chaa-chaa." Before long, the herder drifted off into a peaceful slumber. But just as he was lost in his sweetest dreams, a loud "plop" shattered the tranquil silence. Startled, the mother elephant stumbled and plunged headfirst into the treacherous swamp below. Slowly but surely, she sank deeper—first one foot, then another—her desperate cries for help echoing through the still, shadowy valley. Her plaintive calls pierced the heart of the male elephant standing nearby, jolting him awake from his own dreamlike state. Panic surged through him as he frantically paced back and forth, drenched in sweat. With lightning speed, he drew his long knife from his belt and began hacking away at nearby branches, trying to wedge them beneath the sinking mother, hoping they’d provide enough support to keep her afloat. Yet even those sturdy little twigs seemed utterly powerless against the immense weight of the elephant’s massive body. Meanwhile, though the male elephant was merely an animal, something extraordinary stirred within him—a profound sense of empathy and determination. He circled his fallen mate, using his trunk to scoop up water from the pond and spout it high into the air, as if aiming to evaporate the very depths of the abyss itself. His relentless efforts were driven by an unyielding hope: perhaps, by somehow drying up the unfathomable waters, he could rescue the life-threatening situation gripping his beloved companion. But no matter how valiantly he tried, time was running out. One by one, the precious moments slipped away until, finally, the mother elephant disappeared completely beneath the surface, her head submerged in the dark, murky water. Overwhelmed with grief, the herder sank to his knees beside the edge of the pond, tears streaming down his face for what felt like an eternity.

　　"Bang!" The sound shattered the stillness of the air as the male elephant, which hadn’t even hit the water, was suddenly pursued by three hunters who mistakenly believed it to be a wild, untamed beast. Shouting war cries, they charged forward in unison. But as the mahout stood up, he realized with a jolt that this was no ordinary wild elephant—it belonged to "Chao Fa," the headman of the Dai community. Instantly panicked at the thought of the grave mistake he’d made, the mahout turned and bolted for safety. Undeterred, the hunters gave chase, determined to capture the leader at all costs. Just then, the intruder halted abruptly, forming a tight circle around him. Swiftly, gleaming long knives were drawn. Yet, undaunted by the overwhelming odds, the mahout grabbed a handful of mud and flung it straight into their faces. Seizing the chaos as his chance, he lunged forward—clutching one of the mesmerized hunters in a fierce, desperate grip.

　　As evening fell, the mahout entered the chieftain’s compound with his head bowed and looking dejected—and right at the garden gate, he came face-to-face with the chieftain himself. Quickly stepping aside to let the elephant pass through the gate, the mahout stood patiently waiting for the second elephant to follow. But no matter how long he waited, there was still no sign of it entering. Finally, raising his head, he saw—much to his astonishment—a second elephant standing beside its handler, both covered in mud, looking eerily like living clay figures. “Where’s the mother elephant?” the chieftain bellowed, his voice sharp with concern. “What happened to her?” The mahout remained silent, unable to speak, before collapsing suddenly onto the ground with a heavy thud. Realizing something terrible must have occurred, the chieftain pressed him further, demanding an explanation. Slowly, the mahout revealed what had transpired that day—and as he spoke, tears began streaming down Chieftain Dao Dingguo’s face, soaking his cheeks.

　　The next day, the elephant case was heard in court. The local chieftain addressed the elephant hunter: "This elephant has tirelessly carried timber for our family, earning immense gratitude and loyalty. It deserves to be cherished—but today, you drove away my beloved pet. How dare you commit such an offense?" The hunter stood speechless, his head bowed in shame. At that moment, the elephant herder spoke up: "Sir, the hunter acted out of ignorance; he didn’t realize the elephant belonged to someone else. For that mistake, I beg you to spare his life." The chieftain replied firmly: "Humans and elephants are one; domesticated or wild, both deserve protection." Moved by the herder’s plea—and that of his family—the chieftain declared: "Since this is your first offense, I sentence you to three months of hard labor at the chieftain’s office, without pay. However, because you’ve shown dedication to protecting elephants, I grant you a plot of fertile land—three acres—to cultivate, passed down through your family forever." From that day forward, the chieftain grew even more fond of the solitary male elephant, going so far as to allow it exclusive access to the Three Courtyards for care and shelter. Each day, the elephant was led gracefully through the garden gates, treated with the utmost respect and reverence, cementing its status as a revered symbol of harmony between man and nature.

　　8. Large Fish, Small Dish

　　As soon as Gong Shou ascended to the hereditary chieftain’s throne, China was on the verge of abolishing the imperial system—meaning the end of over 500 years of hereditary rule. Yet, the newly established Republic of China government made no changes to the local chieftains’ political power, economic privileges, or lifestyle in these remote regions. Instead, they aggressively pushed forward the "reform of indigenous governance," aiming to replace traditional tribal administrations with modern, centralized authority. Amid this turbulent transition, however, Gong Shou managed to navigate the shifting tides with a clever strategy: he refused to back down, constantly asserting his status as a respected and authoritative leader.

　　One day in the first year of the Republic of China (1912), Li Genyuan, commander of the Second Division of Yunnan’s National Army and a native of Jiubao, was traveling westward through Tengchong. That very day, he summoned all the local chieftains and tribal leaders from the frontier region to Tengchong to discuss the issue of "replacing indigenous rule with direct administration." However, during the meeting, the chieftains sat slumped in their seats, looking listless and dispirited. After an entire day of deliberations, no concrete agreement was reached. That evening, at the inn, Gong Shou turned to his fellow chieftains and remarked: "When officials appointed from the central government travel thousands of miles to serve—motivated solely by wealth and status—they inevitably clash with the people, creating irreconcilable tensions." As the "leader of the ten major chieftaincies" in the borderlands and also related by kinship to several other tribal chiefs, everyone around him watched closely, nodding in agreement as they sensed his words carried undeniable authority.

　　Li Yuanquan was also racking his brains over this issue, recognizing that facilitating the "reform of indigenous rule and integration into the mainstream" was a matter of immense personal significance. Finally, he came up with a brilliant strategy: simply transferring the local chieftain to another post. The very next morning, he summoned Gong Shou to the Tengchong County Government Office. In the reception hall, Li addressed the chieftain directly: "You possess extraordinary talent, remarkable wisdom, and unparalleled leadership skills. Henceforth, you are reassigned as the Deputy Commander of Shunning Prefecture..." Before Li could finish his sentence, the chieftain shot to his feet, hastily trying to deflect the proposal: "I am an ethnic minority native to this land—born and raised right here. Besides, my elderly mother is frail and wouldn’t thrive in a distant place. I deeply appreciate your kindness, but I must respectfully decline." Meanwhile, Gong Shou couldn’t help but feel uneasy. Though he’d long been known as a formidable figure in Nandian, he couldn’t shake off the old adage: "Even a tiger loses its edge when it enters the plains—and gets trampled by a mere dog." Before long, their meeting ended on a sour note. Li Yuanquan had never imagined that a frontier chieftain like Gong Shou would prove so stubborn and resistant. Faced with this unexpected resistance, he realized for now he couldn’t outmaneuver the chieftain directly. Instead, he decided to strike at the heart of the matter—starting with the jurisdiction over Gong Shou’s ancestral hometown, Jiubao. Thus, just one year later, Jiubao was officially incorporated into the administrative control of Tengchong Castle. Meanwhile, only Hujie Xiang—a densely populated area inhabited exclusively by ethnic Dai people who shared the same surname and clan as those in Nandian—remained under the chieftain’s direct authority. Gong Shou couldn’t help but grow increasingly anxious about this sudden shift. After all, his family had held hereditary official positions in the border region for twenty-eight generations, spanning more than five centuries. To them, power, land, and even people were essentially extensions of their own dominion. Outsiders, especially Han Chinese like Li Yuanquan, were viewed with deep suspicion and outright disdain. Yet today, the arrival of this “foreign” jurisdiction—an entirely new patch of land governed by Han officials—seemed like a direct threat to his authority and the stability of his regime. Still, after careful reflection, he reminded himself that times were changing rapidly. As the saying goes, "If you can’t endure small grievances, you’ll ruin grand plans." With Li Yuanquan’s subtle encouragement, Gong Shou eventually agreed to change his family name from Gai to Gong, signaling a tacit alliance with the Han administration. However, beneath the surface, both sides remained deeply wary of each other, each secretly plotting ways to outsmart and keep tabs on the other.

　　One morning, Li Genyuan returned home to Tengchong to visit relatives. As he arrived, the people of Jiubao Village came out to greet him along the narrow, winding road near Hanba, creating an unusually lively and festive scene—no need to elaborate further. After briefly resting at his childhood home, he headed straight to the Zhadao Chancellery. There, Li Genyuan engaged in casual conversation with the local chieftain in the reception hall, but both remained cautiously guarded whenever the discussion turned to official matters. A few cups of tea later, Li Genyuan, who hadn’t eaten breakfast, suddenly felt his stomach growl loudly—so much so that even Gong Shou, seated nearby, couldn’t help but chuckle, prompting the chieftain to cover his mouth with a smile.

　　After a moment, the servant whispered something to the chieftain, who then said to Gong Shou, "Let the banquet begin—this is our way of welcoming and honoring Chief Li." Following this, the guests took their seats one by one in an orderly fashion. Among the Dai people, there’s a custom: guests sit at the top, while the host occupies the sides. Unaware of this tradition, Li Genyuan mistakenly sat below, but the chieftain promptly rearranged him to the proper place at the head of the table. Once everyone was seated, the chieftain clapped his hands, and servants began serving the dishes one by one. With each course, the chieftain meticulously introduced the name of the dish, its origin, and even its fascinating backstory—details that left no guest untouched as they listened intently to the elaborate tales behind each culinary creation (this, after all, was the chieftain’s famed “Ten-Course Banquet”). But Li Genyuan, clearly impatient, couldn’t wait any longer. He reached for his chopsticks and started picking up food before anyone else had even begun. Just then, the chieftain gave another subtle signal—this time, a sharp clap directed inward. Instantly, a servant emerged carrying a grand offering platter, upon which rested a single, perfectly prepared dish: a whole, steaming-hot red carp, its scales glistening as if freshly polished. Gong Shou quickly interjected with a polite yet unmistakable gesture: "Please, please—this exquisite fish is specially prepared for you, Chief Li. I hope you’ll enjoy it!" Intrigued, Li Genyuan glanced up—and what he saw nearly took his breath away. The fish looked utterly lifelike, its vibrant red hue complemented by expertly balanced seasonings that filled the air with an irresistible aroma. It was undeniably mouthwatering. At that very moment, the chieftain calmly explained the dish’s origins: "This remarkable fish was raised right here in my family’s pond—a tranquil little oasis known as ‘Nong Mo’ Pond. As it grew larger, it became restless, leaping and splashing about in the water. Today, we decided to honor it by preparing this special treat. First, we carefully scaled the fish, then slit open its belly to remove the innards. After rinsing it thoroughly with clean water, we seasoned it lightly with salt, a touch of chili, some ginger, and a hint of fragrant spices like *xiangla liu*. Once everything was perfectly combined, we stuffed the mixture directly into the fish’s cavity, sealed it tightly with bamboo strips, and wrapped the entire creature snugly in banana leaves. Finally, we placed it in hot embers to cook slowly until tender and flavorful. When ready, all you need to do is unwrap it—and voilà, your delicious feast awaits!" However, instead of appreciating the intricate preparation process, Li Genyuan merely nodded perfunctorily, clearly uninterested in such details. But just as he was about to pick up his chopsticks again, he paused mid-motion. Curious now, he examined the dish more closely. To his surprise, the fish seemed disproportionately large compared to the tiny plate it rested on—a clear mismatch in scale that felt almost deliberate. Suddenly, a troubling thought crossed his mind: Could this elaborate presentation be more than meets the eye? Was the chieftain subtly mocking—or perhaps even challenging—him through this symbolic act? Before he could fully process his suspicions, Li Genyuan’s gaze shifted to the rest of the table. There, arranged alongside the fish, were two other delicacies: a platter of wild honeycomb and another showcasing locally sourced, shell-on snails braised in a savory Dai-style broth. Without hesitation, he picked up a piece of honeycomb, popped it into his mouth, followed by a bite of the snail. As he chewed, swallowing both in one smooth motion, the room fell silent—save for the collective gasp of astonishment from the other diners. The unexpected move sent ripples of shock through the entire gathering. Even Gong Shou, who had been watching closely, couldn’t hide his growing realization: Li Genyuan wasn’t just savoring the flavors—he was boldly turning the tables on the chieftain himself. By ingeniously linking the “honeycomb” to the character “tu” (meaning “earth”) and the “snail” to the homophone “si” (referring to the chieftain), Li Genyuan had cleverly crafted a double entendre that subtly—but unmistakably—challenged the authority of the local ruler. Caught off guard by the audacious display, the chieftain couldn’t help but chuckle softly, exchanging a knowing glance with Li Genyuan. Meanwhile, the rest of the guests, though bewildered by the hidden meaning behind the meal, couldn’t suppress their own nervous laughter. In that moment, the entire scene encapsulated the delicate balance—and often fraught tensions—of the “Reform and Integration” policy being implemented across the region. While the chieftain sought to maintain his traditional power, Li Genyuan, representing the central government, refused to be cowed. Their silent exchange over the table symbolized the broader struggle between old customs and modern governance, ultimately leading to the paradoxical outcome of “governing both the land and its people simultaneously.”

　　9. The chieftain refuses to pay

　　The mansion, built over three generations, was completed in 1935—the 84th year of the Republic era. One day, Tusi Gong stood proudly in the main hall, admiring his handiwork with great satisfaction. This time, he had invited Master Yang from Jianchuan, renowned for his exceptional craftsmanship. The artisans’ skill was so remarkable that even a single strand of hair couldn’t fit between the intricate mortise-and-tenon joints or the lower skirting boards. Take, for instance, the golden gourds adorning the hanging pillars—masterpieces of artistry. These gourds are hollow, yet inside they’re exquisitely carved with lifelike depictions of all 108 heroes from the Water Margin. When gently swayed by the breeze, they spin gracefully, much like the traditional Chinese “walking lanterns.” Meanwhile, the partition doors in the central hall boast exquisite, poetic carvings, each telling a story: Wang Xizhi’s affection for geese, Tao Yuanming’s love of chrysanthemums, Zhou Dunyi’s admiration for lotuses, Ye Gong’s infatuation with dragons, Bo Le’s discerning eye for fine horses, He Jing’s passion for plum blossoms, Duke Yin’s serene enjoyment of fishing, and Emperor Ming’s deep appreciation for the moon—all captured in the celebrated "Eight Loves" series. To top it off, the house features elegant British steel windows adorned with colorful stained glass, lending an extra layer of brilliance and opulence. This design reflects the Tusi’s unique ability to seamlessly blend Eastern and Western cultural elements. What’s truly astonishing is that during the construction of this magnificent structure, Tusi Gong paid meticulous attention to every detail. From the very beginning, he carefully selected premium materials: the main hall was crafted from chestnut wood, the left wing from camphorwood, and the right wing from catalpa wood. Remarkably, when the names of these woods are combined phonetically, they form the phrase “Zheng Li Chun Qiu”—a direct reference to the enduring stability and prosperity of his dynasty. With the grand inauguration ceremony just around the corner, the elderly Tusi (the patriarch himself), along with his family and local dignitaries, could not be happier. They clapped enthusiastically, praising Gong Shou’s unparalleled vision and dedication.

　　Just as everyone was feeling joyful, only Tusi Gong Shou sat with a furrowed brow, looking deeply troubled. People couldn’t help but wonder—was it because the project simply couldn’t be completed, or perhaps the timber wasn’t chosen at the right time? But in reality, their guesses were all mere fantasies. Tusi thought to himself: "When we started, I boasted to the carpenters, 'One tael of wood shavings is worth one ounce of silver!' For over two months now, they’ve been working tirelessly from dawn till dusk. And look—now that the job is finally finished, it’s high time to pay them." But here’s the catch: paying them would require 240,000 taels of silver for the entire grand hall. Unfortunately, amid the ongoing chaos and turmoil, the treasury within the Tusi’s office was already empty—there was simply no money available. Yet refusing to pay felt even worse, risking not just financial ruin but also losing face in the eyes of society. After all, word would spread that he’d broken his promise, earning himself the infamous reputation of being someone who exploited others’ hard work and sweat. Caught between these conflicting pressures, the Counselor suddenly entered the Tusi’s study with another matter on hand. Seeing this, the Tusi quickly grabbed the Counselor’s arm, holding him back with an unusually warm, almost brotherly embrace—though the gesture clearly left the Counselor utterly bewildered. Without hesitation, the Tusi poured out the whole dilemma about the unpaid wages. For a moment, the Counselor remained silent, gently adjusting the bridge of his glasses with a fingertip before leaning in close to whisper something quietly into the Tusi’s ear. The Tusi listened intently, nodding repeatedly with growing excitement. Finally, he exclaimed, “Quickly arrange everything perfectly—and don’t forget, my reward will be generous!”

　　At night, suddenly the temple courtyard erupted in a flurry of gong sounds. The night watchman shouted loudly: "Someone’s stealing!" "Someone’s trying to steal someone!" "The chieftain’s seal is missing!" "Quickly, catch the traitor!" With each announcement, he deliberately bellowed toward the direction of the Jianchuan carpenter. As half an incense stick burned away, the courtyard finally fell silent once more…

　　The next morning, people of all ages—from the elderly to the youngest—along with the servants, were buzzing about last night’s events. Some recounted the story vividly, as if they’d witnessed it themselves. Others, particularly those who’d been less than honest in the past (having previously engaged in theft), turned beet red, their faces burning with embarrassment. Just then, the estate manager quietly approached the construction site and spotted the carpenters washing up after finishing their day’s work. They were preparing to pack up their tools and head home with their paychecks. The manager leaned in close to the foreman and whispered urgently, "You’re still here, calmly washing your faces? Did you know? Last night, someone broke into the estate—and stole the official seal! The estate lord is already suspicious of you guys. He’ll be sending men here any minute now to investigate. What are we going to do?" The carpenter from Jianchuan replied nonchalantly, "Come on, man! We’ve been working honestly—we’d never even think of stealing." The manager nodded, saying, "I believe you two are decent folks; I’m sure you’d never stoop to such a dishonorable act." But the carpenter shot back immediately, "Exactly! As the saying goes, ‘A man of integrity sleeps soundly even under thunder at midnight.’" The manager hesitated for a moment before continuing, "That may be true enough, but actions often speak louder than words. You’re both outsiders, and let me tell you—among the Dai people, we despise thieves more than anything else. Now that even the estate lord’s precious seal has been stolen, things could get very serious. In fact, according to our laws, this could mean execution!" At this, the carpenter’s eyes lit up with hope as he looked up at the manager. After a brief pause, the manager finally spoke again: "Our old estate lord is stubborn as an ox—with a temper that’s nearly impossible to reason with. If push comes to shove, no matter how much you insist you didn’t take anything, there’s only one way this will end: either you confess—or you face the consequences. Honestly, my advice? Just leave while you still can. As the saying goes, ‘A true hero avoids immediate danger; retreat is always the best strategy.’" Hearing this, the carpenters dropped to their knees, overwhelmed with gratitude. Deep down, they knew money was fleeting, but preserving their lives was priceless. As the old adage goes, "As long as the mountain remains, there’s no shortage of firewood." With that thought, they quickly grabbed their tools, slipped out through the back door, and vanished into the night, fleeing Southdian before anyone could stop them.

　　In the study, after the advisor reported to the old chieftain how he’d cleverly devised a plan—and even managed to scare off the Jianchuan men— the chieftain was thoroughly impressed. He immediately promised to reward the advisor with fertile fields, and both men sank into a joyful haze, clinking their mugs of smooth, fragrant rice wine so vigorously that the sound echoed "chuck-chuck" across the room. Just then, a servant burst in, breathless, and announced, "The Jianchuan master has left!" The chieftain feigned concern and asked, "So, they’re refusing payment for the work they did?" The servant replied, "They didn’t even bother to take their chisels or axes—they just abandoned everything and walked away!" The advisor chimed in thoughtfully, "Perhaps they’ve decided against it altogether." But the chieftain shot back, his voice dripping with mock disbelief: "Eighty thousand yuan? Eighty thousand silver dollars! How could they possibly turn down such an offer?" With a sly grin spreading across his face, the advisor retorted sharply, "After stealing my family’s precious seal, they still dare to ask for money? Tell them to get lost before I change my mind!" Both men raised their glasses simultaneously, letting out a sinister, mocking laugh that sent shivers through the air.

　　10. Flower Case Hearing

　　At the Nandian Xuanfu Si Office, two separate rooms—one on the left for men and one on the right for women—were set up in the side chambers of the public courtroom. Locals quietly refer to these rooms as the "Flower Case Rooms." But what exactly is a "Flower Case"? Simply put, it refers to cases involving relationships between men and women. When such cases were heard, they couldn’t be openly tried in the main courtroom—out of consideration for both parties’ personal privacy and other sensitive factors.

　　For many days, Chief Gong had been idle—no cases to handle, no court proceedings to oversee. Bored out of his mind, he decided to take a stroll through the "Hundred Flowers Pavilion," a picturesque spot featuring mountains, water, blossoms, and birds. Though located right in the heart of the bustling market town, the pavilion managed to retain a serene, almost tranquil atmosphere. Still, being essentially an artificial park, it could be explored in just a few minutes. Just as Chief Gong was starting to feel restless, a servant quietly entered, bowing deeply before him. "Please, my lord," the servant said respectfully, "it’s time to return to the court and resume your duties." But the chief waved him off impatiently. "Nonsense! What court business could there possibly be?" Before the servant could reply, he pressed on: "There’s a case waiting for you upstairs—apparently, it’s something quite… 'floral.'" Hearing this, Gong immediately straightened up and headed toward the court, eager to uncover whatever mystery awaited him.

　　In the courtroom, a man and a woman were tied together beneath the raised platform, while local gentry and curious villagers stood around them. The man, in his early thirties, wore a tailored suit and sported a slick "Eastern-style" hairstyle—his appearance neat and polished at first glance. The woman, about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, though clearly from the countryside, managed to blend traditional rural attire with subtle Western influences, giving her an air of quiet sophistication reminiscent of a wealthy lady. Just then, Gong Shou bellowed, "Separate the pair for trial!" The two reluctantly rose from the ground—but remained uncomfortably close to each other. "What’s this?" Gong snapped, glaring at them. "Can’t you two even keep your distance? You’ve ignored even my own grandfather’s authority!" Little did anyone know that when they’d been apprehended earlier, the village elders had actually bound the man and woman together with their own belts—making it nearly impossible for them to be untied on the spot. Reluctantly, the bailiffs obeyed the magistrate’s order, carefully loosening the belts and leading each of them separately into the courtroom.

　　The courtroom was remarkably humble—just a single table and a stool, both covered in thick layers of dust. It was clear at a glance that cases were rarely heard here; today, however, marked the very beginning of courtroom activity for the year. Gong stepped into the men’s detention room, blew the dust off the table and stool with his mouth, and settled down. Then he bellowed loudly, "You bold man! How dare you, a married man, seduce another woman who’s already tied to someone else, tearing apart someone else’s family? What crime do you deserve?" But instead of answering directly, the man muttered distractedly, "Grandpa, she and I grew up together as childhood sweethearts. Sadly, her mother, driven by greed for money, forced her into an arranged marriage with someone else. Yet deep down, we’ve always secretly cherished each other." Impatient, Gong interrupted, "Forget it—no one cares about your sob stories. Just get to the point. Come on, hurry up!" The man hesitated, stammering, "Well… uh…" "Spit it out already!" Gong snapped. "Remember, this old grandpa relies on every tiny detail to crack the case!" Reluctantly, the man finally began to recount the entire sordid tale of their secret romance…

　　Here's the translation: --- Here’s how it happened: The young woman’s mother arranged her marriage to a man well into his sixties, despite her being just eighteen years old. The groom spent most of his time conducting business in Lashio, Myanmar, rarely returning home for extended periods. Meanwhile, the bride spent her days leisurely—hanging out with friends, playing mahjong—and found the routine manageable enough. But come nightfall, she’d often find herself alone in an empty room, especially on stormy nights when the wind howled and rain lashed against the windows. As the saying goes, "A tiny flower pressed beneath a stone cannot be crushed"—and indeed, the pent-up emotions within her, once unleashed, could spiral into uncontrollable intensity. Though their marriage had been forcibly dissolved by the mother, the deep bond between the young woman and her lover remained unbreakable. Secretly, they continued their clandestine meetings, quietly supporting each other in ways that only true love could sustain. As the old adage goes, "Love binds like fate itself"—and now, more than ever, their connection felt inseparable. Time after time, they would reunite, lost in each other’s arms. But one fateful night, amid a fierce storm, the young man slipped into the warmth of the woman’s bed… A passionate embrace followed, and soon the lights went out. Little did they know that their intimate moment had already caught the attention of the village elder and their closest companions. Unbeknownst to them, someone had climbed over the wall, quietly unlocked the door from the outside, and caught the couple red-handed in the act.

　　Although the account was detailed, it still satisfied Gong’s demand for precision. As he stepped into the women’s chamber, he took a deep drag of his Sichuan tobacco, calmly easing his nerves. Inside, the woman was crouched by the wall’s base. When their eyes met, Gong studied her carefully—she shyly lowered her head, blushing faintly. Gong had heard long ago that though married, this woman hadn’t lost her beauty; in fact, she was considered the most stunning girl in the entire village—so much so that locals nicknamed her the “Phoenix of the Mountains.” And today, seeing her in person, he found the description utterly accurate. Yet, as he watched this breathtakingly lovely woman kneeling before him in the courtroom, Gong couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret—it was almost too perfect. Finally, Gong broke the silence: “Confess honestly about your illicit affair with the man.” The young woman hesitated, unsure where to begin, her gaze continually drifting toward the local magistrate. But the magistrate gently urged her: “Don’t be shy—just speak truthfully. I’ll make my own judgment.” Encouraged by Gong’s persistent prompting, the woman finally recounted the details of her secret relationship. Her story mirrored the man’s version fairly closely, down to the key moments. Just then, the magistrate, clearly growing impatient, interrupted abruptly: “Enough already! We’ve heard enough from the man. Now tell us exactly what happened on the night you were together.” Caught off guard, the woman struggled to find the right words, visibly uncomfortable under the weight of the question. Meanwhile, the court recorder discreetly tugged at the magistrate’s sleeve, signaling that this particular line of inquiry wasn’t necessary anymore. Reluctantly, Gong paused his questioning—but something about the scene lingered oddly: while he spent only three or four minutes in the man’s chamber, he seemed to linger far longer in the woman’s room. As dusk settled, the two parties finally faced each other in the women’s chamber. Throughout the confrontation, Gong interjected repeatedly, chiming in at crucial moments. And every time he reached a particularly humorous or dramatic point, he’d quietly cover his mouth with his fan, letting out a soft, mischievous chuckle that sent the entire audience into uproarious laughter—even the woman herself couldn’t suppress a grin. No wonder people whispered that Magistrate Gong was nothing short of a master when it came to unraveling love affairs!

　　The Tusi was the lord of an entire territory, responsible for overseeing everything from celestial and geographical matters to the smallest, most trivial details—like who disputes over a tiny patch of land, which brothers quarrel over dividing their inheritance, or even marital conflicts such as arguments and fights between spouses. Even modern-day issues like illicit relationships or marital disputes were under their jurisdiction. Moreover, their word carried absolute authority, starkly reflecting the oppressive, authoritarian nature of the feudal Tusi system—a "one-man rule" that marred countless beautiful marriages and shattered countless harmonious families.

　　Note: The above story was compiled and summarized by the author based on the account provided by the former director of the original institution.