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Woe to the Men
Written by: James Zhu
Upon a gloomy hill, beneath a sky heavy with iron clouds, there stood an old shrine, weathered by wind, fire, and years.
Woe to the men.
Men drift with the current, their eyes barely open. Yet love them still, for they are our own kind. Love them, but remain steadfast in mind. Among men, there are a few who act with reason. They trust their convictions, cling to justice, and bear the burden of consequence.
Alas, such men are few.
Far more numerous are those who mistake passion for wisdom, noise for virtue, and hatred for righteousness. One deed of a reasonable man may stir more anger than a hundred crimes committed by fools.
Woe to the men.
There was once a country that lived in peace. Its fields were green, its flocks were abundant, and its people were content enough. Yet the former government had been proud, restless, and hungry for glory. It dressed ambition in holy words, called war a righteous cause, and summoned the people to arms.
The people answered eagerly.
Farmers abandoned their plows. Shepherds cast aside their crooks. Men who had never seen battle lifted sickles and straw forks, marching beneath banners of zeal. They crossed the border and fell upon their neighbors. They plundered villages, burned homes, and shed innocent blood.
Though they remained human in body, they willingly lowered their spirits to something crueler. They no longer saw their neighbors as fellow men, but as enemies deserving ruin.
Woe to them.
The neighboring nations, though divided among themselves, united against the invaders. Friends and rivals alike agreed upon one truth: the enemy stood before them.
The armies met.
The zealots fought with the fury of demons, but fury could not overcome discipline. Surrounded, outnumbered, and broken, they fell into chaos. When their leader was slain, the great host dissolved like mist beneath the morning sun.
The war was lost.
A new ruler inherited a shattered nation. To preserve what remained, he was forced to sign a treaty of humiliation. Lands were surrendered. Tribute was demanded. Pride was swallowed.
Yet peace occupied his heart.
He had witnessed the ruin brought by the former ruler, and he desired no such legacy for his people or his home.
Among the defeated stood a man unlike the others. At first glance, he seemed ordinary. Yet his eyes revealed something uncommon. They burned not with hunger for blood, but with devotion to the common good.
Long before the war, he had pleaded with the former ruler.
“Do not lead the people into this madness,” he had warned.
For this, he was banished.
Now he had returned, not to seek revenge, not to seek power, but only to rebuild.
He raised walls where walls had fallen. He mended roofs torn by fire. He worked beside widows, laborers, farmers, and children. He carried stone, lifted timber, and gave strength to those who had none left.
Yet rebuilding proved harder than destruction.
The treasury was empty. The harvests were poor. The tribute demanded by foreign powers weighed heavily upon every household. The people grew weary. Weariness became bitterness. Bitterness became resentment. And resentment searched for an enemy.
The old ruler was dead. The neighboring nations were distant. Peace itself became the accused.
The hearts of the people began once more to thirst for blood.
All they needed was a spark.
One evening, a man emerged from the crowd gathered before the palace.
“Those lands were ours!” he cried. “We must take them back!”
The crowd roared in agreement.
Voices multiplied. Stones flew. Men shouted, cursed, and surged against the palace gates. The madness of war, once buried beneath ashes, began to breathe again.
Then the reasonable man stepped forward.
For a moment, he hesitated. He looked upon the faces before him and recognized many of them. He had repaired their homes. He had shared their meals. He had buried their dead.
A flicker of doubt crossed his mind.
Would they hear him?
Still, he spoke.
“Dear people,” he called, “war belongs to devils. Peace belongs to God. Forgiveness is the gift He grants us. The only battle worthy of man is the battle to surpass himself.”
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then came the reply.
“They covet our flocks!”
“They stole our land!”
“You speak for them!”
“You are the devil!”
The crowd seized him. Hands that he had helped feed now struck him. Men whose homes he had rebuilt bound his wrists. They dragged him before the palace and demanded justice.
The ruler watched from above.
Below stood the mob with sickles and straw forks. Above hung the darkening sky. Between them stood one innocent man, condemned by the anger of many.
The ruler closed his eyes.
“Whose foolishness does this man pay for?” he whispered.
No answer came.
At last, he lowered his head and gave permission.
The crowd carried the prisoner beyond the town, across the brook, and up the gloomy hill where the old shrine stood. Night gathered around them. A fire was lit. The people shouted in twisted joy, and the man’s cries vanished beneath their celebration.
Then thunder rolled across the heavens. The wind howled through the shrine. Some swore they heard a lament carried within the storm.
Yet none turned back.
The flames rose higher. The crowd rejoiced. And the hill glowed red beneath the darkness.
Woe to the men.
For whose foolishness did he pay?