The Duck Lord's Revolt

In the early eighteenth century, southern Taiwan was a land filled with violence, resentment, and despair. Countless “Luohanjiao” — lone migrant men who had survived the deadly crossing of the Black Ditch — discovered that the island was not the golden frontier promised in rumors back home. Instead, they found themselves trapped beneath the ruthless exploitation of the Qing imperial bureaucracy.

At the time, Taiwan was not a province of its own but administered as part of Fujian under the Taiwan Prefecture headquartered in Tainan. Most officials arrived with a deeply cynical mindset: serve a few years, squeeze out as much wealth as possible, then return home rich. By 1721, during the sixtieth year of the Kangxi reign, the greed of Prefect Wang Zhen and his son Wang Jie had reached extraordinary levels. Under endless fabricated pretexts, they imposed crushing taxes and extortion upon ordinary people. Farmers entering the mountains to gather firewood were forced to pay a “firewood tax.” Fishermen casting nets into the sea paid a “net tax.” Even peasants attempting to reclaim wasteland risked arrest, public whipping, and enormous ransom payments. Within a short period, hundreds of innocent civilians were thrown into prison. Across southern Taiwan, public anger built like a barrel packed with gunpowder, waiting only for a spark.

That spark was lit in Neimen, Kaohsiung — then known as Luohanmen. Isolated among rugged mountain terrain, Luohanmen had become a refuge for wandering migrants, fugitives, and dispossessed men hiding from the authorities. Among them was a twenty-six-year-old immigrant from Zhangzhou named Zhu Yigui.

Zhu Yigui was originally a poor migrant from Fujian. Alone in Taiwan, he survived by raising ducks in the hills of Neimen. Yet he was far from ordinary. Generous by nature and fiercely loyal to his friends, he loved gathering with fellow drifters and outcasts. More remarkably, he seemed to possess an instinctive talent for leadership. His duck flocks were astonishingly disciplined: with a single wave of a bamboo rod, thousands of ducks would march forward in orderly formations like a trained army. The Luohanjiao of the mountains often gathered at Zhu’s duck farm, drinking cheap liquor while listening to him curse the corrupt government. Over time, they came to admire him completely, giving him the nickname “Duck King.”

As Wang Zhen’s oppression pushed the people toward desperation, several leaders from smuggling networks and Tiandihui secret societies — including Huang Dian and Li Yong — secretly visited Zhu’s duck farm one night. Over drinks, the men debated what could be done. Finally, someone slammed the table in rage and shouted, “We’ll die either way. If we stay, the officials will bleed us dry. We might as well rebel!”

Another man suddenly looked at Zhu and exclaimed, “Your surname is Zhu — the imperial surname of the Ming dynasty! Zheng Chenggong fought the Qing under the banner of restoring the Ming, and many people in Taiwan still long for the old dynasty. If you claim to be a descendant of the Ming imperial family, supporters will flock to your cause!”

Looking at the desperate hope in the eyes of the men around him, Zhu’s own outlaw spirit ignited. He agreed immediately. Several ducks were slaughtered on the spot, and the men swore a blood oath together inside the duck farm, formally raising the banner of rebellion.

This improvised “army of Luohanjiao,” armed with duck-herding poles, hoes, and broadswords, unleashed astonishing fighting power. These men had spent years battling the brutal wilderness of frontier Taiwan. They were hardened, physically strong, and utterly fearless. Once the call to rebellion spread, local leaders such as Lin Shuangwen and Du Junying rallied to the cause. Among them, the Hakka leader Du Junying, active around the Gaoping River region — then called the Lower Tamsui River — commanded especially formidable forces.

For survival, Hokkien and Hakka migrants temporarily set aside their ethnic rivalries and formed a united army. Like a bursting flood, they surged northward toward the political heart of Qing Taiwan: Tainan Prefecture.

The Qing troops stationed in Tainan had long grown soft in Taiwan’s relatively peaceful environment. Corrupt, undisciplined, and unused to real combat, they routinely bullied civilians but collapsed almost instantly when confronted by Zhu Yigui’s desperate rebel army. As the rebels approached the city gates, Prefect Wang Zhen, Commander Feng Long, and other senior civil and military officials panicked completely. In terror, they gathered their gold and valuables overnight, abandoned the city’s population, and fled with their families aboard ships bound for Penghu.

Zhu Yigui’s forces entered Tainan with almost no meaningful resistance. Within days, they had seized the island’s highest political and economic center.

It was one of the most surreal scenes in the history of Chinese migration: only days earlier, these men had been homeless drifters, duck farmers, and social outcasts despised by society. Now they had become masters of an entire city — even an entire island.

Escorted by cheering followers, Zhu Yigui entered the prefectural hall dressed in a yellow Ming-style imperial robe borrowed from an opera troupe. There, he formally proclaimed himself king under the title “Zhongxing King,” meaning “King of Restoration.” Declaring the Ming dynasty the legitimate orthodoxy, he established a new reign era named Yonghe, abolished many Qing taxes, and lavishly rewarded the Luohanjiao brothers who had fought beside him with titles of generals and ministers.

For a brief moment, Tainan erupted in celebration. Lanterns filled the streets while former drifters drank wildly in triumph, as though the entire social order had been overturned in a single stroke.

But the intoxication of revolution faded quickly.

The regime formed by these marginalized men possessed a fatal weakness: it lacked political vision and internal discipline. After capturing Tainan, sudden access to power and wealth poisoned the movement almost immediately. Zhu Yigui’s Fujian faction and Du Junying’s Hakka faction soon descended into bitter conflict over rank, rewards, and long-standing ethnic tensions. Furious over perceived inequality, Du Junying withdrew his Hakka forces entirely. At the very moment unity was most essential, the alliance shattered, leaving dangerous gaps in Tainan’s defenses.

Meanwhile, news of Tainan’s fall reached Beijing. The Kangxi Emperor was enraged, viewing the rebellion as a humiliating insult to imperial authority. The Qing court immediately mobilized a massive military response. Senior commanders including Man Bao, Lan Tingzhen, and Shi Shibiao — the son of Shi Lang — were dispatched with more than ten thousand elite Manchu and Han troops supported by heavy artillery.

Lan Tingzhen proved especially cunning and skilled in psychological warfare. After landing at Luermen, he quickly recognized the fatal divisions between the Hokkien and Hakka rebels and exploited them through a strategy of division, negotiation, and suppression. Against the disciplined firepower and organization of the Qing military machine, the fractured rebel army stood little chance.

Under fierce Qing counterattacks, Tainan rapidly fell once again. Zhu Yigui retreated with the remnants of his forces into the southern mountains he knew so well, hoping to wage a final guerrilla resistance. But the tide had already turned. Qing forces hunted him relentlessly, offering large rewards for his capture.

Eventually, somewhere in the wilderness near the modern border between Kaohsiung and Pingtung, Zhu Yigui was betrayed by former followers. Captured in his sleep, bound in chains, he was taken prisoner.

In 1722, Zhu Yigui and his closest commanders were escorted to Beijing. During interrogation, the former “Duck King,” though bloodied and shackled, reportedly stood proudly before Qing officials without fear. He was ultimately sentenced to one of the empire’s cruelest punishments: death by lingchi, or “death by a thousand cuts.”

Thus ended the brief but extraordinary life of Zhu Yigui.

Although the rebellion lasted barely more than two months, the fact that a duck farmer leading an army of wandering migrants could force Qing officials to flee Taiwan and establish a short-lived kingdom left a deep mark on Taiwan’s collective memory. To this day, Zhu Yigui remains a powerful symbol of the lower classes rising against overwhelming authority.