Li Daoxuan took one look and immediately knew: Gao Chuwu, that big loveable idiot, was about to die.
This was 52-degree liquor. Fifty. Two. Degrees.
And this maniac was drinking it from a bowl?
And pouring it straight down his throat like it was soup?
At this point you might as well start digging his grave. Save time.
Sure enough, the instant Gao Chuwu downed that bowl, something in his brain short-circuited. He swayed left, swayed right, and—thud—collapsed.
The people beside him didn't even panic. They just clapped their hands and laughed.
"Hahahaha! Gao Chuwu, you idiot! Who drinks liquor like that?"
Not a single trace of survival instinct.
Li Daoxuan had no choice but to order, "Make him vomit. Get that liquor out."
Only when Gao Yiye relayed the command of Dao Xuan Tianzun did everyone finally realize, oh right, this might be serious. They rushed over, hauled Gao Chuwu up, shook him left and right like a wet sack of rice, and after quite a bit of undignified sloshing, the bowl's worth of liquor finally came back up.
Gao Chuwu then lay in the corner of the courtyard, sleeping peacefully like a man who had wrestled Heaven and lost.
Li Daoxuan said, "This liquor is strong. Drink modestly."
Everyone bowed immediately.
"Divine wine from the heavens—mortals must not chug it like oxen. We understand."
They glanced at the unconscious Chuwu on the ground and silently added:
Learn from anyone—but maybe not that guy.
Li Daoxuan then took a bottle-cap, filled it with beer, and set it down.
"This one is called beer. Much weaker. Those who can't handle the strong stuff can drink this."
"Thank you, Tianzun!"
And just like that—there was finally enough to go around.
No longer reserved for a privileged few; everyone got a share.
Soon, every blacksmith, papermaker, road-builder, cloth-weaving auntie, and even the Reform Laborers cutting trees temporarily put down their tools—
They picked up their cups.
It wasn't a festival. It wasn't a victory banquet. It wasn't a special day at all.
But the whole village felt strangely, ridiculously happy.
"Cheers!"
"Drink!"
"What exactly are we celebrating today?"
"Apparently White Fort beat the bandits."
"That small? Last time our own Gaojia Village defeated Wushang Mingwang and we didn't celebrate this much."
"Who cares? There's liquor. Shut up. This era, liquor is practically extinct. I haven't smelled alcohol in three years."
"Tianzun's divine wine… gods, the aroma… but the strength is ridiculous. One sip and my head is spinning."
"Hahaha! That's why they call it divine wine!"
"Bottoms up!"
Laughter and warmth rippled through Gaojia Village like a festival nobody planned but everyone needed.
Meanwhile, in Fengyuan Town…
"Bandits incoming! Bandits incoming!"
The scout shrieked as he sprinted through the town gate. The gate slammed shut behind him with a thunderous bang as militiamen and volunteers rushed up the walls, staring north.
Across the yellow farmlands, a massive wave of bandits advanced, two flags flapping in the wind:
One reading "Ni",
The other "Gua"—
the banners of Bu-Zhan-Ni and Zuo-Guazi.
Seeing the flood of raiders approaching, every local gentryman, merchant, and militia instructor atop the barely-one-zhang-high wall went pale.
County Magistrate Liang Shixian was among them.
He was scared too.
But a magistrate must stand firm. His job was to protect his county—even if his knees disagreed.
"So they finally gave up on Bai Fort and marched straight here after two failed attacks. Hmph. Fortunately, I prepared for this. I have been waiting."
A scholar of encyclopedic learning, Liang activated his mental tactical analysis mode.
He rapidly calculated enemy numbers, formations, equipment, morale, routes, weak points, structural vulnerabilities…
In his mind, diagrams spun like a lantern wheel—
Then suddenly ding!
The thoughts froze on four bold characters:
"This official cannot."
Liang Shixian:
"…Oh no. Warfare falls squarely in my blind spot."
"Magistrate, give the order to fire!" the militia instructor barked.
This shout snapped Liang back to reality.
"Yes! Fire! Fire!"
He truly knew nothing about battle tactics, but he had prepared one thing well: archers.
Tons of them.
The walls filled with militia and village volunteers holding longbows—
plastic longbows.
Yes.
The very batch Li Daoxuan had lent him.
These bows were nowhere near the quality of the imperial "Kaiyuan Bows," but the limbs were long enough—half a zhang—to give them at least some power. A bit stronger than the bamboo hunting bows villagers used, anyway.
They pulled back the strings, nocked the hastily-made wooden spike arrows, and unleashed a chaotic storm of projectiles.
Plastic bows. Wooden spike arrows.
Very little power.
But numbers? Oh, the numbers.
Five hundred bows.
Even if half the arrows flew crooked, the sight alone was enough to make one question life choices.
Bu-Zhan-Ni and Zuo-Guazi froze.
A tiny trashy town… with five hundred archers?
Was this legal?
Their front-line thugs were hit one after another. The arrows didn't kill like the professional ones at Bai Fort, but there was still plenty of screaming.
People fell.
People tripped over the fallen.
Others used fallen comrades as shields.
Those shields complained about being used as shields.
The bandit ranks devolved into a chaotic, insulting, foot-stomping mess.
"So many archers!"
"Fengyuan Town is tiny! Where'd they get this many bows?"
"We can't get close!"
As the skies filled with amateur arrows, morale plummeted. Both bandit leaders began considering retreat.
That was when a troop burst out of the eastern ravine.
Leading them—Inspector Cheng Xu.
He had been spying from the bushes for a long time, waiting for the bandits to tire.
Classic Cheng Xu:
If the battle looked unwinnable? He'd be the first to run.
If the victory looked guaranteed? He'd be the first to charge.
Laughing loudly, he roared,
"Trying to attack Chengcheng County, thinking we're soft persimmons? Come! Let me show you what kind of persimmon I am!"
He swung his arm forward.
"Men—CHARGE!"
A hundred imperial soldiers slammed into the bandit flank.
On the walls, Liang Shixian saw this and nearly cried.
"Ha! Cheng Xu is here too! Heaven aids us! Now—what should I do next?"
His scholarly mind tried to start the tactical lantern-wheel—
But the militia instructor shouted:
"OPEN THE GATES! CHARGE!"
The gates swung wide, and nearly a thousand militia and volunteers roared as they stormed out.
Liang Shixian:
"Eh? My tactical analysis didn't even start yet…"
Surrounded by Cheng Xu's soldiers and the charging militia, Bu-Zhan-Ni and Zuo-Guazi panicked.
Neither dared fight.
They turned and ran for their lives.
Footnotes
52-degree liquor – High-proof sorghum liquor in Chinese history/regions is often 50°+, strong enough that drinking by the bowl was functionally attempted suicide.
Plastic bows – Historically absurd, but within the story's logic, these improvised bows mimic low-tier militia weapons: visually intimidating, weak in power.
Zhàng – Ancient Chinese measure (~3.3 meters). A "one-zhang wall" is barely a glorified fence.
Scholars and warfare – Late-imperial officials often excelled in literature but were hilariously untrained in battlefield command, leading to many comically tragic records.