The newly appointed inspector, Fang Wushang, marched along the border between Chengcheng and Heyang counties with the hundred-odd soldiers that Cheng Xu had dumped on him.
The borderland between the two counties was long — absurdly long — the kind of border that made patrol schedules cry and military logistics commit ritual suicide.
Fang Wushang had no idea where the bandits would appear. He could only scatter scouts everywhere, bribe mountain hunters for early warnings, and send men to every single village along the line to gather scraps of news.
Beisi Village, Shijiagou, Bangou Village, Beipo Village, Quangou Village, Lijiahe Village…
If the border had a stamp card, Fang Wushang would've completed it twice.
For an outsider who parachuted into the job, he was surprisingly hardworking. You could even call him "Employee of the Month," if this era had HR.
But he was still new, still clueless, still geographically illiterate. So he consulted Liang Shixian:
"Magistrate Liang, you arrived months before me. Which route is most likely for the bandits?"
Liang Shixian, though equally clueless, could not admit it. A magistrate who says "dunno lol" instantly loses 30 prestige points.
So he activated his Strategic Genius Pretend Mode.
Maps of Chengcheng and Heyang floated in his mind. Villages zoomed in. Terrain rotated. Routes aligned. Neurons fired like he was reenacting a historical military simulation game he'd never played.
Ding.
He "arrived" at a conclusion:
Quangou Village.
It was smack between the two county seats, the straightest path, the shortest distance, the most obvious march. Surely the bandits would go there.
So Fang Wushang set up camp at Quangou Village, dined at the local wealthy household's expense, and brought along several militia groups run by local gentry. Soldiers and militia together — ready to "fight the great battle."
Meanwhile, at Zhengjia Village…
A long north-south mountain ridge cut across the border like that infamous middle-school desk "no touching line" dividing boys and girls.
The boys never dared cross it. The girls crossed it whenever they felt like it.
(Ancient battlefield logic and middle-school logic share surprising similarities.)
Zhengjia Village sat right on this line.
Two salt smugglers — Old Zhu and Old Zhang — sat on a slope with two High Family Village militia rookies. They stared at the lifeless treeline below, the forest weakened by three brutal years of drought.
The spring wind blew. The smugglers shivered — too thinly dressed. But the militia rookies? Not a twitch.
Old Zhu clicked his tongue.
"You boys aren't cold?"
The rookie grinned.
"Dao Xuan Tianzun blesses us. We eat well. Now that we're in the militia, we eat even better. Tianzun says high-intensity training needs high-quality meals, or the body breaks."
Old Zhu blinked.
"What's 'nutrition'?"
Rookie:
"No clue!"
He laughed.
"But the food's good, that's all that matters."
In the strict hierarchy of ancient rural life, philosophical explanations ranked far below lunch.
The rookie fished out two sticks of dried beef and handed them over.
"Eat. Tianzun blessed it."
The smugglers brightened — this was heavenly stuff. One bite and you questioned why you ever lived without it.
Then Old Zhu froze mid-chew.
He shoved the beef into his coat, eyes locked on the slope below.
"They're here. The bandits."
The rookies immediately looked down.
A ragged column was climbing the slope in a long serpent line — patched clothes, mismatched weapons, frying pans and cleavers included. A traveling kitchen nightmare.
The rookies paled.
"By the ancestors… they're really coming! Why do they insist on OUR side? Couldn't they go bother that Fang inspector instead?"
Old Zhu smirked.
"Makes sense they came here. I see a familiar face."
The rookies:
"Familiar?"
Old Zhu whispered:
"The idiot who injured our chief — name's Erchun. We clashed near a Heyang-side village. Thirty-something of us beat three hundred of his men. Our chief cut him, he cut our chief, both being stubborn lunatics."
The rookies' jaws dropped.
"Then what do we do now? We're on the high ground. Should we throw rocks?"
Old Zhu flicked their heads.
"We're scouts. Scouts scout. We don't decide battles. We observe and report."
One rookie raised his hand.
"I'll go back and report!"
Old Zhu:
"Then you won't learn anything. Zhang, you go. I'll keep these two rookies and teach them properly."
Old Zhang grinned.
"Alright. I'll go."
He sprinted off toward High Family Village.
Old Zhu kept watching the bandits. His gaze locked onto Erchun, who still had his wounded arm wrapped — injury clearly not healed.
Back at High Family Village…
Li Daoxuan slurped his bowl of braised beef noodles while pondering entertainment.
After deep contemplation, he had a flash of inspiration.
Picture-books.
The kind little kids and illiterates devoured in the 70s and 80s — palm-sized "tiny comics" where almost everything was told through pictures.
Educational, entertaining, universally accessible.
He whipped out his phone and called his father.
"Dad, I need something."
"What is it?"
"Your collection of 'Yang Family Generals' picture-books. You still have them, right?"
"Of course! That's my treasure."
"Good. I'm taking them."
"Break a single page and I'll break your legs."
"Understood."
He hung up, ready to call a ride to fetch the books — when he saw movement from the cement road.
A tiny figure sprinted toward the village.
One of the salt smugglers. One of Honglang's scouts.
Li Daoxuan lowered his chopsticks.
"The bandits of Heyang are here."