Bai Yan had won. Spectacularly. Decisively. Triumphantly enough to resurrect his father's dignity from the grave and stomp his own son under his heel while doing it. He laughed, chest out, head back, absolutely drunk on victory.
But when he turned around mid-laugh, Liang Shixian was staring at him like a hungry scholar beholding the last book on earth.
"Bai-xiansheng," Liang said, eyes shining, "just now you mentioned 'Twelve Heavenly Volumes.' May I ask… what are they?"
Bai Yan was about to whip out Primary School Mathematics like a traveling salesman, but froze. Wait. These were Heavenly gifts from Dao Xuan Tianzun. One did not toss divine textbooks around like free melon seeds. He needed permission.
Just then, Gao Yiye stepped behind Liang Shixian, raised her eyebrows twice, and gave Bai Yan a subtle, very holy nod.
Ah. Tianzun had spoken—through the saintess, who looked far too pleased with herself for a messenger of heaven.
Bai Yan's hesitation evaporated.
He pulled out Primary School Mathematics, Grade 1 — Volume A with the grace of a magician revealing a legendary treasure. "County Magistrate, this book is bestowed by the immortal above. There are twelve volumes in total. The problems you saw earlier? All inside."
Liang Shixian's mind automatically edited out the phrase "bestowed by an immortal." Like most properly raised scholars, he respected spirits by politely pretending they did not exist. A man quoting Confucius—"the gentleman stays away from ghosts and gods"—could not suddenly start chasing miracles like a market fortune-teller.
But the book… ah, the book he could accept.
He took it with reverence that would make a monk blush and flipped it open. At first the Arabic numbers and symbols looked like an alien language. But Liang Shixian was sharp—one of those rare minor officials who treated learning like a sport. Half a stick of incense later, he was flipping pages at the speed of a man discovering addictive knowledge.
When he finished the entire first-grade volume, he slapped the cover shut with glowing eyes. "Bai-xiansheng… this is divine."
"Told you," Bai Yan said, folding his arms smugly. "Heaven-sent."
Liang inhaled sharply, ready to deliver a speech on spreading this knowledge throughout the land—until the reality of imperial examinations slapped him across the face. His excitement deflated.
"Alas. Mathematics… is not part of the examinations. Most scholars disdain it. Only my Shaoxing scribe might appreciate such a thing."
Bai Yan glanced at Gao Yiye. She nodded again—another heavenly go-ahead. Clearly Tianzun wanted him to push forward.
Bai Yan responded by sliding the entire stack—twelve pristine heavenly textbooks—toward Liang Shixian. "County Magistrate, whether or not the exam uses it doesn't matter. If even a few people can learn something useful from these, then they deserve to be shared. Take them. Teach whoever you judge worthy."
Liang Shixian's throat nearly inverted from joy. "Truly? You would… gift these to me?!"
"A great book belongs with someone who recognizes it," Bai Yan said. "Simple as that."
Liang immediately flipped up his official robe like an apron, cradling all twelve volumes with the terrified tenderness of a man holding his firstborn over a cliff. He rolled the robe up around them protectively.
"Then… this official shall not refuse!"
He bowed, carefully, because divine textbooks do not tolerate sudden movements. His mind was already racing—reading, teaching, organizing, maybe even unlocking a new method of governance. Men like him, strange scholarly exceptions, were either wasted by the system or transformed by heaven's timing. And heaven, this time, had given him math.
He had no desire to linger. His county needed him. His new treasure needed him more.
"Since you are close with the Li family," he said hurriedly, "the matter of assembling militia to guard Fengyuan Town can be handled among yourselves. I return to the county seat."
He marched off, clutching the twelve books like a dragon fleeing home with stolen pearls.
Bai Yan and Shansier watched him disappear down the road. Only then did Bai Yan's face twist in disbelief.
"Never thought Liang Shixian liked mathematics. Most officials treat calculation as something beneath them. They'd rather memorize classics until their brains rot."
Shansier's smile held a knowing curve. "Among the officials I've met, he's certainly… unusual. Think about it. If he weren't unusual, would he have been posted to this disaster-ridden county at this exact moment?"
Understanding dawned on Bai Yan. When Liang Shixian took his post, Chengcheng County was a catastrophe visible from the moon. Anyone sent there was either being exiled or sacrificed by faction politics. The eunuch party clearly meant to chew him up.
No wonder. No wonder.
Shansier added lightly, "Tianzun surely intends to spread practical knowledge through him. He has the temperament. He will teach."
Bai Yan nodded. The intention was obvious. Though the tragedy of late-Ming scholars was equally obvious—they worshipped the classics like sacred relics and ignored anything remotely useful. In ancient times, the Six Arts were real skills: archery, charioteering, mathematics, music, ritual, writing. But over centuries the meaning decayed, until only the writing remained and everything else died under dust and ego.
Shansier considered correcting him, then thought better of it. Technically, he was right. For once.
"Well," Bai Yan said, clapping his hands, "with that done, let's deal with the small chaos. I came to the village to ask for aid."
Shansier lifted her chin. "Look up."
A procession of divine hardware descended like a celestial supply drop: stone-throwing machines, giant crossbows on wheels, modular thunder-bombs that looked suspiciously like toys scaled up to adult murder-size. Beyond the village gate, Sun-Chariot No. 3—an enormous transport wagon that made ox carts look like children's tricycles—waited with its frame gleaming.
More than a hundred militia stood ready, armor polished, weapons strapped on, spirits high.
At their front was a masked instructor—someone Bai Yan found unsettlingly familiar, though he couldn't place why.
"What… is all this?" he asked.
Shansier answered with quiet pride. "In recent months, we've formed our own militia. They will reinforce Bai Family Fort. And the instructor? Tianzun personally chose him. If you encounter any trouble in battle, ask him."
If Tianzun picked him, the man was certainly dangerous.
Meanwhile, that very instructor—Cheng Xu—had no idea he was being praised. He barked orders with the confidence of someone who enjoyed making others sweat.
"Armor on! Check your gear—crossbows, spears, sabers, arrows! And that pouch of golden wound-powder Tianzun emphasized! If anyone forgets anything, I'll make him run twenty laps around Bai Family Fort!"
The militia scrambled like nervous ducklings.
Nearby, a chain gang of laborers loaded Sun-Chariot No. 3 with enough supplies to sustain a siege: crossbows, spears, armor, flour, milk powder, sugar, salt, oil—everything short of an entire village.
Bai Yan stared, horrified. "We're… transporting all these illegal weapons to Bai Family Fort? Isn't that… problematic?"
Shansier laughed softly. "No fear. Tianzun said the government has no time to care."
True. With roving rebels everywhere, magistrates barely had time to sleep, much less enforce weapon bans. The late-Ming bureaucracy often tried to stop illegal arms… until reality slapped the laws out of their hands. When coastal villagers armed themselves against Japanese pirates decades earlier, the court initially punished the bold ones. Then the court realized something: without illegal weapons, the villagers died faster than the paperwork could be filed.
And when survival is at stake, the law becomes a polite suggestion.
By the time the pirate crisis ended, private firearms were everywhere. The court pretended not to see.
Even in a future age, Bai Yan mused, if zombies burst through the walls at midnight, Li Daoxuan would absolutely grab a gun if he found one, legality be damned.
And he'd be right.