Bai Yan stuffed an entire bundle of Junior Mathematics into his saddlebag—six volumes, thick enough to stun an ox. He flipped through one at random, and immediately felt his eyebrows trying to climb off his skull. Compared with the twelve volumes he had devoured earlier, this set wasn't just harder—it was a different species. The kind of difficulty only teachers, immortals, or deranged scholars would willingly touch.
So, sensibly, he did not ask for more.
He slid the six volumes deep into his pack as though hiding stolen treasure, then vaulted onto his horse. His household retainers mounted up one after another, forming a neat line of riders beside the sun-carriages.
Several sun-carriages rumbled to life in unison. The largest of them—Sun Carriage No. 3, the cargo behemoth—took the lead, its wooden sides reinforced with steel ribs that made it look like a roaming fortress. Behind it came two public-transport sun-carriages carrying more than a hundred Gaojia Militia soldiers. For all its noise and dust, the convoy possessed a wonderfully smug sense of superiority; nothing in this era could compete with sunlight-fed engines except divine intervention.
They rolled out of Gao Village on a tolerable stretch of road. But only a li or two past the village limits, the terrain devolved into the kind of track that had given generations of mule-drivers nightmares. As expected, every sun-carriage slowed to a shame-laden crawl, clinging to thirty li per hour like elderly turtles.
Bai Yan glanced up at the cargo carriage roof, where the newly arrived masked militia instructor sat cross-legged with the quiet menace of someone who had absolutely seen real fights. Bai Yan nudged his horse closer.
"Honored Instructor He, correct? From the He clan?"
A grunt. "Mm."
Bai Yan smiled, all cordial curiosity. "Instructor He, which village were you teaching at previously? Your figure seems familiar—I feel like we've met before."
"I'm from Hejia Village," the man replied flatly. "Southernmost valley of Chengcheng County."
"Oh, that Hejia Village?" Bai Yan's eyes lit up. "Now I remember! We chatted in the county seat. I recall it clearly."
Instructor He stared at him for a full three seconds, then looked away with a silent sigh that could only mean: I would like to punch you, just once, directly in the face.
Ever cheerful, Bai Yan continued, "Last time I visited Gao Village, there was no militia yet. And now—look at this! Uniform drills, proper structure, real equipment. Instructor He, your ability is impressive."
"Small tricks," the man muttered. "It's because Dao Xuan Tianzun sends us such good supplies. Before… ah—"
He stopped himself just in time.
Because before the supplies arrived, training even a hundred men had been like trying to whip muddy straw into shape. But that wasn't something one said aloud unless one wanted heavenly lightning on one's head.
Soon, Baiyan Fort came into view—stone walls, defensive platforms, and nervous energy thick enough to smell.
Bai Yan rode in first, shouting orders the moment his boots hit the courtyard. Everyone scrambled into motion. Immortal-grade torsion catapults were brought out of storage, reinforced crossbow carts rolled into position, and the divine block-missile sets were pulled apart and rebuilt with the bright-eyed enthusiasm of carpenters handed forbidden toys. The entire fort echoed with clanking metal and rising morale.
Instructor He pointed at an extra heap of weapons on the cargo pile—hand-crossbows, spears, waist-blades, enough to arm a small uprising.
"Dao Xuan Tianzun told us to bring these," he said. "Have your militia use them. Armor will come later—the supply isn't enough yet."
Bai Yan nearly burst with joy. He bowed toward the sky, loudly and without shame. "Thank you, Tianzun!"
With food, oil, weapons, missiles, and machinery pouring in, Baiyan Fort suddenly felt less like a rural manor and more like an up-and-coming warlord's base camp. After receiving Dao Xuan Tianzun's protection, Bai Yan couldn't help but feel it: this fort was solid, secure, immovable. Let the bandits come. He'd been waiting.
Meanwhile, deep in Huanglong Mountain, the second squad leader under the infamous Unstained Mud—Zhao Sheng, known to the world as "Lamp-Lighter"—was dragging more than three thousand starving refugees through a forest path that had no right to be this steep.
Zhao Sheng's life had collapsed faster than a rotten roof. One moment he was lighting lamps in the Stone-Oil Monastery, reading books, minding his own scholarly business. The next, someone framed him for rebellion. Only the villagers he'd helped for years—writing letters, reading proclamations, settling squabbles with that friendly, gentle tone people trusted—had saved him from the constables. They had killed the officers and fled with him, thrusting leadership upon him because no one else was literate enough to command.
He never wanted to be a rebel. But rebellion had wanted him.
Thus came the nickname "Lamp-Lighter," taken from the crime he had never committed. And with the nickname came responsibility—three thousand hungry people, trudging with him toward the southern county line.
Not long after, Unstained Mud had found him, laughed at his scholarly softness, and welcomed him anyway. A literate man was rare in the rebellion world; even more rare was one who didn't immediately complain. Lamp-Lighter had latched onto the veteran outlaw like a desperate junior clinging to a master.
Unstained Mud's strategy was simple: split into seven squads and "collect grain" in seven directions. Collecting grain, in outlaw language, meant whatever was necessary to stay alive.
Squad One headed for Fengyuan Town.
Squad Two—Lamp-Lighter's squad—was pushed into the wilderness of Huanglong Mountain.
The others fanned across Luochuan and Yijun Counties.
Zhao Sheng, the scholar-turned-accidental-rebel, was exhausted beyond poetry. When he finally wheezed, "Brothers, where are we now?" it was not rhetorical.
"Southern ridge of Huanglong," a hunter answered. "Cross it and we hit Chengcheng County."
"Civilization," Zhao Sheng whispered, nearly moved to tears. "Finally. Food. Surely food."
A villager sidled closer. "Zhao-xiansheng… once we enter Chengcheng… do we, uh… do what the big boss does? You know—rob whoever we see?"
Zhao Sheng's expression collapsed like wet paper.
He did not want to rob people.
He did not want to kill people.
He had been famous in Qingjian County as a gentle, upright man. The kind who returned lost purses, mediated family disputes, and never asked payment. The kind who should have taken the provincial exam, not led a starving column through the mountains.
But the villagers depended on him. They had saved him. Now they had no food.
He found a large rock and climbed it with all the grace of a deer that regretted its life choices. Halfway up he nearly slipped, which only confirmed his suspicion that being a rebel leader was physically hazardous work.
Standing on top, he raised his voice:
"Everyone, listen! We are hungry, yes. But we cannot attack innocent people. Especially not the poor in small mountain villages—they are the same as us. How can we inflict suffering on people who have done no wrong?"
Silence spread through the crowd like a held breath.
"We are good people driven to rebellion by bad people," Zhao Sheng continued. "So we must not harm other good people. When we enter Chengcheng County, we target only the wealthy. And only the wicked wealthy."
A peasant called out, "But… how do we know which rich people are wicked?"
Zhao Sheng hesitated, then straightened. "I will speak with them. A few sentences are enough. You will see—I can tell a wicked man from a righteous one."
A hunter burst through the brush ahead. "Report! Zhao-xiansheng, the mountain foot is just beyond. There's a big estate there—Baiyan Fort. Looks like a wealthy household."
Three thousand starving people lifted their heads.
The scholar on the stone took a deep breath.
And fate—unkind, theatrical, ever amused—smiled.