Liang Shixian stood frozen, his mind blank as a sheet of snow.
Beside him, the Shaoxing adviser—usually the calm one, the kind of man who could haggle with death over tax receipts—was just as stupefied.
No one knew how long the two of them stood like that. When awareness finally returned, they realized that outside, the entire square was already under control. The terrified rebel soldiers—hundreds of them—had been stripped of their weapons and armor and now huddled naked and shivering like plucked chickens.
Someone was giving orders. Someone had imposed order on chaos. But who?
Liang Shixian hadn't shouted a single command, yet everything moved as if directed by an invisible hand. People were calm. Organized. Even efficient.
That was the strangest part.
He looked toward the sky, toward where that colossal golden hand had just descended moments ago, blotting out the sun.
Why wasn't the city in total panic? Why weren't people screaming, stampeding, clawing their way over one another in terror? A sight like that—divine or not—should've turned Chengcheng County into a pot of ants on a stove.
Liang's thoughts were a storm. He clutched his temples and muttered to himself. Calm down. Think. You're the magistrate. You're supposed to have answers.
The scholar in him—the one who had read enough Confucian classics to crush a mule under the weight of his book chest—finally kicked in. His brain, desperate for survival, triggered what he jokingly thought of as "emergency trauma repair mode."
Images from home flashed before his eyes: the drifting white clouds above his village, his mother's soft voice, the slow plod of an old ox, the gold of sunset across ripening fields, the cool evening breeze. Each image soothed the chaos a little more until—ding!—his mind locked onto one tranquil countryside memory like a meditation bell.
Breathing slowed. Thoughts cleared. And then came the revelation.
"No wonder," he whispered, half in awe. "No wonder the Li family's land never runs dry, no matter the drought. No wonder they always have grain enough to feed half the county, weapons in abundance, and have beaten back every bandit raid without fail… The Li family's household god—he's real. Truly real. He's been protecting Gao Village all this time."
He clutched his chest, eyes wide. "So that's it… That's the truth!"
The Shaoxing adviser straightened, suddenly animated. "My lord! That arithmetic text you brought back for me to study—Elementary Mathematics, was it? It must be a heavenly scripture! No wonder the calculations made my accounting twice as fast!"
They shared a look—half disbelief, half reverence.
But before either could say more, a thunderous roar shook the air.
Outside the city, a rider charged forth—spear leveled, armor flashing. Fang Wushang, the county's patrol officer, had mounted his horse and galloped straight toward the crater left by that divine hand. He reined in at the center of the massive palm-shaped imprint in the earth, lifted his spear skyward, and bellowed,
"What demon dares trespass in Chengcheng County? Come down and face me in battle if you have any honor!"
The crowd collectively froze.
Liang Shixian sucked in a horrified breath. "This man's never read The Tale of the Daoist Mystic Tianzun Vanquishing Demons, has he?"
The adviser looked mortified. "It's said General Fang isn't much of a reader."
"Not even picture books?"
"Er… no, my lord."
Liang groaned, covering his face. "Even if he's never heard of Tianzun, how can he see a hand that size descend from the heavens and still think dueling it is a good idea?"
Cold sweat trickled down the adviser's temples. "I have no explanation, my lord."
Truth be told, Fang Wushang was terrified. That golden hand hadn't just scared the rebels witless—it had nearly scared him to death as well.
He had no idea who this "Daoist Mystic Tianzun" was, nor that half the townsfolk had been gossiping about the deity for weeks. In fact, Fang was a proud graduate of the "barely literate academy"—a classic product of the empire's overworked bureaucracy who could swing a spear but not a sentence.
When he saw that hand fall from the sky, instinct had nearly made him faint.
But then, as the trembling passed, another instinct—the one branded into his bones—rose to the surface: duty.
He was the patrol officer. His job was to keep order.
Demon, god, or meteorite—if it landed in Chengcheng County, it was his responsibility to confront it.
(Ming Context: The patrol officer or xunjian was a local law enforcement position during the Ming Dynasty, often a retired soldier assigned to handle petty crimes and public order. The role carried little power but immense risk—most died heroically or foolishly.)
If a hundred and eight bandits from Water Margin had suddenly set up camp in the county, Fang would've challenged every single one from Earth Fiend to Heaven Star until he either captured them or died trying. That was simply the code.
So when the heavens produced a hand larger than a city gate, he did what duty demanded: he shouted at it.
"Monster! Come down here and fight me!"
Above, Li Daoxuan—who had been casually watching events unfold through his "Divine Interface"—tilted his head in mild disbelief.
This guy… seriously?
Alright, fine. Let's play along.
A faint grin tugged at Li's lips. He extended one massive golden finger and began to lower it toward the tiny man shouting below.
Fang Wushang tensed, sweat rolling down his brow. He swung his spear with all his might. "Yaaahhh!"
The point struck the golden finger with a bright metallic clang!
The sound rang like a bell. The spear quivered in his hands.
Li's "Infinity Gauntlet"—an alloy masterpiece a few millimeters thick—might as well have been a wall of divine steel. You could've fired a rocket launcher at it (if such a thing existed) and it would've shrugged it off.
Fang's spear strike was about as effective as a toothpick on a bronze drum.
Still, he roared again, raising the spear for another futile thrust—until someone came flying out of nowhere.
A figure vaulted into the air, delivered a sharp kick, and sent Fang sprawling off his horse. In one fluid motion, the newcomer pinned the officer to the ground, locking his limbs in a firm grappling hold.
It was Cheng Xu.
"Hold still, you lunatic!" he barked. "If Tianzun weren't in a good mood and just toying with you, you'd already be a red smear on the ground."
"Ti—Tianzun?" Fang gasped. "You mean you know that demon?"
"That's not a demon, you idiot—it's a god," Cheng snapped. "If it were a demon, you'd already be dead. The only reason you're breathing is because gods are merciful. Try thanking him instead of yelling at him."
Fang blinked, realization dawning.
He exhaled shakily, muscles loosening as the truth sank in.
Cheng let go and stood, brushing the dust off his hands.
Fang clambered up, dazed, staring at the low clouds that hid the celestial figure. "Then… which god is he, exactly?"
A villager jogged over, panting, and shoved a small illustrated booklet into Fang's hands.
Fang flipped through a few pages. His eyes widened; sweat beaded on his forehead. "So that's it… That's who he is…!"
Cheng Xu spread his hands. "Tried telling you."
He left Fang to his existential crisis and turned his attention back to the real work: cleaning up the battlefield.
The Gao Village militia had once again gained a massive wave of experience—Li Daoxuan's divine assistance from above certainly helped—but this time, there had been casualties.
Even with celestial support, dozens were wounded by spear or arrow.
(Ming Context: Ming militias often treated battlefield injuries with Yunnan Baiyao, a herbal remedy invented centuries later but legendary even in folklore for stopping bleeding. Bandages and "disinfectant water" would have been miraculous luxuries then—Li's supplies were anachronistic marvels.)
Each militiaman carried a small medical pouch—Li's innovation. They treated themselves with surprising efficiency.
Those unhurt gathered weapons and armor, catalogued the spoils, and herded the captured rebels into makeshift lines.
Out of eight hundred enemy soldiers, over a hundred lay dead or wounded. Their commander, Wolf Qianhu, had been slain in combat by Cheng Xu and Fang Wushang (before his ill-advised duel with heaven). The six hundred or so remaining survivors now stood trembling, stripped of gear, too broken to even think of resisting.
They didn't look like soldiers anymore—just frightened men praying for mercy.
Cheng Xu surveyed the scene with a grim kind of pride. The county still stood. Gao Village endured.
Above them, Li Daoxuan's golden hand withdrew into the clouds.
And somewhere beyond that veil of light, a smirking voice murmured, half amusement, half admiration:
"Not bad, old Ming Dynasty. Not bad at all."