Back then, most offenders were simple villagers from the nearby Zhong and Zheng clan hamlets. When their ringleaders, Zhong Guangdao and Zheng Yanfu, were executed, the rest quickly lost their fire and settled into a new, unexpectedly stable profession: reform-through-labor worker.
Li Daoxuan hardly restricted their freedom. They stayed close to home, worked quietly, and didn't so much as whisper of rebellion.
But the captured Guyuan soldiers?
That was a whole other species.
They weren't farmers; they were battle-hardened border troops, strangers in this land, six hundred strong.
This time, discipline couldn't rely on goodwill alone.
So — no cozy "labor village." They needed a real prison.
Li Daoxuan rummaged through the mountain of hobby kits he'd bought since launching his Mini-Realm Project. He'd developed a weakness for miniature models — every time he saw one online, click, buy now.
Soon he found the perfect box: a Lego-style prison set.
Perfect. That would do nicely.
Meanwhile, Fang Wushang had just marched his six hundred prisoners to the outskirts of Gao Village. Shansier came out to meet him, clerk Tan Liwen in tow.
When Fang explained that the captives were sent by Tianzun for reform labor, Shansier was still weighing how to house them — when the golden hand reappeared from the clouds.
Before their eyes, slabs of gray stone — or, to be precise, interlocking bricks — snapped together with divine rhythm: ka-cha, pa-ta, ka-cha !
Li Daoxuan built deliberately in full view of everyone, letting the miracle itself serve as deterrence. Fear made the best fence.
And it worked.
Not only the prisoners — even Fang's men froze, mouths open, as the massive hand shaped the air like wet clay. Within minutes, a towering gray fortress stood before them, each cell sealed by a latticed gate.
Anyone with half a brain could tell — it was a prison.
When the last piece settled, the divine hand swept aside a stretch of land beside the unfinished road between Gao Village and Chengcheng County, leveled it smooth, and set the fortress down like a god placing a chess piece.
Shansier immediately understood.
"General Fang, please have the captives moved inside. We'll take it from here."
Fang was still in shock, but his soldiers didn't hesitate. They'd all read The Tale of the Daoist Mystic Tianzun Vanquishing Demons (even if their commander hadn't). Seeing a god build a heavenly jail left no room for doubt.
"Move it! Inside, all of you!"
A guard tapped one captive lightly with his gunstock.
That man was no common soldier — he was the fierce fighter nicknamed Lao Nanfeng, the same one who had crossed spears with Gao Chuwu until his shaft snapped and he'd nearly lost his head to a heavy cleaver.
Now stripped of armor and down to thin cloth, he bristled at being nudged by a mere guard. He turned and glared — hard.
That glare alone made the guard flinch.
"W-what? Get in! Or Tianzun will strike you down!"
At the name of Tianzun, Lao Nanfeng wilted. He looked up at the golden hand still gleaming among the clouds, then lowered his head and shuffled meekly into the Lego-made prison.
The rest followed.
Years of drilling kept them marching in order even now. Within minutes, the six hundred were inside, grouping neatly by squad.
The golden hand moved again, brushing downward — the great gate swung shut with a muffled boom.
Order. Complete.
Fang Wushang finally snapped out of it. He bowed stiffly.
"My mission is complete. I'll… return to my post."
Shansier, seeing Tianzun display his power openly, knew the county affair must already be settled.
"Safe travels, General Fang. Do drop by Gao Village again sometime."
Still dazed, Fang saluted and withdrew with his men.
Now the problem landed squarely on Shansier's desk.
He glanced up at the drifting low cloud but received no sign. **Gao Yiye —the Saintess—**was away in Chengcheng, surely helping Tianzun resettle the thousands there. Gao Village matters would have to run on mortal management.
Straightening, Shansier turned to Tan Liwen.
"Go find Zhong Gaoliang."
Tan blinked.
"Plant sorghum? All right—it's spring soon, I'll organize the teams right away."
Shansier face-palmed.
"Not plant sorghum. Find the man named Zhong Gaoliang!"
A question mark might as well have floated over Tan's head.
Shansier nearly kicked him—actually lifted a foot, then sighed and set it down.
"You call yourself a clerk? A proper aide remembers people — especially the important ones! You've forgotten Zhong Gaoliang? Model inmate, first to earn early release?"
Memory returned; Tan scurried off and soon brought the man.
Zhong Gaoliang, wiry and sun-dark, came running in, wiping mud from his hands.
"Steward Shansier, sir… you wanted me?"
Shansier smiled.
"You were one of our best reform inmates. You must have learned a thing or two about prison life?"
Zhong blanched.
"No lessons! None at all! I swear I'll never get myself locked up again!"
Shansier pointed at the new gray fortress, then up at the golden hand still gleaming through the clouds.
"Tianzun built that. Inside are more than six hundred Guyuan rebels. They need management."
Zhong blinked.
"And… what does that have to do with me?"
"Everything. There's a position perfectly suited for you — Warden."
In modern slang, warden might mean the toughest inmate running a block.
But in Ming-era terms, the laotou (牢頭) was a government-appointed jailer—the official keeper of the jail.
(Ming Context: County prisons were supervised by minor clerks or appointed villagers known as laotou, responsible for discipline, food, and records — a pragmatic early correctional system.)
Zhong's jaw dropped.
"Me? A warden? I don't have that kind of skill!"
Shansier only grinned, already picturing him in uniform.
(Trivia: In late-Ming China, trustworthy convicts were sometimes promoted to oversee others—a policy mixing punishment with rehabilitation, centuries ahead of its time.)