The "Chuangjiang" from Mizhi was, of course, Li Zicheng.
He and his nephew Li Guo had joined Wang Zuogua together. Because Li Zicheng could read, fight, and clearly wasn't seeing the world for the first time, he was promoted the moment he arrived—straight into the tent, straight into decision-making. Management, one might say.
The only problem was manpower.
Just the two of them. No followers. No private force. Which meant no independent unit, no command, and no real weight.
When Li Zicheng spoke up, Wang Zuogua, Miao Mei, Fei Shan Hu, and Lang Si all turned to look at him.
"Oh?" Wang Zuogua said. "It's the Chuangjiang. What do you have to say?"
Li Zicheng folded his hands calmly.
"I've been under Brother Wang for some time now. I've heard the soldiers talk—some of the veterans say we've already lost to Bai Fortress several times. Once to strange trebuchets, giant crossbows, and stones that flew far beyond reason. Another time to odd explosives and a handful of fire-lances…"
Wang Zuogua's face stiffened.
"That's old history. No need to bring it up."
Li Zicheng thought to himself: So even mentioning defeat bruises him? A true contender studies failure. This one hides from it.
Aloud, he said, "I only mention it to remind the chiefs—Bai Fortress is unusual. It doesn't look like an ordinary gentry estate. Something strange is backing them, supplying weapons no village should have."
Wang Zuogua snorted. "And what strange power would that be? The government?"
Li Zicheng shook his head.
"Definitely not the government. Officials don't arm civilian militias with armor and firearms. Whatever stands behind Bai Fortress may be even more lawless than we are. If we engage without understanding—"
"Enough of this nonsense," Lang Si cut in coldly. "We let you speak because you've seen the world. And now you use that to spread doubts in our camp?"
"That's not my intention," Li Zicheng replied evenly. "War rewards caution."
Lang Si sneered. "What, you want me to investigate Bai Yuan's ancestors? See which ghost is blessing his family?"
"… "
Wang Zuogua waved a hand. "Fourth Brother, that's enough. Chuangjiang, stop worrying about ghosts and shadows. Some force more lawless than us?" He laughed. "In this world, who's more desperate than me?"
"… "
"As long as we scout well," Wang Zuogua continued, "lure them into our ambush zone, one strike will settle it."
Li Zicheng clasped his hands once more—and said nothing.
He excused himself, slipped out of the camp, grabbed Li Guo by the arm, and dragged him into the trees.
"Uncle?" Li Guo whispered. "What's wrong?"
"Pack up," Li Zicheng said. "We're leaving."
"Leaving?" Li Guo stared.
"Wang Zuogua is useless," Li Zicheng said flatly. "And he's not long for this world. Staying here only gets us buried with him."
"Then where do we go?"
Li Zicheng thought for a moment.
"Just the two of us can't do anything big. Even here, we're only mouths, not hands. We need our own base."
"And where do we get one?"
"We go home," Li Zicheng said. "Back to Mizhi. Rally the villagers. Form our own unit. Then we take men and join Bu Zhan Ni in Luochuan. At least then, we won't just be advisors—we'll be captains."
Li Guo's eyes lit up. "If we're captains, we get a real say."
Li Zicheng chuckled softly. "Exactly. With our own men, we have capital. With capital, we have a future. With our abilities—how could we fail?"
"Then let's go," Li Guo said firmly.
That night, the uncle and nephew slipped away along the mountain paths, traveling day and night toward Mizhi.
At first, Li Daoxuan could still watch the militia.
His vision had already expanded several li into the Huanglong Mountains, but the range was simply too vast. Huanglong alone was larger than Chengcheng County, Heyang County, and the Tongguan Circuit combined.
His sight covered only a small portion of the southern slopes.
He watched as the militia reached the edge of his vision. Cheng Xu looked up, bowed deeply toward the low clouds that had followed them this far, and then the entire force vanished beyond the boundary.
"Don't die," Li Daoxuan muttered.
That was all he could offer.
He withdrew his sight and returned to the skies above Bai Fortress.
Below, everything was lively.
By Horseshoe Lake, fishermen were hauling in their nets. It was autumn—farmers were harvesting grain on land, and fishermen were harvesting shrimp and crabs by the water. This was the season when they fattened best.
The lake itself had been poured into existence by Li Daoxuan's own hand. It had started with no fish, no shrimp—yet somehow life had appeared on its own.
A year wasn't enough to grow large fish, but the shrimp were already respectable.
The nets were wide-meshed: big shrimp only. The small ones were spared.
Li Daoxuan saw baskets full of live shrimp hopping wildly.
"Quick, quick," a fisherman said, dipping a basket in water before handing it to his wife. "Next train's coming. Take these to the Gaojia market and sell them while they're still alive."
She ran. Reached the station just as the train arrived. Climbed aboard with practiced urgency.
She wasn't alone. Several women boarded with shrimp baskets.
The small train whistled and sped off toward Gaojia Village.
With Gaojia's current buying power, the shrimp would vanish the moment they hit the stalls. Meat was meat, after all.[1]
Li Daoxuan smiled—the kind of smile reserved for watching lives finally stabilize.
Then—
Bang.
He turned toward the sound.
In the woods beside Bai Fortress stood Bai Yuan, holding a modified flintlock bird-gun. A startled bird flapped into the sky, untouched.
Bai Yuan sighed, utterly dejected.
"No matter how I practice," he said, "I still can't hit a bird."
He lowered the gun, miserable.
"The 'archery' part of the Six Arts…" He waved a hand. "Let's just cross that one out."[2]
Footnotes & Trivia
[1] Autumn Shrimp & Market Logic (Late Ming)
Shrimp and crab were considered seasonal luxuries. In famine-prone regions, protein from water sources was often the first stabilizer of rural diets. Selling live seafood fetched significantly higher prices—hence the race to market and the early use of transport links when available.
[2] The Six Arts (六艺) and Ironic Failure
The Confucian Six Arts—ritual, music, archery, charioteering, calligraphy, mathematics—were ideals, not expectations. Late-Ming scholars frequently joked about "selective cultivation," quietly abandoning the ones that involved sweat, danger, or public embarrassment. Archery was usually the first to go.