The camp had been happy.
That was the problem.
One moment ago, fifteen hundred men were eating bacon-and-potato rice like they'd briefly remembered what civilization tasted like. The next, the emergency dispatch tore through the air and smashed morale flat.
Joy evaporated.
Wang Chengen's face turned iron-gray. Around him, his deputy commanders and centurions followed suit. No shouting. No panic. Just that tight, hollow quiet that meant everyone had done this before.
"I must go to the capital immediately," Wang Chengen said.
No hesitation. Loyalty first. Reflex, not debate.
Then his jaw tightened.
"But Fanshan Yue…"
Liang Shixian spoke what everyone else was thinking. "General, once you leave, no one restrains him. He will become another Li Ying—uniform on the outside, bandit underneath."
Wang Chengen sighed.
"If all five garrison generals march to defend the capital," Liang continued, "then what happens to Shaanxi? Who keeps order? Who stops the bandits from multiplying like rumors?"
Wang Chengen sighed again.
This was not a conversation. It was a funeral for options.
After a long, rigid silence, he placed a heavy hand on Liang Shixian's shoulder.
"The capital comes first," he said. "If it falls, nothing else matters. I cannot spare troops for Shaanxi. From this point on… you are on your own. Take care, Magistrate."
Orders followed immediately.
"Break camp. Move now. March through the night. Return to Xi'an."
The soldiers were still eating.
They reacted like men who knew this might be their last good meal for months.
Some shoveled rice into their mouths with suicidal urgency.
Some grabbed handfuls and ate while walking.
Some wrapped bowls in cloth and hid them inside their armor like contraband hope.
No one wasted a grain.
Then they marched.
Liang Shixian stood atop the city wall and watched them disappear into dust and evening.
"Dao Xuan Tianzun," he murmured upward, "what are we supposed to do now?"
No answer came.
Because the answer was already obvious.
History recorded it cleanly later.
Living through it was messier.
Once the generals left, Yang He lost the muscle to suppress the bandits. The strategy shifted. Suppression became appeasement. Appeasement became uniforms handed to criminals and prayers disguised as policy.
It had failed before.
It would fail again.
Shaanxi was about to get worse.
Li DaoXuan held up a sheet of paper in front of Liang Shixian.
"Expand the militias. Protect yourselves."
Liang nodded immediately. No ceremony. No delusions.
"The higher authorities are finished," he said. "We rely on ourselves. Other counties can't spare men—too much farming, too much hunger. But we have Heavenly grain. We can afford armed hands."
He turned sharply. "Where is Bai Yuan?"
"In Gao Family Village," the Shaoxing clerk replied. "Close to Heyang County. He's already preparing."
Liang exhaled. "Of course he is. Prepare transport. I'm going there personally."
The clerk smiled.
"No horse needed, Magistrate."
Liang blinked.
"The road is finished. Two of them. One concrete road with buses. One rail line. Dao Xuan Tianzun personally placed the small immortal train."
Liang paused.
"…I see."
Minutes later, they arrived at Chengcheng Station—an aggressively colorful structure that looked like Heaven had discovered bad taste and committed to it.
No one mocked it anymore.
These buildings had become emotional infrastructure.
They said: You are not alone.
Liang's anxiety eased the moment he stepped inside.
The train arrived.
He boarded carefully, sat by the window, and extended a hand outside as the wind rushed past.
Sixty kilometers an hour.
It felt like grabbing the future by the sleeve.
Thirty li vanished in a blink.
As soon as he disembarked, Liang asked for Bai Yuan.
He didn't get an answer.
He got a gunshot.
A sharp crack split the air.
Liang froze.
"Firearms?" he said.
The clerk nodded. "Yes."
Liang swallowed. "That's illegal."
The clerk lowered his voice. "So is chaos. One of them is currently winning."
Another crack.
Something fell from the sky and smacked Liang's official hat sideways.
He yelped, grabbed it—and found a dead bird, bloodied, freshly shot.
"…Someone hit a flying bird?" Liang whispered.
"That," the clerk said carefully, "is very good shooting."
Laughter approached.
Bai Yuan ran toward them in white robes, grinning like a man who had just bullied physics.
"I hit it!" he shouted. "The rifling works! Accuracy's way up—oh?"
He noticed Liang. Instantly stopped. Bowed deeply.
"Magistrate. What brings you here?"
Liang stared at the dead bird.
Then at the gun smoke.
Then at Bai Yuan.
Shaanxi had officially entered the phase where laws still existed, but only as suggestions.
Trivia :
Why militias mattered: Local militias weren't rebellion—they were survival. When central forces left, counties that armed themselves lasted longer. Counties that waited for orders disappeared quietly.
Why firearms spread anyway: Ming gun bans existed on paper. In reality, private firearms were common during crises. Enforcement collapsed before legality did.
Why speed changes power: Roads, trains, and logistics don't just move people—they compress decision time. Whoever moves faster controls events, not whoever holds rank.