Li Daoxuan's awareness drifted quietly behind Bai Yuan, like a bad thought that refused to leave your head.
Bai Yuan was wandering through Heyang County.
Calling the place "a mess" would have been polite. Compared to Chengcheng, Heyang looked like a failed experiment everyone agreed not to discuss. There was no Dao Xuan Tianzun calling down rain, no divine grain distribution. Instead, there was Fan Shanyue, who had spent the last two years treating the county like a personal sandbox for arson, murder, and forced recruitment.
Two full years.
Productivity was no longer a concept. Half the county lay rotting. Nine out of ten households stood empty. White bones littered the roads like milestones marking how far hope had already walked away. Only the eastern strip near the Yellow River still breathed. The western side, closer to Chengcheng, looked like the apocalypse had already moved in and unpacked.
Bai Yuan walked, sighing.
Li Daoxuan watched, sighing with him.
"Now that we've established contact with the Heyang magistrate," Bai Yuan muttered, "we should help the people here. Liang Shixian can't act openly, but civilian channels?"
He smiled faintly.
"Very convenient."
Li Daoxuan nodded.
This was familiar. Avoid the officials. Build from the ground up. Unless an official was genuinely clean, talking to them was usually just an expensive way to learn disappointment.
The empire itself was past saving. A body this rotten didn't need surgery. It needed gravity.
Bai Yuan followed the broken dirt road north, passing Yongning Hamlet, North Yongning, Yang Village… through a forest, along a ridgeline—and finally, West Ox Village.
Only then did everything make sense.
North of the village rose the endless spine of Huanglong Mountain.
This was its southeastern edge.
Fan Shanyue had chosen the spot well. Any trouble, and he could vanish into the mountains—turning back into a free bandit, morally flexible and geographically uncatchable.
So even he knew he was doing something wrong.
If the Shaanxi commander Wang Chengen hadn't been recalled to defend the capital, Fan Shanyue would already be hiding among the peaks.
Bai Yuan snorted.
"On the way here, I was worried I wouldn't find a good ambush point. Turns out he parked himself under Huanglong Mountain like a sign saying 'please murder responsibly.'"
He laughed.
"Let's go up."
He led his attendants around the slope and into the mountain.
Halfway up, concealed among broken rocks, they looked down on West Ox Village.
Bai Yuan grinned.
"Now we wait."
He opened the large wooden case on his back and lifted out a long flintlock musket. As he loaded it with practiced calm, he said cheerfully:
"Time to demonstrate real shooting."
The two guides sent by Magistrate Feng Jun stared.
A musket?
Yes, people loved to brag that it could shoot birds out of the sky. But anyone with half a brain knew the truth—its accuracy was a tragic misunderstanding.
Was Sir Bai planning to assassinate Fan Shanyue from this distance?
They looked down at the village.
That far?
No chance.
They exchanged a glance. This needed to be reported.
They bowed.
"Sir Bai, we've brought you here. We should return and report to the magistrate."
Bai Yuan waved them off casually.
"Go. Tell Magistrate Feng to wait for good news."
Their expressions said: Absolutely not.
They hurried down the mountain, circled the village, and reached the opposite slope—where Feng Jun, dressed in plain clothes, was already waiting.
"Well?" Feng asked urgently. "What does Sir Bai intend to do?"
The guides hesitated.
"He… took out a musket. It looks like he plans to shoot Fan Shanyue from Huanglong Mountain."
Feng Jun froze.
His face transformed into the universal expression of this is impossible.
"Sir—your nose!"
Blood dripped as he wiped it, leaving a crooked red streak down his face.
"That's absurd!" Feng snapped. "At that distance? A musket? He'll only alert the bandits! If Fan Shanyue realizes we're behind this, he could raze the county!"
The guides winced.
"Sir Bai looks… very confident."
"Confidence does not improve accuracy," Feng Jun growled. "This is madness. Take me to him. I must stop this."
And then—
The gates of West Ox Village opened.
Fan Shanyue rode out on a tall horse, smug and radiant, surrounded by guards. He wore mountain-patterned armor. His men were a chaotic mess of mismatched gear, waving a banner marked with a bold surname and smaller words beneath it: Heyang Garrison Commander.
His real name was Zheng Fanyue—something he could finally admit after accepting imperial amnesty.
Before, looting peasants meant fighting militias.
Now, he looted in the name of the court.
Militias didn't dare move. Gentry paid quietly. Life was excellent.
Fan Shanyue laughed.
"So—who are we robbing today?"
A lieutenant grinned.
"Zhang the Landlord from Lower Hamlet. He used to organize militias against us. Let's collect interest."
"Excellent."
Fan Shanyue's smile darkened.
"And the news about Xing Honglang from Yongji?"
"She's been moving between Xian and Chengcheng."
"Chengcheng…" Fan Shanyue sneered. "I hate that place. One day we'll ditch these uniforms, sneak in, and loot it properly."
Then—
Bang.
A sharp crack echoed from the distant slope. White smoke bloomed.
Loud. Sudden.
But no one fell.
Fan Shanyue and his men turned toward the sound.
"A musket?" he frowned. "What's going on over there?"
High above, Bai Yuan calmly adjusted his stance.
Some people believed the world was ruled by fate.
Others believed in effort.
Bai Yuan believed that if someone stood still long enough, probability eventually got bored—and made a mistake.