The instant the musket fired, Feng Jun's heart sank.
This idiot actually fired it.
White smoke bloomed on the distant hillside. There was no mistaking it—Bai Yuan had pulled the trigger.
Feng Jun looked back toward the front of Xiniu Village.
Fan Shanyue was still sitting tall on his horse.
Very tall.
Very alive.
Very unharmed.
At that distance, how could a musket possibly hit?
And indeed—it hadn't.
Bai Yuan had aimed carefully. He had breathed. He had adjusted.
And still missed.
The shot passed a hair's breadth above Fan Shanyue's head—one or two inches at most—and sailed clean over the bandits clustered around him. Because Fan Shanyue sat high on horseback, the bullet cleared everyone neatly.
No one was hit.
No one even noticed the bullet.
The bandits weren't panicking. Not even close.
They all turned together to look toward the smoking hillside, curiosity replacing concern.
Fan Shanyue flicked his riding whip lazily toward the smoke.
"Send two men up there. See what's going on. Sounds like a musket. Who's bored enough to fire one up a mountain?"
One bandit laughed. "Maybe one of our brothers found a confiscated government piece and is playing with it?"
Fan Shanyue grinned. "If so, bring it to me. Good toys should always go to the boss first."
Laughter rippled through the group.
Thirty blinks passed.
That was all Bai Yuan needed.
He had already reloaded.
The musket snapped up again—smooth, practiced, unhurried.
Feng Jun was shouting now, panic flooding his voice.
"Stop him! Someone stop Bai-sir! This is madness! He can't kill Fan Shanyue like this! If he alerts him—"
Bang.
The second shot landed squarely in the center of Fan Shanyue's face.
There was no dramatic final speech.
No heroic struggle.
Just a hole where authority used to be.
Fan Shanyue slid off his horse and hit the dirt with a dull thud, kicking up dust.
The bandits froze.
Then chaos exploded.
"Boss!"
"Boss!!"
"He's been assassinated!"
Only now did their slow minds catch up.
Only now did they realize the man on the hillside wasn't playing.
On the opposite slope, Feng Jun erupted with joy.
"It hit! It hit! Hahaha! Excellent marksmanship!"
A servant screamed, "My lord! Your nose! Your nose!"
Blood was pouring freely.
Feng Jun didn't even wipe it. He stomped the ground, laughing like a madman.
"He's dead! That dog Fan Shanyue is finally dead!"
"My lord," the servant cried, "it's coming out like a spring!"
"Is it?" Feng Jun blinked. "No wonder I feel dizzy—"
He collapsed backward.
"My lord!"
Servants rushed to catch him.
As they lifted him, Feng Jun croaked weakly, "Issue my order… call the militias from the surrounding villages… the head is gone, the body will fall… finish them…"
Then he passed out, smiling.
On the hillside, Bai Yuan frowned slightly.
"One-shot kill would have been cleaner," he muttered. "Second shot only. I'll deduct half a point from my shooting."
A servant yelled, "Sir Bai, we have to go! They're charging!"
The distance was short—barely two hundred paces. Once the bandits climbed the slope, it would be ugly.
But slopes lie.
Straight-line distance means nothing when gravity decides to argue.
It was like Shuangqing City—one hundred ninety meters on the map, forty minutes on foot. Geography has a sense of humor.
The bandits started climbing.
Bai Yuan calmly slung the musket, stood, and turned with flowing white robes—absolute peak arrogance.
"We're done here," he said lightly. "Let's go."
The moment he turned—
Bowstrings thrummed.
A storm of arrows screamed up the slope.
No more posing.
Bai Yuan ducked instantly. Servants raised shields and ran, sprinting into Huanglong Mountain.
From above, Li Daoxuan chuckled.
He extended a hand.
The arrows struck something invisible and dropped from the air like dead insects.
The bandits stared in horror.
"Our arrows—!"
"They can't hit him!"
"That man—he's a demon!"
When the white-robed figure vanished into the mountains, they didn't dare pursue.
They retreated instead, surrounding Fan Shanyue's corpse in stunned silence.
Then—
Shouts erupted from all directions.
Zhang the Landowner from Lower Village.
Village Chief Li from Nantai.
Yang the Strongman from Yang Village.
Militias surged in from every side.
At the rear stood Feng Jun, personally overseeing the assault—two bright streams of blood still running from his nose like decorative war paint. He dipped his fingers into it and smeared a savage pattern across his face.
"Bandits!" he roared. "You've terrorized the people long enough. Today, you die without burial!"
The bandits panicked.
"We were pardoned!" someone shouted. "We're officers now! You dare—?"
"Why wouldn't I?" Feng Jun bellowed. "The Provincial Governor has declared you rebels. Heads delivered to Xi'an earn rewards! Kill them!"
The militias surged.
So did the villagers.
Men who had lost homes.
Women who had lost sons.
People who had been robbed, beaten, humiliated.
Without Fan Shanyue, the bandits had no spine.
They broke instantly.
No mercy followed.
Hoes fell like executioners' blades.
There was no mistaken killing.
Anyone with a conscience had already gone home during the last "return-to-village" order.
Anyone still standing here deserved the ground they were buried in.
From above, Li Daoxuan watched quietly.
Good.
The tumor that had plagued Heyang County for over a year was gone.
Now—
It was time to rebuild.
Trivia :
Muskets of the period were inaccurate—but trained shooters could still exploit timing, elevation, and psychology.
Bandit armies often collapsed instantly once the leader died; loyalty was vertical, not structural.
Public participation in reprisals wasn't chaos—it was closure. Ming records note this repeatedly.