Dao Xuan Tianzun floated above Heyang County, latte in hand, the jasmine scent curling in the wind.
Below him, the streets bustled with the Gao Village militia, and for the first time, he felt… nervous.
It was the first time his "little ones" had entered a wild settlement—a city full of unaffiliated people.
Which meant it was also the first real test of their moral evolution:
Would they behave like citizens or like armed toddlers with spending money?
He was a protective man by nature.
But what if one of his people bullied the locals?
He couldn't condone it—yet the thought of punishing them made his heart cramp.
Ah, what a miserable contradiction.
So this was why corruption existed, he realized.
Why eunuchs seized power.
Why treacherous officials wormed their way into the courts.
It all started with favoritism.
The moment a leader decided "my own people are special," the laws began to melt.
Sure, you could type "I stand with justice" on the internet—but when your cousin steals a thousand coins from the neighbors, are you really calling the constables?
When your best friend stabs someone in a tavern brawl, do you drag him to court… or quietly hand him travel money and tell him to take the southbound ship?
Justice was easy to post online, hard to practice in person.
Dao Xuan Tianzun sighed and took another sip.
He clearly needed an Enforcement Bureau—someone to wield iron where his own hand hesitated.
Better to build that system now, before the rot could begin.
But who could run it?
He needed someone axle-tight—a person who placed law above friendship, duty above comfort, justice above everything.
Someone willing to argue with him to his face if necessary.
A modern-day Wei Zheng to his occasionally indulgent emperor.
He scanned his mental roster of little people.
Did he have anyone that upright?
Down below, his anxiety eased a bit.
Years of "moral and political education" had clearly paid off: the militia were behaving.
One squad stopped at a noodle stall.
"Boss, how much for a bowl of San-Chi Knife-Cut Noodles?"
The shopkeeper hesitated at their armor and blades. "T-ten wen."
"Ten wen? That's steep!"
"Back home in Gao Village, hand-torn noodles are only three!"
"Maybe grain's pricier here."
"Yeah—Tianzun's blessings haven't reached this county yet. Not enough harvests."
"Fair point."
"All right, one bowl for me."
"Make that five."
The shopkeeper's stomach twisted.
Five bowls—that was fifty wen.
If these soldiers skipped the bill, he'd be ruined.
But refusing service to armed customers was suicidal.
Then, to his shock, one of the men tossed a chunk of silver on the counter before the noodles were even done.
"Here. This should cover it. Chop-chop, boss—we're starving!"
The shopkeeper blinked. The silver weighed out perfectly. He slid it into the drawer and doubled his noodle speed, heart suddenly singing.
Similar scenes unfolded across Heyang.
Fifteen hundred militia and three hundred cavalry turned the market streets into a roaring festival.
Gao Village folk were well-off, and soldiers even more so—Tianzun paid them danger wages.
The city's eateries filled up in minutes.
Knife-cut noodle stalls packed.
Heyang-style vinegar noodles packed.
Even the hehefresh nodles shop overflowed.
Merchants were practically levitating with joy.
This, they thought, was the most beautiful invasion in history.
Still, a few conversations bruised their civic pride.
"Man, Heyang's poor," one soldier said between dumpling bites.
"Tell me about it," another replied. "Compared to Gao Village? Night and day."
The shopkeeper's moustache flared with rage. Call us poor again and I'll ladle soup on your head.
Then he glanced at their swords and decided poverty was survivable—stabbing less so.
As he worked, he remembered three girls who'd eaten here weeks ago—one had suggested he open a branch in Gao Village.
At the time, he'd laughed it off.
Now, looking around at this sea of silver-spending soldiers, the idea suddenly glowed like divine revelation.
Maybe it's time I visited Gao Village myself…
Meanwhile, on the east side of town, another eatery was buzzing—a Lamb Mash & Bread shop.
The dish was a Mongol holdover from the Yuan dynasty: rich, greasy, magnificent—and ruinously expensive, thanks to the drought.
Only one merchant, Zhang Yuanwai of Xiazhuang, had the means to source lamb these days, which made his shop the city's culinary temple.
Normally, his patrons were nobles, landowners, and the occasional black-market tax collector.
Today, however, six dusty soldiers swaggered in—headed by none other than Zheng Daniu.
Zhang's shopkeeper eyed them with mild disdain. "Common troops," he thought. "They'll balk at the price."
He quoted the number anyway.
Zheng Daniu laughed so loudly the windows rattled.
"You have lamb? Real lamb? Brothers, sit! I'm paying. Boss, six bowls of Lamb Mash—extra lamb, skip the bread!"
The shopkeeper froze. "…"
Extra lamb? Skip the bread? That was like ordering soup and rejecting the bowl.
One of the soldiers scratched his head. "Uh, Big Ox Bro, don't think that's how it works. The bread's the point. The lamb's the accent."
Zheng Daniu blinked. "Really?"
The shopkeeper couldn't help but laugh. "Yes, sir. The bread's the dish; the lamb's just the flavor."
Zheng Daniu grinned. "Fine, then! Double everything. I want to taste the north and the south in one bite!"
Trivia
Lamb Mash & Bread (羊肉糊餑) – A remnant of Yuan-era cuisine: boiled flatbread soaked in mutton stew. Once a luxury for Mongol nobles; now a rare comfort food when sheep aren't extinct.
Enforcement Bureau (執法機構) – Dao Xuan Tianzun's theoretical future department for making sure his affection doesn't accidentally become corruption. Current staffing: zero. Current urgency: high.