The wooden planks dropped with a bang, revealing the militia's flintlock soldiers—and oh boy, did they look ready. A hundred muskets poked out through the gaps, like a row of overzealous pigeons expecting breadcrumbs. They were ready to make the bandits feel the love—the lead kind.
"Bang, bang, bang, bang!"
A cloud of white smoke billowed, thick enough to make a chimney jealous. The sound of muskets firing was like a chorus of angry grandfathers shaking their canes. The bandits had no idea what was coming, and now, a few of them were regretting every decision they'd ever made.
The Gao Family Village's muskets weren't exactly top-of-the-line. They were smoothbore, which meant they were about as accurate as a drunk man trying to throw darts blindfolded. But who needed accuracy when you had the element of surprise and sheer volume on your side?
The front ranks of the bandit army crumpled like expired bread, their faces meeting the ground in ways that would make gravity proud. The militia—behind their sturdy stockade walls, like squirrels in a bunker—reloaded with the kind of precision you'd expect from a group of people who had really gotten used to this routine. Thirty seconds, no sweat. They didn't even flinch. Maybe it was the safety of the fortifications or the sheer willpower of not wanting to deal with angry bandits on their lunch break. Either way, they were cool as cucumbers.
The bandits, on the other hand, were having a moment. The idea of grain—Old Zhang Fei's rallying cry—had them charging forward like they were contestants in some twisted food competition. Maybe the promise of grain was the only thing keeping them sane. Who needed a battle plan when you had carbs?
A few bandits tossed their wooden planks aside like they were clearing out their closets. These boards had been their shield, but now, they were about as useful as a broken umbrella in a thunderstorm. They could move faster without them.
One particularly eager bandit slammed into the stockade gate, hoping to knock it down with sheer willpower.
It didn't work.
The gate, made of solid tree trunks bound together like a woodworker's fever dream, barely even shook. The bandit looked at it, then back at his teammates, his face doing the mental math. It was a no-go.
Before he could process this cosmic disappointment, a spear shot through a gap in the gate like it was auditioning for World's Deadliest Throw. The bandit let out a surprised yelp as the spear skewered him in a one-way ticket to the afterlife.
"The gate's tough! There are holes! Spears poke through!" one bandit yelled, clutching his chest as if this was the first time he'd ever considered structural integrity. "Climb the walls!"
At this, a few lighter, sprier bandits scrambled up the stockade wall. They moved fast, with the same intensity you might see at a gym class dodgeball game. A few of them had already almost reached the top when—
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
The muskets fired again, so close it was like getting hit with a high-speed dartboard. At this range, the bandits didn't have a chance. They were knocked off the wall like unruly children being shooed out of a candy store.
The remaining bandits at the wall looked up at the smoke and chaos, silently considering their life choices. They didn't have answers to that.
As the last volley of musket fire died down, the soldiers quickly shifted tactics. The flintlock soldiers pulled back from their firing positions, looking like they were taking a coffee break in the middle of the battlefield. No panic. Just cold, calculating efficiency. They weren't even sweating.
The spear soldiers were on the move now, slowly advancing like a well-coordinated ballet troupe. They raised their hand crossbows as they moved, aiming for the top of the wall where the bandits had dared to climb.
A bandit, now more daring than the rest, popped his head over the top, thinking he'd get a quick look-see. A bolt flew past him so close that his hair probably moved a little from the breeze.
"Pfft. Close, but not close enough!" he thought, laughing in that smug, "I'm the hero of this story" kind of way.
That is, until he popped his head back up and immediately got hit right between the eyes.
"Thud."
He dropped like a rock. The crossbow had, quite literally, had the last word.
"Nice shot, Jinx!" one soldier yelled to the crossbowman, who merely nodded as though he had just been on autopilot.
But then the bandits came over the wall again. More of them. This time, they were more cautious, crafty. One bandit, clearly trying to be clever, peered over just enough to see what was going on, then ducked down before the next crossbow bolt could meet his face.
He peeked out again. Nothing. So far, so good.
He stood up, stretched, and then—WHAM!
Three spears shot up like a perfectly coordinated K-pop dance routine and hit him dead in the chest.
He didn't even have time to blink.
The cavalry on the flank looked at the whole thing, wide-eyed.
"General," one of the cavalrymen asked, "Should we... step in?"
Lao Nanfeng, the picture of stoic wisdom, just shook his head and gestured for them to stay put. "Hold position. Don't move yet. This is... almost interesting."
Meanwhile, back near the commoners' section of the stockade, things were getting... chaotic. No grenadiers this time. The bandits who managed to scramble over were immediately met with a dozen farmers wielding hoes, pitchforks, and that one guy with a rake. They were as surprised as anyone to find themselves fighting, but it was far too late for second thoughts. The farmers, who probably hadn't seen combat since that one scuffle over the last piece of bread, were very eager to make up for lost time.
Zhan Seng, who was doing his best to stay out of the mess, had just pulled out his staff when a bandit dashed by. He swung, accidentally knocking the bandit into a pile of hay, knocking out a tooth in the process.
"Amitabha," Zhan Seng muttered, brushing off his robe. "I swore to never—"
But before he could finish, the villagers had already descended upon the two bandits that had climbed over, smashing their faces in with the kind of enthusiasm you'd see at a Black Friday sale.
"Amitabha!" Zhan Seng cried, "I swear this is NOT my fault!"
"Master, you're doing great! Keep it up!" a farmer shouted, slamming his rake into the back of a bandit's head with all the precision of someone hitting a piñata.
Zhan Seng sighed in defeat. "I was a monk. Once."
But things were only getting more... complicated.
Out of nowhere, a bandit threw a throwing knife at Zhan Seng. It was about as effective as an overzealous toddler trying to play dodgeball. Zhan Seng dodged, but just barely. The knife nicked his cheek, leaving a thin red line.
"Oh no, I'm bleeding!" two monks from Puji Temple shouted. "This is bad! This is BAD! Master, the blood! Get back! Everyone, get back!"
The crowd—confused—didn't move.
Zhan Seng stood there, his expression shifting faster than the weather during a storm. His eyes narrowed, turning bloodshot, his aura suddenly turning from Zen Monk to Ancient Demon. His voice dropped to a low growl.
"Who?! WHO DARES TO DRAW MY BLOOD?! Have you never heard of He Ping, the Man-Eating Salt Owl?! When I was slaughtering men like flies, you weren't even born yet! Now, you will learn!"
Zhan Seng swung his staff, each blow landing with the kind of force that made people wonder if they'd just witnessed an act of divine retribution. One bandit's skull exploded like a watermelon under a hammer, and another's throat was impaled with a sickening thud.
By the time Zhan Seng was done, the remaining bandits had begun to reconsider their life choices. And their dinner plans.