Old Zhang Fei took one look at the man before him and knew he was in trouble.
This guy was clearly not some ragtag rebel. Just look at him—mountain-pattern armor fitted like a noble's vanity project, riding posture straight out of a military textbook, and that elegant spear technique? Oh, this wasn't just a soldier. This was an imperial officer—and one who'd actually paid attention during training.
"Damn it!" Old Zhang Fei roared. "Imperial troops disguised as salt smugglers to ambush me?!"
His rage hit the boiling point. With a violent yank, he unsheathed his eighteen-foot snake spear and charged, screaming like a man trying to make up for his life's poor decisions.
Lao Nanfeng burst out laughing the moment he saw it.
"A snake spear? What is this, an opera audition? The real Zhang Fei never used one! Those things were storyteller inventions! You forged that monstrosity for branding, didn't you?"
The two men thundered toward each other, their horses pounding the earth like drums of war.
Old Zhang Fei's snake spear lashed forward, long and deadly, but Lao Nanfeng wasn't impressed. His own spear was only twelve feet—a full six feet shorter—but it danced in his hands with lethal precision.
In one elegant flick, he parried the snake spear aside, angling his own weapon just enough to open the defense.
As their horses passed each other, Lao Nanfeng's free hand darted to his waist, drew his saber, and plunged it straight into Old Zhang Fei's abdomen.
He didn't even bother to retrieve it. The blade stayed buried as both horses raced past each other. Lao Nanfeng reined his mount to a stop, turned, and watched Old Zhang Fei slump sideways, sliding off his horse with a wet thud.
"Hmph! You dare call yourself Zhang Fei? More like Old Jin Xuan!" Lao Nanfeng snorted, shaking his head with theatrical disgust.
With the self-proclaimed Zhang Fei down, the rest of the bandits fell apart like wet paper. Panic spread faster than the flu in winter; within moments, the battlefield was a stampede of fleeing men.
If Dao Xuan Tianzun had been watching through His divine perspective, He probably would've reached down, scooped up the survivors, and dropped them neatly into a labor camp with a note that said: "You're welcome."
But this was Shanxi—well beyond the reach of Dao Xuan Tianzun's divine hand—and manpower here was limited. The militia could only hold the field, watching the rebels flee like rats abandoning a sinking ship.
Lao Nanfeng rode back to the stockade, triumphant.
The fortress defenders had already secured their own victory. The warship's return had broken the enemy's spirit; bandits inside the walls were cut down, and those outside scattered. Gao Chuwu gave the order to open the gates and welcome their cavalry home.
Lao Nanfeng entered with a swagger, Old Zhang Fei's ear impaled on his spear tip like a grotesque trophy. He threw his head back and laughed toward the sky.
"Look! The bandit chief's ear! I personally took down their leader! I don't ask for a triple promotion—just transfer me back to the Flower World Star Agency! Spare me another minute of garrison life on the frontier!"
Gao Chuwu grimaced. "Ugh, that's disgusting! Get that thing out of here! You're going to make people lose their lunch."
Lao Nanfeng blinked. "This is proof of valor! A symbol of heroism!"
"Sure," Gao Chuwu said dryly. "But maybe next time, bring a written report instead of an ear."
Lao Nanfeng sighed internally. He clearly doesn't understand how officialdom works. When a small fry wins a big battle, the higher-ups swoop in to steal the credit faster than crows on a corpse.
He thought of an old tale—some emperor once claimed he personally cut down an enemy in battle. "Sure, Your Majesty," Lao Nanfeng thought bitterly. "You and your sword—right after the historian finished polishing your image."
Then, realizing he might need an ally, Lao Nanfeng leaned in and whispered, "General Gao, when we report this, let's say we killed Old Zhang Fei together, eh?"
Gao Chuwu blinked, genuinely confused. "Why? You clearly killed him yourself."
Lao Nanfeng looked pained. "No, no, that's not how it works! It has to be joint credit."
Gao Chuwu scratched his head. "That guy was so weak, I could've killed three of him with my eyes closed. If we say we did it together, doesn't that make us both sound pathetic? Hahaha! You keep the credit, I don't want it."
Lao Nanfeng froze. He's… not trying to steal it?
Was this guy naïve—or was Gao Family Village truly built different?
Then a sudden realization hit him: "Dao Xuan Tianzun sees all."
Of course! Gao Family Village had Dao Xuan Tianzun watching from above. No one could lie, cheat, or steal credit—not without divine retribution.
In Gao Family Village, merit was sacred.
And the wrath of Dao Xuan Tianzun?
Yeah… not something anyone wanted to test.
Understanding that, Lao Nanfeng felt an incredible weight lift off his shoulders. No more politics, no more fear of stolen glory. He pulled the ear from his spear and laughed.
He didn't need proof anymore.
No one in Gao Family Village would dare claim otherwise.
With a mighty swing, he hurled the ear into the rushing Yellow River.
A monstrous fish leapt from the water, gulped it down, and disappeared beneath the waves.
"Perfect," Lao Nanfeng said, grinning. "Nature's paperwork."
From the river, the returning warship drew near. Its captain—a Bai Family Fortress retainer with a flair for the dramatic—looked utterly disappointed. "General Lao Nanfeng! I only got to fire one volley before they ran! What a boring day!"
Lao Nanfeng roared with laughter. "Don't worry, Captain! Someday you'll fight the imperial navy—and even Westerners sailing giant ships from across the seas will come challenge you! You'll have plenty of fun then!"
Meanwhile, far away, Li Daoxuan sat comfortably, munching on a desert sand chicken. The aroma filled the air as he observed the Qichuan Ferry through his divine interface. It was buzzing with life—the heart of logistics for the Shanxi campaign—and a massive blacksmith workshop was already half built.
Blue Hats and Yellow Hats labored side by side, cement walls rising in geometric perfection.
To Li Daoxuan's modern eyes, it was art.
To the locals?
It was a crime against aesthetics.
Traditional Eastern architecture prized elegance and intricacy: carved beams, painted eaves, graceful upturned corners. Cement had none of that—just raw, solid, utilitarian power.
The ancient craftsmen would marvel, "So big! So strong!" before adding, "So ugly."
And Bai Yuan, of course, was already complaining.
Dressed in flawless white robes, fanning himself like an aristocrat judging tea leaves, he muttered by the riverbank, "This workshop is… a bit ugly. Yes, definitely ugly."
Then, spotting a ship's silhouette on the river, his expression brightened instantly.
"The warship's returning!" he said, eyes gleaming. "At last—news from Shanxi!"