Wang Jiayin blinked. "A salt smuggler," he repeated slowly, letting the words hang in the air. "With her own navy, artillery, firearms, and a fortress to boot? That's not audacious, that's a full-blown career choice."
Bu Zhan Ni spat on the ground, fuming. "Audacious doesn't even cover it! Where does she get the nerve? Playing house with a private army right under the Emperor's nose—is she trying to get erased from the census? She even had the gall to attack my men!"
Wang Jiayin stroked his chin, putting on his best "thoughtful leader" face for a solid three seconds. "Brother Bu," he said, his tone placating. "Let's not run headfirst into a stone wall. Give me a moment to… strategically ponder this. You'll have my answer soon."
Bu Zhan Ni offered a salute that was more insult than respect and stormed out.
Well, that was dramatic, Wang Jiayin mused the second the door shut. Do I look like I run a revenge-for-hire service? Bu Zhan Ni's thugs get themselves killed, and I'm supposed to waste my actual soldiers avenging them? Please. My underlings bicker like children over the last dumpling every other Tuesday. Not my circus, not my clowns.
He leaned back, a new thought taking shape. But this salt smuggler, Xing Honglang… now she's a different story. Fortresses, cannons, boats… that's not petty crime, that's entrepreneurship. She's built a whole anti-government franchise.
A slow smile spread across his face. The enemy of my enemy isn't just a friend—it's a potential business partner. And frankly, a smuggler with an arsenal was a far more attractive acquisition than a hot-headed lout like Bu Zhan Ni.
Decision made. He summoned a trusted aide. "Take a scenic trip south along the river," he instructed. "Find this 'Lady Fortress' at Gudu Ferry. Let's see if she's interested in a more ambitious… merger."
---
In Han City, Li Daoxuan slurped a bowl of liangpi, his eyes tracking the Gao Family Village grain convoy like a hawk. Riding alongside the precious cargo were two men: Shi Jian and Bai Mao.
Shi Jian elbowed his companion, a grin splitting his face. "Hey, Wang Xiaohua!"
Bai Mao's eye twitched. "We agreed. In the field, it's Bai Mao. The scary bandit alias. Use it."
"Can't do it," Shi Jian singsonged, thoroughly enjoying himself. "We're about to waltz into a military camp. What if someone hears 'White Hair' and gets the wrong idea? Better to use your sweet, innocent, government-registered name." He leaned in. "Wang Xiaohua."
Bai Mao looked heavenward, as if asking for patience. "Could you not use it unless it's a life-or-death situation?"
"Absolutely not," Shi Jian cackled. "Wang Xiaohua! It's just too good. It sounds like the girl next door who sells flowers, not a man who can disarm three bandits before breakfast. Hilarious."
Bai Mao was pretty sure a vein in his forehead was about to achieve sentience and strangle Shi Jian itself.
Their bickering was cut short as the city gates swung open. Out marched General Wang Cheng'en himself, a man whose very posture screamed "military burden."
The General's stern gaze swept over the grain carts, and his expression did a miraculous 180 into pure, unadulterated relief. "Chengcheng County has this general's deepest gratitude," he boomed, the very picture of noble appreciation. "This kindness will be etched in my memory."
An aide coughed discreetly, nodding toward Shi Jian and Bai Mao. Wang Cheng'en's smile tightened imperceptibly. Ah. The obligatory 'gifts.' Every county magistrate felt the need to dump a few useless relatives or hangers-on into his ranks to pad their own records. It was a bureaucratic ritual as unavoidable as dust.
He turned to the pair, his tone shifting to brusque efficiency. "You'll serve in my army. I have no lofty posts free, but I can start you both as Centurions. Acceptable?"
A "Centurion" here was a title in search of a century. They'd have the rank, the pay (theoretically), and exactly zero soldiers to command. A classic empty-title promotion.
Shi Jian and Bai Mao, forewarned and forearmed, bowed in perfect unison. "We are honored, General," Shi Jian said, face the picture of earnest duty. "We will strive to be worthy."
And with that, they were in. Officially, if not effectively.
They collected their tags, found their assigned tent, and were cheerfully making their way toward it when a human wall of muscle and menace blocked their path.
The man looked like he chewed nails for breakfast and spit out rust. "The name's Ma," he growled, his voice like gravel. "Men call me Centurion Ma. Let's get one thing straight: I carved my way to this rank. I don't like backdoor climbers, and I really don't like pretty boys who think a title is a free pass to strut. Stay out of my way. Clear?"
Shi Jian and Bai Mao didn't even flinch. They just shared a look that said, Right on schedule.
Dao Xuan Tianzun had predicted this exact scenario. Their mission wasn't to fight the system; it was to buy it a drink and become its best friend. And the universal language of friendship, as always, was cold, hard cash.
Shi Jian stepped forward, his smile wide and utterly disarming. "Brother Ma! Your reputation precedes you! A man of true grit and skill—how could we ever dream of strutting? We're just humble newcomers, utterly in awe."
As he spoke, his hand found Ma's in a practiced motion, depositing a solid silver ingot that felt like five taels of pure, weighty persuasion.
Centurion Ma's bluster evaporated mid-snarl. He stared at his palm, then at Shi Jian, his fierce scowl melting into bewildered confusion. "I… uh… that is… brothers, my words just now… pay no mind to this old fool's rambling!" he stammered, the ingot working faster than any diplomacy. "From today, you need anything, you come to Old Ma!"
On cue, Bai Mao glided over to another glaring officer and performed the same silver-plated handshake. "Brother," he said amiably, "to celebrate our arrival, how about a feast tonight? Our treat. Meat for everyone."
A soldier nearby piped up, "But camp rules—no alcohol!"
Bai Mao waved a dismissive hand. "Details! We'll drink tea. The important part is the mountain of meat."
Meat.
The word rippled through the crowd of underfed soldiers like a physical wave.Eyes that had been dull with hunger suddenly gained a sharp, focused glint.
Shi Jian bowed slightly to the growing crowd. "Brothers, from today, as long as we're here, no one goes to bed hungry! Tonight, we raid the best restaurant in Han City!"
"But the restaurants are all closed! No grain!" someone shouted.
"Then we bring our own grain and pay the chef!" Bai Mao declared, as if it were the simplest solution in the world. "Problem solved!"
A roar of approval went up. The two new "nepotism hires" were suddenly looking less like dead weight and more like personal patron saints.
As the soldiers cheered, Shi Jian and Bai Mao shared another glance, a smirk playing on their lips. Phase one: complete. With Dao Xuan Tianzun's infinite resources funding their goodwill tour, winning over an underpaid, underfed army was turning out to be the easiest infiltration job ever. All it took was being the guys who brought the buffet.
Trivia :
Could you really join the army through nepotism in the late Ming?
Answer: Absolutely, and it was often the only way a sane person would want in.By the late Ming, the hereditary military household (junhu) system was in total collapse. Being a registered soldier was a miserable, debt-ridden hereditary curse—more like a state-owned serf than a profession. However, in semi-private, semi-mercenary armies led by generals like the fictional Wang Cheng'en (modeled on real figures like Wu Sangui or Zuo Liangyu), things worked differently.
So, what was the benefit of being a soldier in the late Ming?
For the common rank-and-file,the benefits were... not dying immediately, and the slim chance of plunder. Pay was erratic, often withheld for years, and rations were scarce. Soldiers frequently had to farm or take side jobs to survive, making them part-time farmers, part-time bandits, and occasionally part-time soldiers. Their loyalty was not to the Emperor or the state, but to their immediate commander who fed them (or failed to). This is why Shi Jian and Bai Mao's strategy of "meat and silver" is so devastatingly effective—they are addressing the core, chronic vulnerabilities of the late Ming military.