The limestone miners finally arrived—and with them came an idea no one in the fortress had dared to voice before.
Zhao Sheng slapped the table. "Listen up. If we let outside workers haul in stone, timber, and supplies, our own people won't need to risk their necks anymore. We stay behind the walls, keep things safe, and little by little… pull those outsiders into our camp."
Zao Ying grinned. "Smart. For the ones we don't know yet—the sketchy types—this setup's perfect. Feed them, work beside them, watch them over time. The solid ones stay. The rotten ones? We'll smell them eventually."
Everyone nodded. Even old Nanfeng, who usually found fault with breathing, hummed approval.
Soon, the fortress gate creaked open. Under banners of iron discipline, soldiers escorted carts of grain toward the limestone haulers from Linyi County.
The poor fellows had dragged those carts over a hundred li of broken road. When the smell of real food hit their noses, their eyes went red. Before anyone could stop them, they set up pots right outside the gate, boiling noodle dumplings on the spot.
From atop the wall, the people inside watched the ragged crowd huddled around steaming pots and felt an uncomfortable stab of guilt.
The refugees from Pujiu Temple whispered among themselves.
"We got lucky. Leader Xing pulled us out and brought us to Gudu Ferry. Inside these walls, we eat, we sleep, we don't fear bandits. If we'd stayed behind… we'd be out there now."
A chill rippled through the group.
Just then, the clatter of hooves shattered the quiet.
A lean rider tore down the northern road, dust spiraling behind him. He reined in hard before the gate, eyes widening at the sight of peasants cooking noodles. His horse, however, had no patience for sightseeing—it shoved through the crowd, scattering bowls and curses, and stopped square beneath the fortress wall.
The man cupped his hands and shouted, "Is this the water fortress of Xing Honglang, Leader Xing of Yongji?"
Xing Honglang stepped forward atop the wall, her voice steady as steel.
"I am Xing Honglang. Who's asking?"
The rider straightened proudly. "Envoy of the Heaven-Spanning Single-Stroke King, Wang Jiayin!"
The name dropped like a stone into still water.
Inside the fortress, faces darkened. Outside, the noodle-boilers clenched their fists.
"Wang Jiayin?" someone hissed. "That dog ruined half the county—and now his lackey shows his face here?"
Zhao Sheng muttered, "Calls himself a king, yet his name sounds like something scribbled on a tavern wall. Heaven-Spanning Single-Stroke King… what nonsense. What's next, an imperial seal carved from stolen pork?"
Snickers rippled through the ranks. Even the monk Zhan Seng joined in.
"A-mi-tou-fo. That title offends both Heaven and literacy."
Someone whispered, "Bold words from a monk who still can't pronounce Amitabha right."
Xing Honglang raised a hand, cutting through the laughter like a drawn blade.
"Enough. He came bearing an envoy's banner. Words come before steel. That's jianghu rule."
The soldiers straightened at once, faces cooling into discipline.
"Open the gate," she ordered. "Invite him in."
The heavy doors groaned apart.
The envoy led his horse through slowly, scanning everything. He'd expected a smuggler den—filth, chaos, fear. Instead, his stomach sank.
Order.
Soldiers stood in neat ranks. Walls scrubbed clean. Weapons gleaming. Flintlocks hung polished on racks, held by men who smiled with the calm confidence of professionals.
These weren't ragtag rebels.
This was an army.
The envoy swallowed hard.
He followed his escort into the main hall. A wooden plaque read: Council Hall. The air smelled of sandalwood and steel.
Then he froze.
At the head of the hall sat a clay statue of a youthful deity—eyes sharp, robes flowing like mountain clouds. One hand held a sword, the other a whisk, both carved with unsettling grace.
The envoy squinted. "And… who might this be?"
Xing Honglang's lips curved slightly.
"Dao Xuan Tianzun. The deity who watches over us."
Dao Xuan Tianzun?
The envoy had never heard the name. Another cult idol, he thought—no different from White Lotus fantasies.
Still, he bowed, more from caution than belief, mumbling something reverent while thinking: What a ridiculous-looking god.
Meanwhile—far beyond mortal sight—
Li Daoxuan lounged inside his "box," peering through its ethereal screen at Han City. On display, Shi Jian and Bai Mao were charming a group of government soldiers with endless food and wine.
He chuckled. "I only taught them how to pour without spilling. Now they've turned half the army into drinking buddies."
The box flickered.
"Huh?"
Text shimmered across the surface:
Someone beyond your view is insulting you.
A nearby statue may serve as a vessel.
Do you wish to co-sense?
Yes / No
Li Daoxuan blinked. "Wait—someone's talking trash about me?"
His curiosity ignited instantly.
"Co-sense through a statue?" He laughed. "I've heard of gods descending through incense—but this thing wants me to show up just because someone ran their mouth?"
He rubbed his hands together. "Interesting."
He tapped Yes.
Light surged. Time stretched. Color, sound, heartbeat twisted together—then snapped.
When his vision cleared, he was no longer in the box.
He sat inside a wooden hall, surrounded by familiar faces—Gao Chuwu, Xing Honglang, Zao Ying, Lao Nanfeng, Zhao Sheng, a burly monk, and a battle-scarred stranger.
Li Daoxuan blinked slowly.
"Huh," he muttered. "Shanxi? Didn't expect the signal to be this strong."
Behind him, the clay statue of Dao Xuan Tianzun seemed to smile.
Trivia Corner
The Truth Behind the "Heaven-Spanning Single-Stroke King"
In the late Ming chaos, rebel leaders loved absurdly grand titles—King of Heavenly Virtue, Great Bright Dragon Marshal, and worse. Wang Jiayin is inspired by those self-crowned "kings."
As for "Single Stroke"?
Some say his calligraphy was so terrible he could only finish one stroke before giving up. Others claim it described his saber style—one slash, fast and brutal.
"Heaven-Spanning" was likely added later by flatterers.
In short: pure bandit marketing. No mandate. No lineage. Just confidence and a loud mouth.
In jianghu, that's often enough to start a legend…
or end one.