The army that burst from the woods wasn't some rebel band at all — it was the Gao Family Village Militia, marching under Cheng Xu.
They'd come on the Tianzun orders to rendezvous with the government troops and take custody of the three thousand surrendered rebels.
Naturally, since this was an "official meeting," the militia had been told to look the part — no rifles, no uniforms, just cotton clothes and cold steel, posing as a simple county defense force.
It should have been a polite handover.
Should have.
From across the clearing, He Renlong spotted the group emerging from the treeline. No flags. No formation. Cotton shirts and blades.
To him, that screamed ambush.
Without a second thought, he roared, spurred his warhorse, and charged.
Cheng Xu, still stepping forward to greet him, blinked in disbelief.
Wait—what? Is this man insane?
He barely had time to curse before the general's spear flashed toward him.
The strike came like thunder — one thrust splitting into a dozen feints, each glittering like a ghostly spearhead. The air itself seemed to scream.
Cold sweat broke across Cheng Xu's back. He whipped out his saber and met the attack head-on.
"CLANG!"
The impact numbed his arm from shoulder to wrist. The force hurled him backward, rolling through the dust like a kicked log.
Sweet merciful ancestors, this guy hits like an ox wearing armor.
He Renlong pulled his horse up sharply, eyes gleaming. "Oh? Not bad. Didn't expect a bandit to have actual skill."
"Bandit?!" Cheng Xu sputtered, spitting out grit. I'm literally here on orders!
He had no time to explain. The spear was already coming again.
But this time—
"BANG!"
A great axe slammed down from the side, locking against the spear with a metallic screech that echoed through the mountains. Sparks flew.
The force jolted through He Renlong's arms. He reeled his horse back, blinking at the mountain of a man standing before him — Zheng Daniu, muscles like a fortress, face calm as a storm.
He Renlong's voice was sharp. "Name yourself! What rebel rabble are you?"
Zheng Daniu bellowed, "Rebel, my foot! I'm a law-abiding citizen!"
The general's lips curled. "You? You look like the dictionary definition of 'bandit.'"
"Yeah?" Zheng Daniu retorted, pointing at himself. "From head to toe — all honest!"
He Renlong squinted. "From head to toe, I see nothing but fool."
A moment of silence.
Even the wind hesitated.
Then, mercifully, a voice shouted from the distance:
"A misunderstanding! Stop fighting! STOP FIGHTING!"
Fang Wushang came crashing through the underbrush like an arrow loosed from Heaven, his armor gleaming. "Chengcheng County Patrol Inspector Fang Wushang! These men are our county militia! We're here to receive the surrendered rebels!"
He Renlong lowered his spear slightly but still scowled. "You call this discipline? Your militia's out here playing bandit dress-up. No wonder I attacked first."
Fang Wushang wasn't one for subtlety. "You attacked before asking a single question! Maybe you're the one lacking discipline!"
"Discipline?" He Renlong snapped. "In times like these, hesitation gets you killed!"
Fang Wushang jabbed a finger back. "So does charging first and thinking later!"
The two of them were in each other's faces within seconds, voices rising like dueling drums.
Meanwhile, Cheng Xu and Zheng Daniu just stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching the argument unfold.
"Typical Fang," Cheng Xu murmured with a grin. "Fearless and loud."
"Yep," Zheng Daniu said. "He'd argue with a thunderstorm if it barked wrong."
Eventually, the shouting died down — not because either man conceded, but because they'd run out of breath.
He Renlong exhaled sharply. "Fine. Enough talk. I'm handing over the three thousand surrendered rebels. They're your problem now. Keep them in line. If they riot, don't blame Yansui troops."
Cheng Xu smiled disarmingly. "No problem, General. Once they're in our care, they won't even think about rebelling."
He Renlong's brows furrowed. He couldn't tell if that confidence was arrogance or insanity. "We'll see about that," he muttered. "I'll escort you. I want to see what miracle you're hiding in these hills."
They wound through the tangled paths of the Huanglong Mountains until they reached a wide valley mouth flanked by twin grey fortresses. Archers lined the battlements, bows drawn and waiting.
At a barked order, the three thousand surrendered rebels were herded inside like cattle.
The valley opened into a massive settlement—houses, fields, workshops. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys. People moved with quiet purpose.
The newcomers stared, bewildered.
"What… is this place?" one muttered.
Even He Renlong looked uneasy. "You mean to tell me you built a fortress in the middle of the mountains? What is this, a hidden army camp?"
Fang Wushang grinned. "Not a camp, General. A prison. Chengcheng County Prison Valley. Our own special little reform paradise."
He Renlong blinked. "You've imprisoned… how many?"
"Seven thousand," Fang said casually. "Mostly former rebels. Add your three thousand, and we'll cross ten thousand before lunch."
"Ten—ten thousand?" He Renlong's voice cracked. "Are you insane? Gather that many rebels in one place, and if they revolt, you'll have a private apocalypse!"
Fang Wushang just shrugged. "Revolt? Not likely. Once they've been through our 'reeducation program,' rebellion's the last thing on their minds."
Right on cue, a voice rang out from the crowd of new arrivals.
"Qi Cheng! What the hell are you doing here? Weren't you with Wang Zuogua's lot?"
The prisoner he called to turned, startled. "Chen Ergou? You too? I thought you were with Liu Liu!"
Chen Ergou grimaced. "Liu Liu's dead. We all got captured."
Qi Cheng sighed. "Same story here. Wang Zuogua's gone. Been in labor reform ever since."
He patted his rough-spun shirt and gave a weary grin. "But you know what? It's not so bad. You'll see soon enough."
He Renlong stood there, speechless, trying to decide if Chengcheng County was a miracle—or a madhouse.
Somewhere behind him, Fang Wushang was already shouting orders to organize the new arrivals.
The banners of the county militia fluttered in the wind above the twin fortresses, catching the pale mountain light.
To the imperial soldiers, it looked less like a prison—and more like an entirely new kind of kingdom.
Trivia :
Martial DNA of China
We've seen He Renlong's spear blur into a dozen shimmering points and Zheng Daniu's axe crack the air like thunder.
That kind of battlefield choreography didn't spring from nowhere.
So — were ancient Chinese people really that good at fighting?
Short answer: Yes… and no.
Long answer: They lived in a civilization that trained for violence with bureaucratic efficiency.
1. Mandatory Weapon Literacy
From the Zhou dynasty onward, even scholars were expected to know how to draw a bow.
By the Ming, the civil and military examination system produced military jinshi — literal PhDs in sword-swinging. Candidates had to demonstrate archery, horse-riding, and tactical theory. Fail the essay, fine; drop your spear mid-kata, career over.
2. The Standing-Army Century
Ming China fielded one of the largest professional armies on earth — about one million men at its peak.
Training manuals like Ji Xiao Xin Shu (戚继光's "New Book of Effective Discipline") drilled soldiers in formations, unarmed combat, and coordination that would make a modern drill sergeant nod in approval.
So yes, some really could disarm you before breakfast.
3. Civilian Kung Fu Was Survival Tech
Peasants and townsfolk lived through bandit raids, pirate incursions, and—during bad dynastic decades—local warlords.
Martial arts weren't "sports"; they were insurance policies.
Each region developed its own style depending on terrain: coastal staff schools, mountain sword work, canal-town wrestling.
The romance of kung fu came centuries later; the practicality was always there.
4. Weapons, Not Superpowers
Despite the legends, nobody truly leapt rooftops or shot energy waves.
But with iron-forged sabers, lamellar armor, and regimented drilling, a trained Ming soldier could out-maneuver most contemporaries.
And when the psychological side of battle counts as half the fight, that discipline looked like magic.
5. Why They Seem Superhuman to Us
Our ancestors weren't born stronger; they just had fewer safety nets.
Farm by day, fight off raiders by night — do that for twenty years and you, too, develop "mystical" reflexes.
In a world without gyms, daily survival was CrossFit.
So when Dao Xuan Tianzun's puppets or He Renlong's spear dances flash across the page, they're not exaggerations — they're poetic echoes of a society that treated combat as craft, virtue, and livelihood rolled into one.
In short: ancient China didn't invent magic fists.
It invented method — and that's what made its warriors legendary.