The steamed buns had done wonders for Chen Ergou's spirit. Belly full, he followed Qi Cheng to the prison gates, joining the growing crowd of labor reform prisoners assembling there.
That's when he noticed something interesting.
The prison held seven thousand people, but of those, barely two thousand were able-bodied men. The rest—five thousand—were the elderly, women, and children.
The newly arrived defectors, though only three thousand strong, boasted half as able-bodied men—around fifteen hundred.
To any ordinary official, these numbers meant little.
But to an old vagrant and bandit like Chen Ergou, numbers always told a story.
The math meant the older inmates had been beaten into submission—captured after losing a fight, their strongest men dead or crippled. But his own group? They'd surrendered under the flag of "amnesty." Their chiefs were dead, but most of the muscle had survived.
Add the two together, and that gave the prison almost four thousand working men—enough to form a small army.
And that kind of power… always attracted an alpha.
At the front of the crowd, a burly man stood on a wooden platform, barefoot but proud, his ragged prisoner's tunic doing little to hide the authority that clung to him like armor.
He spoke in a booming, soldier's voice:
"No need to talk about the old-timers—you all know me already. But you newcomers, you don't know who I am, do you?"
"My surname's Chen. I used to be a centurion in the Guyuan border army. When General Lao Nanfeng was released, he handed this place over to me!"
He swept his gaze over the crowd—hard, unblinking. "You new brats better remember this. In my eyes, every one of you is a chance for merit. If you cause trouble, bully others, or stir up rebellion… well, there's only one cure for that."
He raised a calloused fist and grinned. "A good old-fashioned beating."
The prisoners chuckled nervously.
Centurion Chen's grin widened. "You see, every time I beat some fool back into line, I earn merit. Merit means an earlier release. So, you can bet I love beating troublemakers half to death."
Standing in the back, Chen Ergou elbowed Qi Cheng and muttered, "He's trying to be the boss of the prison."
Qi Cheng didn't even blink. "Trying? He is the boss."
Chen Ergou smirked. "Isn't he afraid someone tougher'll show up and knock him down?"
Qi Cheng shrugged. "There was someone tougher once. That man's already been released. Now, Centurion Chen runs the place. My advice? Don't test him."
Chen Ergou chuckled under his breath. "I don't plan to. But our Liulian Army's not exactly short on bruisers. I'd bet someone's about to take the bait."
Right on cue, a mountain of a man stepped out from the new arrivals—thick arms, thick neck, thick skull.
"So, you're Centurion Chen, huh? Trying to scare us new guys? What a coincidence—I used to be a centurion too."
He stomped up to the platform. "Name's Wu. Centurion Wu."
Chen raised an eyebrow. "Where'd you serve, Brother Wu?"
"Ningxia," Wu replied proudly. "And I'm not afraid of you Guyuan dogs."
That was all it took.
Words ended. Fists began.
The two rolled up their sleeves, eyes flashing with that old border-soldier madness—men who'd seen too many winters, lost too many friends, and still believed a bloody nose could fix anything.
Up on the prison wall, a young guard flinched. "Should we stop them?"
An older guard held up a hand, smirking. "Let them fight. You need a boss in a place like this. Otherwise, you get factions, riots, chaos. Once there's one winner, everyone falls in line."
The younger guard hesitated—then nodded slowly.
Made sense.
Just then, a commotion broke out further down the wall. Instructor He—his face half-covered with a black cloth—came rushing up, holding something in both hands as if it were the imperial jade seal itself.
The guards blinked. "Instructor He, what in the world—?"
"Make way!" Cheng Xu barked. "Clear the best viewing spot. Dao Xuan Tianzun wants to watch the fight!"
"What?!" everyone exclaimed.
Under their stunned eyes, Cheng Xu carefully set down a small puppet-like figure carved of fragrant wood and gilded with lacquer—a miniature Dao Xuan Tianzun. Its painted eyes gleamed, its wooden jaw clacked like an automaton. The air itself seemed to hush.
Then, with a crackle-pop like a burning fuse, the puppet's mouth opened—and it spoke.
"The Dao Xuan Tianzun Prize Quiz Festival now begins!" the voice rang out, half divine, half mechanical. "Whichever side correctly guesses the winner shall share one Xi Zhi Lang fruit jelly."
The crowd went dead silent.
Then pandemonium.
A Xi Zhi Lang fruit jelly was no ordinary treat. It was the rarest of immortal confections, bestowed only by Dao Xuan Tianzun himself. The last time one appeared in Xi'an, a steward from the Prince of Qin's Mansion had paid a small fortune for it. The seller became rich overnight.
Naturally, everyone wanted a bite of destiny.
Cheng Xu shouted first, "I'm betting on Centurion Chen from Guyuan!"
Fang Wushang followed, "Chen as well!"
Zhong Gaoliang nodded coolly. "Centurion Chen."
The prison guards chimed in—"Chen!"
The militia echoed—"Chen!"
Zheng Daniu crossed his arms, squinting. "You're all fools. If everyone bets on Chen, even if he wins, you'll be sharing crumbs. Real winners play the odds. I bet on Centurion Wu from Ningxia! If I'm right, that entire Xi Zhi Lang jelly is mine!"
Dao Xuan Tianzun's puppet clattered with glee. "Excellent! Excellent! Now that's the spirit of gambling! Half of you bet one way—it's boring. But this? This is fun."
All bets were in.
Down below, fists started flying.
The two centurions slammed into each other like rams in mating season—mud flying, blood spattering, the air filled with the sound of grunts and knuckles. Both were hardened soldiers from the frontiers, both deadly. But Centurion Chen had been eating well and sleeping in Gao Family Village's "prison paradise" for years, while Centurion Wu had lived half-starved on campaign.
Within ten moves, Chen swept Wu's legs out from under him, sending the Ningxia brute crashing to the dirt. Then Chen leapt on top, pounding until Wu's face looked like a steamed bun filled with bruises.
Wu gasped for air, spat blood, and croaked, "I yield!"
Cheers erupted from the walls.
The guards roared. The militia whooped. Even the puppet of Dao Xuan Tianzun bobbed approvingly, its wooden jaw clicking like a divine applause machine.
Only Zheng Daniu groaned, clutching his head. "Nooooo! My delicious Xi Zhi Lang jelly! Gone! I'm ruined!"
"Dao Xuan Tianzun sees your despair," said the puppet serenely. "He finds it amusing."
With the prison hierarchy now neatly decided, Zhong Gaoliang wasted no time. "Good! Order's established. Move out!"
Under his direction, the guards and militia formed up the ranks, escorting four thousand labor reform prisoners out through the valley gate.
They didn't have to march far before the horizon split open—revealing a massive worksite sprawling beside Bai Family Fortress.
And then came the sound.
Choooom… chooom… chooom.
A deafening rumble rolled through the valley as a colossal electric locomotive appeared, hauling cars piled with timber and metal. The sun gleamed off its painted steel like the armor of a god.
The prisoners froze, wide-eyed.
None of them had ever seen such a thing.
Even old Chen Ergou, who'd seen more chaos than he could count, whispered under his breath:
"What in the nine hells… is that?"