Wang Xiaohua's beheading of the Black Evil God caused a minor earthquake within the army.
Commendations were issued. Promotions stamped. Seals thumped down on documents with satisfying finality.
Naturally, all of this would remain strictly internal.
When the victory was reported to the Emperor, the story would be reborn — scrubbed, perfumed, and rearranged like furniture before an inspection.
The memorial would read:
"Under the peerless command of Grand General Du Wenhuan of Shaanxi, General Wang Cheng'en personally led the vanguard, charging bravely ahead and taking the rebel Black Evil God's head with his own hand."
Du Wenhuan received glory.
Wang Cheng'en received glory.
The man who actually did the killing received… silence.
Bai Mao was unmoved.
He was an old rebel, the kind that sprouted naturally from famine and injustice, not the court's inkpots. A trusted lieutenant of Wang Er of Baishui, a walking fossil of peasant uprisings past. Compared to him, even Gao Family Village's elders looked a little soft around the edges.
Official promotion held all the allure of a damp blanket.
Which, incidentally, made him perfect.
As the generals clustered together and began their solemn humming and hawing, Bai Mao quietly sidled into a corner and muttered, "Dao Xuan Tianzun, I've secured a commander's post. Four hundred forty men on the books. Next step is swapping the garrison for our own, right?"
Li Daoxuan hesitated.
Late-Ming garrison soldiers lived worse than stray dogs. Replace them, and by nightfall they'd be unemployed. By the following week, they'd be bandits.
Gao Family Village rehabilitated bandits. It did not manufacture them.
"No," the Dao Xuan Tianzun said. "They stay."
"…All of them?"
"Our people will come," Li Daoxuan replied. "And the garrison remains."
Bai Mao stared. "That's… bold. Won't the court notice a unit bloated like a festival pig? One suspicious glance and our infiltration unravels."
The Dao Xuan Tianzun smiled — the kind of smile reserved for people about to learn how the world actually works.
"Watch."
Bai Mao did.
When the garrison troops arrived, he personally counted them as they marched in.
One.
Two.
Three—
He stopped.
Counted again.
Then once more, slower this time.
Two hundred forty.
Four centurions stood at the front, each with about fifty men behind them, give or take a malnourished cough.
Bai Mao's eyelid twitched. "This is incorrect."
Centurion Zhao stepped forward, expression indulgent, like a man watching a child attempt to argue with gravity.
"General Wang," he said, "our numbers are flawless."
"Flawless?" Bai Mao said. "Then either I've gone blind, or two hundred men are hiding very well."
Centurion Zhao leaned closer. "General… our unit has had two hundred forty men for over a century. Every commander before you accepted it without complaint. The pay for the other two hundred?" He smiled warmly. "Yours. If we brought the full four hundred forty, you'd be lucky to afford rice gruel."
Bai Mao made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sneeze. "Pfft."
Centurion Zhao was baffled.
This man is strange, he thought. Any other commander would be grinning like he just inherited a brothel.
Then Bai Mao understood.
Ah.
This was what the Dao Xuan Tianzun meant.
Keep the two hundred forty. Add two hundred of their own.
Neat. Elegant. Criminally efficient.
"No wonder you fight like soggy tofu," Bai Mao said cheerfully. "Ten thousand men on paper, six thousand in reality."
"Six?" Zhao muttered. "That's optimistic. Five thousand still earns praise."
"Aren't the grand generals afraid of losing battles?" Bai Mao asked.
The Dao Xuan Tianzun's voice drifted by his ear. "Why would they be? They divert the missing pay to maintain private guards. Desperate men, loyal only to silver. Those guards charge first. The garrison follows — heroically — from the rear."
Bai Mao nodded. "Then when our people arrive, we'll list them as my personal guards."
Perfect.
After reorganizing his impressive force of two hundred forty men, Bai Mao returned to the hall.
A scout reported loudly, "Wang Jiayin has fled south. Only Zijing Liang and Bai Yuzhu remain — fifty to sixty thousand at most."
"The others?" Du Wenhuan asked.
"Chuang Wang, the West Camp Eight Kings, Lao Huihui, Cao Cao — all scattered."
Du Wenhuan nodded. "We pursue Wang Jiayin. The Emperor wants his head. The rest can be pacified later."
Everyone saluted.
Then Du Wenhuan added, "Over thirty thousand elderly, women, and children were left behind in Hequ County. What shall we do with them?"
The hall went quiet.
Every general thought the same word.
Kill.
Not one dared say it.
Say it first, and the civil officials would flay you alive with memorials for the next decade.
The Dao Xuan Tianzun gently tapped Bai Mao's cheek. "Wu Shen."
Bai Mao stepped forward immediately. "This subordinate has a suggestion."
The generals lit up.
A volunteer!
Du Wenhuan smiled — painfully. "Commander Wang. Speak."
Inwardly, everyone urged him:
Say it. Say kill them. Be brave.
Bai Mao said calmly, "Censor Wu Shen brought one hundred thousand taels for pacification. These thirty thousand families should be handed to him — to pacify."
Silence.
Then relief.
No blood.
No blame.
Someone else's problem.
Perfect.