The tactic currently employed by the Gao Family Village militia was known as the two-stage firing method.
One hundred riflemen would step forward and fire, then immediately fall back to reload. At the same time, the second hundred would advance, fire, and withdraw—after which the first group would step up again.
Compared to the more famous three-stage volley, the two-stage method produced a slower firing cycle, with slightly longer gaps between volleys. However, it had one overwhelming advantage:
It was actually trainable.
Only after personally drilling the militia did Li Daoxuan realize how outrageously unrealistic the three-stage volley was outside of storybooks.
In novels, protagonists introduced the three-rank rotation with a few shouted commands and magically obedient soldiers. In reality, even one mistimed step caused a chain reaction. One man hesitated, the next bumped into him, a third panicked—and before long, the entire formation collapsed into chaos.
Worse still, Gao Family Village was expanding at breakneck speed. New recruits poured in constantly. Just as one unit became proficient, it absorbed fresh faces who needed retraining.
In such conditions, insisting on the three-stage method was nothing short of delusional.
Thus, the two-stage firing method became the militia's standard.
And today—
Today was its first true battlefield test.
The soldiers were nervous, but they held their ground.
Sheltered by the woods and arranged in a pouch-like formation, they avoided direct melee contact and reduced the risk of disorder during reloads.
The rhythm settled quickly.
One hundred fired.
Another hundred replaced them.
Reload.
Advance.
Fire again.
Each rotation took just over ten seconds.
It was enough.
Completely enough.
Outside the forest, the rebels were thrown into total confusion.
"Damn it! How many riflemen are in there?!"
"More than a hundred!"
"No—more than two hundred!"
"At least five hundred!"
"They're still firing—still firing!"
Panic spread like rot.
To the rebels, the woods had become a living thing—gunfire erupting from nowhere, muzzle flashes blooming like ghostly fireflies, smoke drifting and vanishing without pattern. Bullets slammed relentlessly into Sunjiagou Pass.
The rebels who had surged out of the ravine now screamed in terror, unable to tell where death would strike next.
They weren't the only ones stunned.
Commander Li Huai stood frozen, mouth hanging open wide enough to swallow an egg.
Muskets weren't rare. He'd seen plenty.
But a centurion commanding two hundred muskets—and using them to simulate the firepower of five hundred?
That defied all reason.
Ten thousand ferocious bandits were now jammed at the ravine mouth. Those in front hesitated. Those behind refused to advance.
And just like that—
Li Huai's routed soldiers rallied.
Moments earlier, they had been scattering like headless chickens. Now, instinctively, they gathered beneath the "Li" banner. In the blink of an eye, his eight hundred men seemed to rise from the dead.
Well—almost.
Seventy or eighty had already fallen.
Many had ditched their helmets and armor during the rout.
Some stood barefoot, clutching nothing at all.
Li Huai took one look and felt a surge of despair.
Even rallied, this was still a pile of trash.
"Where are your helmets? Your spears?" he roared. "Did you throw them all away? Damn it—you pile of dog shit!"
Before his rant could continue, a lazy voice cut in.
"General Li," Wang Er said dryly, "where is your helmet?"
Li Huai froze.
A sharp inhale.
Fine. He'd lost enough face already—what was a little more?
He cupped his fists toward Wang Er and Shi Jian. "Gentlemen, please. Help me defend Pingyang Prefecture. If the city falls, countless lives—"
Wang Er interrupted, voice dripping with sarcasm. "You mean countless lives… or your official hat?"
Li Huai went silent again.
Then he exploded. "You insolent bastard! A mere foot soldier daring to lecture this general! What is your position—official critic?"
Wang Er was about to snap back—
Then remembered who he was pretending to be.
Forget it. He snorted and turned away.
On his chest, the embroidered image of Dao Xuan Tianzun stretched into a wide, mischievous grin.
Li Huai blinked.
"…Did that embroidery just smile?"
He stared again.
Nothing.
"…Hallucination?"
Shi Jian stepped forward calmly. "General Li, your men may lack armor and weapons—but they still have mouths."
Li Huai frowned. "And what good are mouths?"
Shi Jian grinned. "Everyone—shout with me."
He bellowed toward the ravine mouth:
"Hahahaha! You foolish rebels! You've fallen straight into this general's trap! With the ambush sprung, not one of you will escape alive!"
Understanding dawned instantly.
Li Huai joined in.
Then his soldiers.
Hundreds of voices roared together, blending with the gunfire, echoing through the ravine like thunder.
Outside, the rebels' hearts sank.
Zhang Xianzhong, the Eight Great Kings of the Southern Camp, roared in fury:
"Damn it! Li Huai deliberately lost! He lured us in!"
"We've fallen for it—retreat! Retreat now!"
The rebels needed no further encouragement.
Already shaken by relentless gunfire, they turned and fled in a screaming mass, pouring back out of Sunjiagou's southern exit and vanishing into the distance.
Silence fell.
Li Huai collapsed where he stood.
He couldn't run anymore.
Neither could his men.
Wang Er looked at the stripped, panting government soldiers with open disdain. He wanted to speak—but restrained himself.
Then a soft chuckle sounded from his chest.
Dao Xuan Tianzun's voice whispered, amused:
"The army is the backbone of a nation. Look at them—what a sorry backbone the Great Ming has now, hm?"
Wang Er muttered, "Heavenly—no, Dao Xuan Tianzun is right. These soldiers are rotten to the core."
Li Daoxuan replied calmly, "Then look at the rebels. How are they?"
Wang Er thought seriously for a moment… then sighed.
"Even worse."
Li Daoxuan concluded, "That is why neither side can protect this realm."
Wang Er's eyes lit up.
"…I understand now."
"This realm—"
"It must depend on us."