The Manchu cavalryman's words steadied Huang Yunfa's heart like a cup of strong wine.
That's right.
He had elite cavalry from beyond the passes—real cavalry. Men born on horseback, raised with reins in their hands and bows in their arms. Compared to the soft riders of the Central Plains, these were predators. Their horsemanship wasn't better by a margin—it existed on an entirely different plane.
Even if the enemy had numbers, what of it?
To encircle them, they had spread themselves thin. A loose net always had weak points. All Huang Yunfa needed to do was concentrate his elite riders, punch through one section like a blade through silk, and escape.
Once momentum was built—
The Central Plains cavalry would never catch them.
The warhorse beneath him snorted, powerful muscles coiled beneath its hide. A fine steed from beyond the passes. Huang Yunfa was certain that once it ran, no local horse could match it.
"Enough hesitation," he barked.
"Prepare to break through!"
The Manchu riders grinned, blood rising. Hands tightened on reins. Spurs dug in.
Then—
All three hundred riders surrounding them dismounted.
Cleanly. Calmly. As if rehearsed a thousand times.
For a heartbeat, the Manchu cavalry froze.
"…What?"
Then, in perfect unison, the three hundred men reached behind their backs and drew out flintlock rifles.
The sound was unmistakable.
Click.
Steel against steel.
Locks primed.
Huang Yunfa's mind went blank.
The Manchu riders, however, felt something far worse than confusion.
They felt fear.
"Wait—" someone shouted hoarsely.
"These aren't cavalry… they're riflemen who rode horses!"
In the blink of an eye, cavalry became infantry.
Three hundred riflemen spread into a pocket formation, spacing precise, muzzles steady, barrels angled inward—every sight calmly trained on Huang Yunfa and the cluster of men around him.
The Manchu veterans felt a chill crawl up their spines.
They had fought Central Plains cavalry before. That didn't frighten them.
But Central Plains riflemen?
Surrounding them?
This was a different story.
At that distance, there was no clever maneuver, no riding skill, no ancestral blessing that mattered.
Only lead.
Surrender?
A joke.
That left only one option.
"CHARGE—!"
The Manchu cavalry howled, voices wild, driving their horses forward in a desperate, suicidal rush.
And thus, history repeated itself.
"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!"
The flintlocks roared.
The Gao Family Village militia—whether wielding smoothbores or rifled guns—all used flintlock mechanisms. No slow-burning matchcords. No fuss. Pull the trigger, and death answered.
Lead tore through the air.
Horses screamed.
Men flew from saddles.
There was no suspense, no heroic struggle—only physics doing its job.
In an instant, riders and mounts were riddled like sieves, collapsing into twisted heaps of flesh and steel.
Bodies hit the ground one after another.
From afar, Zao Ying exhaled slowly.
"What a waste," she muttered. "Such good horses. My cavalry battalion should've gone in—we could've captured them."
Lao Nanfeng shrugged.
"Did you see that charge? Those riders were the real deal. If we'd fought them horse to horse, they might've broken out. Losing brothers over pride isn't worth a few dozen fine steeds."
He glanced at the smoking barrels.
"Rifles are cheaper than funerals."
Zao Ying nodded.
"True. Horses can be bought. Lives can't."
Behind the scenes of the slaughter, an unspoken truth lingered—one written into blood across centuries of warfare:
Steppe cavalry ruled open fields and broken formations.
But once infantry stood firm, chose ground, and held fire—
Horses stopped being weapons.
They became liabilities.
A charging horse would not willingly impale itself. And once one fell, its rider followed. A cavalryman on foot was no terror—just a man carrying too much pride and not enough cover.
This was why steppe warriors despised riflemen more than rival cavalry.
Cavalry could be out-ridden.
But riflemen only needed you close enough to regret it.
With the Manchu cavalry wiped out, Huang Yunfa's remaining household guards might as well have been scarecrows.
They knew it.
Everyone did.
Then Huang Yunfa suddenly burst into laughter.
"Hahahaha! Don't celebrate yet!" he shouted.
"Do you really think you've won? No! I'm not Huang Yunfa—I'm only his body double! You can't kill him!"
Silence.
Everyone stared.
"…Damn," Tie Niaofei muttered from behind a distant slope. "That slippery bastard."
Even Dao Xuan Tianzun paused, eyebrows lifting.
"Like Let the Bullets Fly?"
Miles away, hidden in dense woodland, the real Huang Yunfa lowered a Western telescope with a sneer.
"As expected," he said coolly. "Good thing I prepared a backup."
He sighed.
"Shame about the body doubles. I'll need to be even more careful now."
Turning to his ten personal guards, he said,
"Withdraw. We'll regroup, bring in our Jin merchant allies, and capture Tie Niaofei. I want answers."
As he turned—
"Amitabha."
A calm chant echoed nearby.
"Donor Huang, if one commits evil, others will always wish for his death. You escaped today—but what of tomorrow? And the day after?"
Huang Yunfa's eyes narrowed.
"Master Zhan Seng. You followed me?"
"I follow those who have lost their way."
"I don't kill monks," Huang Yunfa said coldly. "Get lost."
"Amitabha. Turn back."
One guard snapped.
"Didn't you hear him? Get lost!"
Steel flashed.
The monk's staff moved.
Thud.
The guard dropped.
Huang Yunfa's heart skipped.
This monk…?
Suspicion bloomed.
"Kill him."
Ten guards rushed forward.
Ten against one.
Zhan Seng wielded only a staff, refusing to kill, stubbornly clinging to his so-called Divine Martial Art of Non-Killing. He retreated, deflected, stumbled—overwhelmed.
"Donor!" he cried. "Turn back—!"
"Kill him," Huang Yunfa snapped. "He's annoying."
A blade slashed.
Blood spilled.
The monk looked down.
His eyes turned red.
"…Who," he growled softly, "drew my blood?"
The air changed.
"Haven't you heard of He Ping," he snarled, "the Man-Eating Salt Owl?"
Huang Yunfa: "???"
The guards: "???"
The gentle monk vanished.
The staff struck like thunder.
Skulls cracked.
Bodies fell.
One blow, one death.
Moments later, only Huang Yunfa remained.
He shook violently.
"I—I've reformed! Immediately! I'll never sell to the Manchus again!"
"Heh."
He Ping grinned.
"Reform? What does that have to do with me?"
The staff came down.
Crack.
Red and white splattered across the earth.