With the Yongji Bullet Factory officially established, the Ancient Ferry Dock underwent an immediate and visible shift.
Porters vanished.
Cooks disappeared.
One by one, familiar faces who had once hauled sacks or stirred cauldrons stepped through guarded doors and became arsenal workers.
The result was instant.
The number of general laborers outside the core operations plummeted.
Construction slowed. Transport queues lengthened. Even the kitchens felt a little emptier.
Naturally, everyone's gaze turned outward.
If Yongji lacked hands—
Then hands would have to be pulled in from elsewhere.
Puzhou City
Thirty li from Yongji Ancient Ferry Dock.
This was the place that would one day become Yongji City, but for now, it was already thriving. Commerce was lively. Workshops bustled. Markets overflowed.
And salt smugglers?
They were everywhere.
In Puzhou, nine out of ten households had brushed against illicit salt at some point. The entire city lived on a razor's edge between legality and crime, yet no one felt particularly guilty about it.
After all—
When everyone was dirty, who dared call whom unclean?
Tie Niaofei, the infamous salt kingpin, strolled down the street with hands clasped behind his back, expression relaxed, as if this city belonged to him.
Every few steps, someone greeted him.
"Boss Tie! What brings you to Puzhou today?"
"Another big deal?"
"Planning something large, huh?"
Tie Niaofei turned his head lazily.
If the speaker was a fellow salt trafficker, he would casually pull out a salt permit—one he'd seized from Huang Yunfa—and flash it with a grin.
"Official permit. Ten thousand jin."
He'd lower his voice. "Why scrape by on scraps? Come work for me."
Eyes went red on the spot.
Some scoffed.
Some hesitated.
Some, deep down, started calculating.
But if the person greeting him was an ordinary Puzhou resident, Tie Niaofei's smile became… mysterious.
"I'm recruiting," he'd say. "Know anyone clever? Hardworking? Men or women, doesn't matter. Follow me—I'll show them the road to prosperity."
On the opposite side of the city—
A monk walked through the shantytowns.
Zhan Seng, staff in hand, robes patched, sandals worn thin.
This was where Puzhou's poorest lived.
The droughts of recent years had nearly crushed them. Hunger, sickness, despair—it had all piled up like debt.
But over the past year, things had quietly changed.
Grain flowed.
Not trickles—floods.
Gao Family Village had shipped enormous quantities from Yongji Ancient Ferry Dock straight into Puzhou. Prices fell steadily. Still higher than in normal years, yes—but no longer fatal.
Seeing the "enlightened monk" from Pujiu Temple, people bowed eagerly.
There was an eternal truth in the world:
The poorer people were, the more sincerely they worshipped gods.
When humans couldn't change fate with their own hands, they borrowed divine ones.
Burn one copper coin's worth of incense.
Wish for ten thousand taels of silver.
"Master, my family is destitute. Please guide me."
"Master, I went to Pujiu Temple twice but didn't see you. Where have you been?"
Zhan Seng pressed his palms together.
"Amitabha."
"This humble monk has come precisely to guide you."
He pointed west.
"Thirty li from here, at the Ancient Ferry Dock, they are recruiting porters and female cooks. Honest work. Full meals. If you seek a livelihood, go there."
One worked the shadows.
One worked the light.
Tie Niaofei and Zhan Seng—each in their own way—spread the word.
People began to move.
Small groups packed belongings and set out toward Yongji.
Everything was proceeding smoothly—
Until—
A sudden uproar exploded near the east city gate.
"Soldiers!"
"Soldiers are coming!"
Cries echoed through streets and alleys.
Puzhou was a small prefecture capital. There was no permanent garrison. Soldiers arriving was a rarity.
Excited townsfolk rushed toward the gate.
Tie Niaofei and Zhan Seng approached from opposite directions, swallowed by the same crowd. When they spotted each other, they didn't greet.
Just one glance.
Then strangers again.
At the gate stood Prefect Qiu Qianfan, robes neat, posture stiff.
Outside the walls, a massive banner approached.
One character fluttered in the wind:
Wang.
Three thousand soldiers marched beneath it, their presence heavy, oppressive, like a storm cloud pressing down on the land.
Soon, Wang Guozhong left his main force outside the city and entered with a hundred personal guards.
He rode forward, armor gleaming, smile wide.
"Prefect!"
We'll skip the ceremonial pleasantries. Heaven knows neither side enjoyed them.
Wang Guozhong got straight to it.
"This general once lost his way," he said cheerfully. "Fortunately, I turned back before the cliff's edge. Thanks to the court's grace, I am now appointed Deputy Commander of Puzhou."
He cupped his fists.
"From today onward, I will be permanently stationed here. Prefect Qiu, I look forward to your guidance."
Qiu Qianfan returned the salute.
His smile was thin.
Very thin.
He had already received reports.
Wang Guozhong's troops had plundered villages on the way in. Burned homes. Stripped fields bare.
Bandit behavior, through and through.
But now the man wore an official seal.
If he were just a bandit, Qiu Qianfan could raise militia and resist.
As an imperial officer?
All he could do was write memorials—and pray someone in the capital still cared.
"With the General here," Qiu Qianfan said coolly, "this official need no longer worry about bandits harming the common people. Truly… a cause for celebration."
Wang Guozhong laughed loudly.
"Bandits?" he asked eagerly. "Are there bandits here?"
Turncoats were always like this.
Eager to prove loyalty by killing others like themselves.
Inside, Qiu Qianfan cursed:
You are the bandit.
Outwardly, he said, "Several months ago, a minor bandit named Zhang Fei caused trouble. Since then—peace."
"No more?" Wang Guozhong scoffed.
"Every word is true."
Wang Guozhong's smile faded.
"I am stationed here permanently," he said coldly. "Do you think such lies can be hidden forever?"
Qiu Qianfan's face darkened.
Wang Guozhong sneered.
"Even when I served under Wang Jiayin, I knew of Xing Honglang of Yongji, the bandit who controlled the Ancient Ferry Dock. Yet you didn't mention her."
His voice sharpened.
"Tell me—are you conspiring with her? Or did you take her silver and become her protector?"
Qiu Qianfan's patience snapped.
"Xing Honglang controls the ferry," he said flatly. "But she has never massacred villages. She smuggles salt, yes—but she does not burn the land."
His eyes locked onto Wang Guozhong.
"You arrive, General, and villages are already turned to ash. And now you seek to make an example of her? Are you so eager to ruin Puzhou's peace?"
Wang Guozhong laughed coldly.
"So that's why salt smugglers run wild here."
He turned sharply.
"I will report this to the court. Let us see whether your official hat stays on your head."
"Hmph. Withdraw!"
He left.
Back to his camp.
Qiu Qianfan stood alone at the gate.
The crowd dispersed.
The dust settled.
He stared at the sky and sighed.
You fool.
Salt smuggling in Puzhou is a historical disease.
Eight or nine out of ten households are tainted.
So long as no blood is spilled, officials turn a blind eye.
And you—
You are a hundred times worse than any smuggler.
"Alas…"
His sigh drifted into the empty street.
Wang Guozhong had arrived.
And Puzhou's quiet days were over.