Tie Niaofei and Zhan Seng stood in the crowd near the city gate, watching Wang Guozhong's entrance like two men watching a stage play they'd already read the script for.
The banners.
The armor.
The carefully curated menace.
Tie Niaofei let out a silent snort.
Here it comes, he thought. What's bound to come always comes.
Zhan Seng's expression was calm, palms tucked into his sleeves, eyes half-lidded. If you didn't know him, you'd think he was contemplating the impermanence of all things.
In reality, he was thinking the same thing.
Good thing we moved early.
The envoys sent to seek pacification from Yang He should have reached him days ago by now.
And once Yang He got the letter—
Well.
Yang He was already on the road.
As the Supreme Commander of the three border regions of Shaanxi, Yang He wasn't the type to rush anywhere. Even when marching to put out fires, he did it slowly, deliberately, like a man savoring every step toward someone else's headache.
He'd take his time coming to Yongji.
And during that time?
Wang Guozhong's account book would be thoroughly reviewed.
Line by line.
Village by village.
Fire by fire.
Tie Niaofei smiled faintly.
"Let's go," he muttered.
Zhan Seng nodded.
The two slipped away from Puzhou City without lingering a second longer.
Yongji Ancient Ferry Dock
If Puzhou City was tense, the dock was the opposite.
It was alive.
The clatter of tools echoed across the hills. Shouts overlapped. Sweat-darkened backs bent and straightened in rhythm. Everywhere you looked, people were building.
On a barren slope far outside the stronghold, an entire complex was taking shape.
The bullet factory.
Solid. Squat. Made of cement.
Far enough from the residential area that if something went wrong, it would only blow up rocks and dirt instead of families.
Technically speaking, this entire operation was illegal.
Unauthorized land reclamation.
Unauthorized construction.
No local permits.
Any one of those could earn fifty strokes of the cane.
All three together?
Enough to put someone in prison.
And yet—
The Puzhou Prefect didn't say a word.
So Xing Honglang built as if she had imperial backing.
While the outer structures went up, the inside was already busy.
In a commandeered room nearby, specialists brought by Xu Dafu from Gao Family Village were teaching newly recruited workers the sacred rites of controlled destruction.
Separate.
Grind.
Measure.
Re-proportion.
Hands learned to respect gunpowder the way peasants respected tigers—never casually, never twice the same way.
Rolling cartridges.
Packing charges.
Storing them properly.
Every step drilled into muscle memory.
Under normal circumstances, Xu Dafu would never allow these people near real materials for at least ten days. Half a month if he had his way.
Safety rules memorized until they could be shouted in their sleep.
But circumstances were… flexible.
Tie Niaofei and Zhan Seng returned to the stronghold and went straight to the meeting hall.
"Wang Guozhong has arrived in Puzhou," Tie Niaofei said.
That was it.
No embellishment.
No drama.
The room absorbed the words in silence.
No one looked surprised.
Someone poured tea.
Someone else adjusted their seat.
Xing Honglang nodded once.
"If he's here," she said calmly, "then he's here."
That evening—
A horse came at full gallop.
Dust flew. Hooves thundered.
A rider stopped before the stronghold gates, chest puffed out like a rooster that had just discovered it could crow.
This man was Wang Guozhong's envoy.
Three days ago, he'd been nothing more than a smooth-tongued, barely literate minor bandit chief.
Today?
An envoy of the imperial court.
Small men who suddenly gain power tend to swell like frogs.
This one nearly burst.
He swept his gaze across the stronghold with thinly veiled disdain.
Wooden palisades.
Sparse watchtowers.
Common folk walking around openly.
No disciplined formations.
No rows of armored soldiers.
Just a few thousand people living their lives.
He sneered inwardly.
That's it?
Half of them are old people, women, and children. The fighters can't number more than two thousand.
In Wang Jiayin's army, this Xing Honglang wouldn't even qualify as a major chieftain.
Still—
He wasn't completely stupid.
Old Zhang Fei had died here.
That alone meant Xing Honglang wasn't harmless.
So he stood at the gate, lifted his chin, and shouted like a man who believed volume equaled authority.
"People of the stronghold! Come out and speak!"
Moments later, Xing Honglang appeared atop the palisade.
The wall had changed.
Once, it had been nothing but a thin fence of stakes. Now planks reinforced it, wide enough for people to stand, walk, and fight.
She leaned casually against the railing and looked down at him.
Her expression was… strange.
Almost amused.
"Who are you?" she asked.
The envoy straightened.
"I am an envoy of Deputy General Wang Guozhong of Puzhou!" he declared loudly.
"I have come today to advise you—disband your followers, lay down your weapons, and personally come to General Wang's tent to beg forgiveness! If you're lucky, he may spare your life!"
Xing Honglang laughed quietly to herself.
Logically, she could end this now.
We've already sought pacification from Supreme Commander Yang He. He's on his way.
One sentence.
Done.
But she didn't say it.
Because no one here wanted Wang Guozhong in Puzhou.
He was poison.
A traitor.
A butcher of villagers.
A man who burned first and reported later.
Even if he crawled to Gao Family Village on his knees—
They wouldn't take him.
So—
This had to be settled the hard way.
Xing Honglang glanced sideways.
Perched on Gao Chuwu's shoulder, the Dao Xuan Tianzun—a small puppet with carved wooden features—raised one tiny hand.
Thumbs up.
Click.
Xing Honglang smiled.
She turned back.
"You're very arrogant," she said lightly.
The envoy sneered. "I am an official. You're a bandit. How else should I speak? You want me to kneel and kowtow?"
Xing Honglang nodded thoughtfully.
"You said it yourself."
Something in her tone made his spine prickle.
He tugged his reins back half a step, already calculating escape routes.
Still, his mouth ran faster than his courage.
"Do you dare touch me?!" he shouted.
"General Wang's garrison is less than thirty li away! Touch a hair on my head and you're dead!"
Bang!
The crack of an arquebus split the air.
White smoke bloomed atop the palisade.
The envoy felt a sudden lightness on his head.
His hat—
Was gone.
It flew clean off, tumbling through the air before landing several zhang away.
He froze.
Slowly turned.
There was a hole in it.
A clean one.
His legs went weak.
They shot… my hat?
Hitting a man at this distance wasn't hard.
Hitting only the hat?
That was a skill bordering on the absurd.
Like splitting a dart blindfolded.
Like breaking a stone with your chest.
Like riding a unicycle on a tightrope.
This wasn't luck.
This was a warning.
The envoy swallowed.
Still, habit made him bark one last threat.
"F-fine! Just you wait! General Wang will come! You're all dead!"
He whipped his horse around and fled toward Puzhou City.
Only after he disappeared did the curses explode from the wall.
"DAMN IT!" Lao Nanfeng roared.
"I TOLD YOU TO SHOOT HIS FACE! HIS FACE! You hit the hat?!"
The arquebus soldier clutched his head.
"I—I aimed for his face! I swear!"
Lao Nanfeng stomped. "Train more!"
The Dao Xuan Tianzun let out a delighted click-clack laugh.
"Enough, enough," the puppet said cheerfully.
"Even warring states don't kill envoys. He wasn't meant to die anyway."
Xing Honglang looked toward the road the envoy had taken.
Let him run.
Sometimes—
Missing the face hurt more than hitting it.