Yang He's opening remarks landed exactly where everyone expected them to.
Not because he was predictable as a person—no, the man was far too experienced for that—but because the system itself was predictable.
Pacification banquets always followed the same script.
First came courtesy.
Then concern.
Then a long, mournful sigh about the national treasury.
Xing Honglang had heard this tune before.
She lowered her head slightly, posture respectful, expression mild—just enough humility to pass inspection, not enough to look weak.
"Lord Yang," she said softly, "this humble servant dares to make a small request."
Yang He's brows drew together at once.
Here it comes, he thought.
Pacified rebels never failed to ask for something. Land. Titles. Grain. Silver. Troops. Women. Horses. Sometimes all of the above, with interest.
What worried him wasn't the request itself.
It was whether he could afford it.
Xing Honglang continued, voice calm and unhurried. "Everyone in the jianghu knows that I, Xing Honglang, come from Yongji. Now that I have entered imperial service, it is only natural that I wish to return home in glory."
A pause—just enough to let the words settle.
"I humbly ask the court to grant me the post of Puzhou Garrison Commander. From there, I will station my troops to guard my homeland, suppress disorder, and maintain peace. Would that not be a fitting arrangement?"
Yang He's expression didn't change—but his thoughts churned.
The request itself wasn't outrageous.
The position could be granted.
But the timing?
The former Puzhou Deputy Commander—Wang Guozhong—had been killed mere days ago.
By her.
And now she wanted the post overseeing the very same city.
From any angle, it smelled strange.
Did she kill him specifically for this seat?
The suspicion flickered briefly in Yang He's mind.
Then Xing Honglang spoke again.
"Moreover," she added casually, "Your Excellency knows my origins. I was once a salt smuggler. Trade is my specialty. My followers are accustomed to earning their own living. We will not require a single copper coin from the court for resettlement."
The effect was immediate.
Yang He's eyes lit up.
The suspicion evaporated like mist under sunlight.
Money, he thought. She doesn't want money.
Who cared about motives if the treasury was spared?
Whether she killed Wang Guozhong for revenge, territory, or ambition—none of it mattered.
As long as she didn't ask him for silver.
"Excellent!" Yang He said at once, slapping the table. "Then it is settled."
As Supreme Commander of the Three Borders, his authority was immense. Appointing a garrison commander didn't require endless memorials or debates. A stroke of the brush would do.
He was just about to add a few ceremonial words of praise—
When chaos crashed in from the outside.
Hooves thundered.
A lone rider burst through the city gates at full speed, horse foaming, rider half-dead with panic. He barely managed to dismount before collapsing to his knees.
"Lord Yang!" the man gasped. "Disaster! Grave disaster! Shen Yikui has rebelled again! Ningze County City has fallen!"
Yang He's heart dropped.
Shen Yikui.
The most dangerous rebel still active in Shaanxi.
Large numbers. Hardened troops. Many of them former border soldiers—men who knew formations, discipline, and how to kill efficiently.
Yang He had pacified him before leaving.
And now—this.
He exhaled heavily. "What fresh madness is he stirring up?"
"I don't know, Your Excellency," the messenger said rapidly, "but Ningze County has already been taken. If troops aren't dispatched immediately, the surrounding regions will be ravaged again."
Yang He's fingers tightened.
"And Du Wenhuan?" he asked. "Where is he?"
An attendant leaned in, voice low. "Lord Yang… when Shen Yikui slaughtered Du Wenhuan's entire clan, you chose pacification over vengeance. Du Wenhuan was furious. He no longer obeys your orders."
Silence fell.
It stretched.
Then stretched some more.
Finally, Yang He spoke again. "Cao Wenzhao?"
A subordinate stepped forward. "General Cao is currently pursuing Wang Jiayin's remnants south of Jinyang."
"Order him to stop," Yang He said decisively. "Wang Jiayin is dead. His remnants are insignificant. Let them scatter."
He paused, then added, "Recall Cao Wenzhao at once. Have him return to Shaanxi to deal with Shen Yikui."
"Yes, sir!"
The subordinate departed at a run.
Yang He turned back to Xing Honglang, forcing a smile that barely held together.
"General Xing," he said, "you've heard everything. Affairs of state wait for no one. You must never follow Shen Yikui's example—turning fickle after pacification."
His tone hardened slightly. "Remain loyal to the court, and you will be treated with honor."
He cupped his hands briefly. "I must return to Shaanxi immediately. For any remaining matters, please consult Magistrate Qiu."
With that, Yang He mounted up and left in a hurry, He Renlong riding beside him like a drawn blade.
Dust swallowed their departure.
Xing Honglang and Flat Rabbit stared at each other.
"…That was fast," Flat Rabbit said.
Xing Honglang nodded slowly. "Too fast."
Before either could speak further, Magistrate Qiu Qianfan approached, face warm, hands clasped.
"General Xing," he said with genuine enthusiasm, "from today onward, we govern this territory together—one civil, one military. I trust we'll rely on each other often."
His tone was nothing like how he'd treated Wang Guozhong.
That man had inspired fear, resentment, and suppressed rage.
Xing Honglang inspired… relief.
As you sow, so shall you reap.
Those who burn villages earn curses.
Those who feed mouths earn allies.
Xing Honglang returned the bow. "Mutual support, then."
Magistrate Qiu leaned closer, voice dropping. "I've made inquiries," he said conspiratorially. "I hear you're running a textile factory at the dock?"
She smiled. "Yes."
"Well!" he said eagerly. "Why keep it there? Puzhou City has far more people. Labor is abundant. You could employ thousands."
Xing Honglang laughed softly. "Careful, Lord Qiu. I might take you up on that."
He beamed. "Please do! These refugees are driving me mad. If you can take them all into your factories, I'll sleep better at night."
Her voice dropped even lower. "This old woman has… ambitions. Cement plants. Fertilizer works. Mines. Foundries. Carpentry shops. Kilns. I was a salt smuggler, after all—I love making money."
She smiled thinly. "Ideally, every person in this city would be working for me."
Magistrate Qiu's eyes nearly shone.
"Excellent! Excellent!" he exclaimed. "Build whatever you like. Mine, quarry, smelt—everything approved. No crops grow these days. The people have no work. They stare at me waiting for gruel—but I can barely feed myself!"
He spread his hands. "If you can pay wages, take them all. Open arms. Open legs."
They shared a quiet laugh.
And just like that, an unspoken pact was sealed.
The people of Puzhou didn't know it yet.
But a specter had arrived.
Not famine.
Not war.
Not rebellion.
Labor.
When it finally seized them, they felt no pain.
Only relief.
For all its flaws, capitalism was still kinder than starvation.
Far to the south of Jinyang.
Deep in the tangled wilderness of Shennong Mountain.
Li Zicheng ran.
Behind him lay shattered banners, scattered armor, and the broken remnants of his famed Old Eighth Squad—men who had followed him from Mizhi, men forged in blood and hunger.
They had met Cao Wenzhao's Guanning Iron Cavalry.
And they had been crushed.
One charge.
That was all it took.
Steel thundered through their ranks like a storm through dry grass. The Old Eighth Squad broke, helmets abandoned, weapons dropped, men fleeing in every direction.
Li Zicheng barely escaped into the mountains.
But Cao Wenzhao did not stop.
The iron cavalry followed relentlessly.
The hunt had only just begun.