History books would later call this moment "the heroic defense of Dragon Gate Bridge."
History books were written by people who weren't there.
What actually happened began with screaming.
Zhang Xianzhong's men—those self-proclaimed Eight Great Kings of the Western Camp—charged like a natural disaster that had learned how to curse. They yelled, whooped, laughed, and howled with the confidence of men who believed Heaven owed them loot.
Shi Jian immediately began sweating.
Not the dignified kind.
The kind that soaked straight through armor and went, Yes, this is how you die.
"Move! MOVE!" he bellowed. "Across the bridge! Don't stop, don't look back—just RUN!"
The civilians were already panicking. His words simply upgraded their condition from panic to complete spiritual collapse.
People surged forward.
Those already on the bridge ran like their legs were on fire. Those still on the eastern bank shoved like tomorrow had been officially canceled. Children screamed. Old men prayed. Someone dropped a chicken, which immediately became the least important tragedy of the morning.
Shi Jian stood at the rear with four hundred men.
Rearguard.
A polite word meaning: you're the last ones to die.
At least there were no horses.
No cavalry.
That mattered.
Infantry had to run.
And civilians, when sufficiently motivated by the prospect of being chopped into souvenirs, could run surprisingly fast.
"Last group!" Shi Jian roared. "LAST GROUP—!"
When the final villagers stumbled onto the bridge, Shi Jian didn't hesitate.
"Musketeers!"
"Volley! Then fall back!"
Two hundred rifles roared.
Fire. Smoke. Thunder.
Bandits at the front dropped like grain under a sickle.
"GUNS!" someone shrieked.
"The government has guns!"
"What idiot didn't expect that?!" another bandit screamed back. "What, you think officials throw stones? Charge!"
And so they charged.
Shi Jian's men retreated onto the bridge, boots skidding, nerves fraying. They dove behind sandbags and began the most soul-crushing activity known to warfare.
Reloading.
Rifled muskets were wonderful weapons.
Accurate. Powerful. Elegant.
They were also slow enough to make you reconsider every life choice that led you here.
Powder spilled. Ramrods fumbled. Hands shook.
Somewhere, a man whispered a prayer that consisted entirely of swearing.
The two hundred Wei Suo soldiers stepped forward, bows drawn. Arrows flew—not enough to stop the charge, but enough to say please don't kill us yet.
"Fire!"
Another volley.
More bodies fell.
Still not enough.
There were too many bandits. Always too many. History loved that particular joke.
Shi Jian glanced back.
The civilians were halfway across.
Not safe.
But farther.
Farther was hope.
"Fall back!" he shouted. "Again!"
They retreated deeper onto the bridge, abandoning the first barricade. Musketeers reloaded once more, now with the dead-eyed calm of men who had accepted that survival was optional.
The bandits laughed.
"They're slow!"
"They're scared!"
"This bridge is ours!"
The moment they rushed onto the bridge deck, everything changed.
The space narrowed.
The chaos compressed.
Shi Jian's eyes sharpened.
"Fire at will!"
At this range, missing was an achievement.
Bullets tore through packed bodies. Men fell into each other. The bridge became a terrible, crowded place to lie down forever.
Fear flickered.
Just briefly.
Then Zhang Xianzhong laughed.
It wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
"If some die," he said calmly, "use them as shields. Push."
There was a pause.
Bandits stared.
Then—some of them actually did it.
They lifted corpses.
Propped them upright.
Used their dead brothers as walking cover.
At that moment, several Wei Suo soldiers discovered that courage has a limit, and theirs had just been exceeded.
"Is… is he human?" someone whispered.
Shi Jian swallowed hard. "Grenades! Throw grenades!"
"But the bridge—!"
"The Dao Xuan Tianzun values people more than wood!" Shi Jian snapped. "THROW!"
Grenades arced.
Explosions followed.
And did almost nothing.
The blast killed a handful—who immediately joined the corpse wall.
The bandits kept coming.
Shi Jian felt a cold truth settle in his bones:
Some enemies didn't fear death.
And some didn't even respect it.
Just as despair began drafting its victory speech—
A cheer erupted behind them.
Joyful. Loud. Completely inappropriate for the situation.
The civilians on the western side parted like a curtain being yanked open.
An army surged forward.
At its head rode a man with his face wrapped in black cloth.
Cheng Xu.
He hadn't fought in years.
He'd been busy with logistics. Training. Managing idiots. Arguing with Xu Dafu. Negotiating with Gao Yiyi. Explaining things to Li Da that should not have required explanation.
In short—he'd been doing important work.
But the battlefield welcomed him like an old drinking buddy.
He looked at the bridge.
Still standing.
Still uncontested.
He laughed.
A big, unrestrained laugh—the kind that suggested he was enjoying himself far too much.
"Shi Jian!" Cheng Xu called. "Down!"
Shi Jian didn't hesitate. He dove behind the sandbags, dragging his men with him like startled ducks.
The bridge deck cleared.
Cheng Xu raised a hand.
And pointed.
Fifteen hundred guns answered.
Chassepot rifles. Rifled muskets. Discipline.
No shouting.
No speeches.
Just efficient, professional murder.
The corpse wall ceased to exist.
The bandits vanished in waves.
Cheng Xu lowered his hand, calm as if he'd just finished inspecting a drill.
Advanced weapons.
Training.
Logistics.
No miracles here.
Just preparation reminding madness why it usually loses.
And on Dragon Gate Bridge, history quietly updated its notes.