The silt pulled from the riverbed was not wasted.
Dao Xuan Tianzun—being neither wasteful nor sentimental—scooped it up and dumped it neatly along both banks. The wet, heavy mud spread out in long, dark ribbons beside the Fen River.
Once it dried, it would become prime alluvial soil.
The kind farmers would fight over.
The kind villages would quietly annex at night.
Future disputes were already forming, but that was tomorrow's problem.
Inside the box, Xing Honglang and her group stood rooted in place, staring at the sky like a flock of stunned pigeons.
The shovel didn't stop.
It wasn't a single dramatic scoop meant to impress believers. It kept moving—methodical, relentless—digging forward along the riverbed, scoop after scoop, as if performing a long-overdue surgery.
Mud flew.
The river widened.
The bottom dropped lower and lower.
This was the junction of the Fen River and the Yellow River.
And nature, seeing an opening, wasted no time.
As the Fen River's bed deepened, its water level dipped—only to be immediately filled by the Yellow River's far more arrogant volume. Brown water surged backward into the Fen River, rushing upstream like an impatient guest who had been waiting outside too long.
The river that had once been barely twenty meters wide swelled to forty.
Depth followed.
Enough for cargo ships.
Enough for history to restart.
For a few breaths, no one spoke.
Then realization hit.
"…Ah," Xing Honglang said slowly. "Dao Xuan Tianzun is… making the river navigable."
Old Nanfeng scratched his head. "Didn't I just say it couldn't be done?"
Zao Ying snorted. "You think Dao Xuan Tianzun descended from the heavens just to slap you in the face?"
"…When you put it like that," Old Nanfeng said sheepishly, "I suddenly feel less important."
The shovel continued upstream, gradually shrinking from view before disappearing entirely beyond the bend.
The Fen River, meanwhile, behaved strangely.
For a time, it flowed backward.
Yellow River water surged in so fiercely that it overwhelmed the Fen's original current. Only after a long while did the flow stabilize, finding a new balance.
Inside his apartment, Li Daoxuan leaned back and exhaled.
Even scaled down two hundred times, the Fen River was still absurdly long.
After digging more than ten kilometers, his arm was sore.
"Yeah, no," he muttered. "That's enough godhood for today."
He wasn't in a rush.
The river couldn't be fixed in a single day—and neither could history. Besides, his vision hadn't expanded to Pingyang Prefecture yet. Digging too fast would risk the Yellow River flooding upstream areas.
Ten kilometers a day.
Slow. Controlled.
Responsible god behavior.
But even this partial effort was enough.
From the river's confluence to Hejin County, the channel was now wide and deep enough for medium cargo vessels.
Inside the box, Xing Honglang pointed ahead at Hejin County's crumbling silhouette.
"Once ships can reach here," she said, smiling, "this county will stop looking like it's waiting to die."
Everyone nodded.
They looked up instinctively.
Dao Xuan Tianzun was gone.
But awe lingered like thunder after lightning.
That was when Old Nanfeng frowned.
"…This rain is a problem."
Everyone turned.
"In this weather," he continued, "our flintlocks are basically decorative sticks. If we run into bandits now, it's blades against blades. Numbers matter again."
Silence.
Then—
"Damn it!"
"Find shelter!"
"Into Hejin County—now!"
Pingyang Prefecture
The rain did not discriminate.
It fell on rebels and civilians alike.
And it fell precisely when Fan Shan Yao returned.
The handsome bandit leader stared at the rain-slicked walls of Pingyang Prefecture, lips curling into a confident smile.
"Rain," he said softly. "Perfect."
Last time, Wang Xiaohua's flintlocks had torn his men apart.
But rain ruined gunpowder.
Rain loved bandits.
Unfortunately for him, Pingyang Prefecture was not an open field.
It was a city.
And cities had people.
At Dou Wenda's command, the citizens moved like ants kicked into fury.
Oiled-paper umbrellas appeared.
Tarps were dragged up.
Wooden frames were hammered together in frantic bursts of inspiration.
Some lunatic even carried an entire shed onto the wall.
In minutes, the ramparts resembled a marketplace of umbrellas and improvised roofs.
Two hundred flintlock soldiers stood beneath them.
They fired.
Fan Shan Yao's smile vanished.
Bandits screamed and fell.
A few madmen charged the walls—only to be greeted by Wang Er, who hurled a stone the size of a watermelon straight down.
Crack.
The man collapsed without even the dignity of a scream.
Villagers joined in, raining stones with religious enthusiasm.
Fan Shan Yao retreated again.
"We won!"
"The rain helped us!"
"We can farm again!"
While the people cheered, Dou Wenda did not.
He grabbed Wang Xiaohua's arm. "Commander—how much ammunition remains?"
Wang Xiaohua shook his head. "After this? Not much."
Dou Wenda's face tightened. "Without firearms, Pingyang Prefecture falls."
Wang Xiaohua smiled faintly. "Relax. Reinforcements are coming."
Dou Wenda glanced at the rain. "…In this weather?"
Forty Li Away
Chezhuang.
Cheng Xu stood beneath the rain, watching water stream off his helmet.
Forty li remained.
Close enough to smell danger.
Too close to relax.
Rain crippled firearms.
Grenades were useless.
Flintlocks were unreliable.
Cheng Xu sighed. "If we run into bandits now, I have an eighty percent chance of meeting my great-grandmother."
A captain stepped forward. "Sir. The Chassepot rifles are unaffected by rain."
Cheng Xu blinked.
Then grinned.
"…Right. I knew that."
He raised his hand.
"Advance."
"Press on!"