Outside Pingyang Prefecture, at Gao Jie's main camp, the sky finally decided to remember it still existed.
After years of drought, the rain didn't drizzle politely or knock first. It arrived like an offended creditor—loud, relentless, and determined to soak everyone involved.
Gao Jie hadn't expected it. Neither had anyone else.
His camp, built for dust and wind, folded instantly before water. Canvas sagged. Fires died. Boots turned into portable ponds. From the highest officer to the lowest foot soldier, everyone was soaked so thoroughly that even their bones felt damp.
Fortunately, Gao Jie didn't command flintlock riflemen.
Which meant the rain wasn't a problem—just a mild inconvenience accompanied by wet socks and moral superiority.
Rainwater plastered his hair to his face, sharpening his features instead of ruining them. If Gao Jie had already been outrageously handsome before, now—standing there in the rain like a tragic painting—he looked like a man born specifically to make others feel bad about their faces.
Three hundred percent more dashing than the average man?
Please.
At least thirty-two hundred.
If some foreigner had stumbled upon this scene, they would've slapped him with a name like Vischmo Namoshuai, the Dashing and Irresistible, and written poems about it later.
Gao Jie enjoyed the effect.
His posture straightened. His voice rose.
"Gentlemen," he declared, rain running down his jaw with dramatic timing, "we've failed to take Pingyang Prefecture twice."
The bandits from Mizhi leaned in, ears perked.
"But the third time," Gao Jie continued, smiling, "victory is guaranteed."
The men blinked.
"Chief," one finally asked, "why?"
Gao Jie chuckled, the sound rich with confidence. "Because their flintlock rifles are almost out of ammunition."
The reaction was immediate.
"How do you know that?"
Gao Jie lifted a finger, patient, indulgent—like a teacher explaining something obvious. "In the last battle, their rifle fire wasn't nearly as fierce as before. They only fired when absolutely necessary. That tells you everything."
He paced slowly, rain splashing beneath his boots.
"During the first assault, our morale shattered before we even reached the walls. Rifle fire everywhere. But the second time? We made it all the way to the base of the walls."
He stopped, eyes sharp.
"That only happens when they're afraid to pull the trigger."
The bandits exchanged looks.
…He wasn't wrong.
One of them laughed nervously. "The Chief really is the Chief."
Gao Jie smiled wider. "If our courage hadn't failed us at the last moment, Pingyang would already belong to us."
He spread his arms, as if embracing the city itself.
"Pingyang is a prefectural city. Grain, silver, women, weapons—everything we've been starving for is inside."
The bandits roared. "Take Pingyang!"
Gao Jie laughed, rain or not, utterly pleased. "You've all rested. Morale is back. Launch another assault."
"This time," he said calmly, "we finish it."
"Awoo!"
The cry rose like a wave.
Thus began Gao Jie's third assault on Pingyang Prefecture.
Tens of thousands of men surged forward, filling the land like a living flood.
The rain kept falling.
And it did not care who it soaked.
In the downpour, the bandits looked ferocious—mud-smeared, eyes blazing, teeth bared. This weather ruined bows, crippled firearms, and turned clever tactics into suggestions.
Which was exactly why it favored them.
When your weapons are worse than your enemy's, the best strategy is simple: drag everyone into the mud and call it fairness.
Inside Pingyang Prefecture, tension spread faster than the rain.
Dou Wenda wiped his face, uncertain whether it was sweat or water. He didn't bother checking.
Commander Bai Mao's men were almost out of ammunition. Some soldiers had one shot left. Some had two. Some had flintlocks that might not fire even if begged.
Misfires were no longer accidents—they were expectations.
If the city fell, others might flee through side gates.
Dou Wenda could not.
A prefect dies with his city. That was the rule.
And if he forgot it, the Emperor would remind him.
His gaze turned to Bai Mao.
Bai Mao felt the weight too, his jaw tight, breath shallow.
Only Wang Er looked calm.
Grim, but steady.
"Don't panic," Wang Er said. "Half of these riflemen are from Wangjia Village. We once crossed a thousand li as rebels. Even without guns, we still know how to kill."
Bai Mao swallowed. "Mm."
Wang Er drew his broadsword. "Fix bayonets."
The Wangjia Village men roared back. "Awoo!"
"Believe in yourselves," Wang Er said. "And believe in Gao Family Village. Reinforcements are coming."
He raised his blade.
"They won't abandon us."
Outside, Gao Jie roared his command.
War drums thundered, harsh and wild in the rain.
The bandits charged.
"Fire!"
The city answered with its last bullets.
Men fell.
Then—silence.
The bandits laughed.
"They're empty!"
They hit the walls.
Ladders slammed into stone.
"Fix bayonets!" Wang Er bellowed.
Steel clicked onto muzzles.
A bandit climbed, swung—
And was skewered mid-motion, screaming as he fell.
More came.
Too many.
Wang Er carved a path through blood and rain, blade rising and falling. Bai Mao fought beside him, slower, rougher, already breathing hard.
This was where true leaders showed themselves.
Gao Jie watched from below, grinning.
"Pingyang is ours!"
Then—
A shout.
"Chief! An army from the south!"
Two thousand men.
No banners.
Masked commander.
Every one of them carrying a flintlock rifle.
Gao Jie laughed.
"Two thousand riflemen in this rain?" he scoffed. "Send ten thousand men. Take their guns."
He waved it off, amused.
"Heaven truly favors me."
From the south, the reinforcements marched faster.
And the rain kept falling—
utterly indifferent to Gao Jie's confidence.