Gao Jie looked at the two thousand newly arrived arquebusiers and felt… oddly relaxed.
Not relieved. Not reassured.
Relaxed.
They were only two thousand, after all.
Across from him, Cheng Xu looked at the ten thousand rebel soldiers charging his way and felt exactly the same.
When both sides believed the pressure had somehow skipped them, the universe usually took that as a personal insult.
Perhaps this was the moment for a little optimism. The reckless kind. The kind that gets people buried.
"Rifled arquebusiers! Grenadiers!" Cheng Xu's voice cut through the rain.
"Fix bayonets!"
The downpour hammered the earth so loudly it threatened to swallow his words. Fortunately, no army worth anything relied on a single man shouting himself hoarse. Orders rippled outward—captains echoed, squad leaders relayed, boots shifted, metal answered metal.
Fifteen hundred soldiers snapped bayonets onto their barrels in crisp unison.
The remaining five hundred did something else entirely.
They hunched slightly, bodies angled, bamboo hats tilted just so. Jackets opened briefly. Paper cartridges emerged—dry, intact, unbothered by the weather's opinions.
Chassepot rifles were built with sealed breeches and rubber fittings.
If they could keep air out, rain didn't even qualify as an inconvenience.
The riflemen finished loading and lifted their weapons, watching the oncoming rebels with expressions usually reserved for livestock wandering into the wrong pen.
On Cheng Xu's chest, the golden embroidery of Dao Xuan Tianzun curved faintly—whether from rain, light, or narrative judgment, it almost looked like it was smiling.
Li Daoxuan watched as well.
The soldiers saw targets.
He saw something else entirely.
It felt like opening a strategy game and realizing your tech tree had quietly sprinted ahead while the enemy was still arguing about which stick hit harder.
Arquebusiers versus swordsmen.
It wasn't even unfair.
It was educational.
The rebel army crossed into five hundred meters.
Too far for arrows. Too far for courage to warm up. Too far for shouting slogans to mean anything.
But for breech-loading rifles?
Oh.
"They're in range," Cheng Xu said calmly.
"Free fire."
No formations. No volleys. No synchronized shouting.
Just aim.
Trigger.
Bang.
A rebel fell, legs folding like he'd forgotten how they worked.
Then another.
Bang. Bang.
Five hundred rifles spoke in overlapping sentences.
Men collapsed mid-step. Flags dipped. Horses screamed. The front ranks disintegrated before they understood they were supposed to be charging.
Gao Jie's smile froze.
"That far?" he shouted. "That's impossible!"
Several hundred paces away, his men hadn't even started sprinting yet. Cold-weapon charges didn't begin until morale peaked—until blood was hot and lungs were burning.
They were still in the prelude.
Like starting a song and not even reaching the chorus—
And the other side was already singing the funeral verse.
The firing didn't stop.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
No pauses. No visible reloads.
The rain meant nothing.
Distance meant nothing.
Time meant nothing.
Men fell faster than rumors spread.
Panic hit before bravery ever arrived.
This wasn't a battle. It was a demonstration.
The rebels broke.
Not in lines. Not in order.
They turned and ran, crashing into each other, trampling tents, overturning carts. Gao Jie screamed himself hoarse, but no one listened. Fear had already promoted itself to commander.
The collapse rippled backward—straight into the main camp.
At the city walls, rebels who had climbed froze.
Those still on ladders let go.
Those already atop found themselves alone.
And an isolated enemy, as everyone learned sooner or later, was simply meat waiting for knives.
Wang Er didn't waste the lesson.
His saber flashed. Bodies fell. The last stubborn rebels toppled from the wall, rain washing their blood down the stone like an afterthought.
Then laughter—wild, disbelieving.
"Reinforcements!" Dou Wenda shouted from below. "They're incredible! Gao Jie is retreating! He's retreating!"
Wang Er finally had time to look.
Through the rain, an army marched forward in clean order, rifles held steady, steps unhurried.
"Hey!" someone yelled. "Our people are here!"
"Pingyang is safe!"
Cheers rolled across the wall like thunder with better timing.
The gates opened.
Cheng Xu entered the city with his officers. Dou Wenda stepped forward to greet him—and paused.
The man's face was covered.
Before he could ask, Cheng Xu clasped his fists and laughed softly. "An old wound," he said. "Took a blade to the face years ago. Ugly thing. Better for everyone if I keep it hidden."
"Oh!" Dou Wenda waved the concern away instantly. "Scars earned for the nation are marks of honor!"
He didn't believe a word of it. Neither did Cheng Xu.
They moved on.
Now came the delicate part.
Cheng Xu couldn't claim Bai Mao as his superior—no patrol commander fielded two thousand rifles. He couldn't mention Chengcheng County. And Shi Jian's name would only raise more questions.
So he chose truth, trimmed neatly enough to pass inspection.
"This subordinate," he said, "was once known as Old Demon of Guyuan. I joined the Guyuan rebels in my youth, later followed Boss Xing—Xing Honglang—as a minor leader. A few days ago, we accepted amnesty. Hearing Pingyang was under threat, I rushed here immediately. General Xing will arrive soon."
Dou Wenda's smile stiffened.
Pacified rebels.
The most dangerous kind of ally.
Regular officers followed rules. These men followed moods.
Offend them, and yesterday's saviors became tomorrow's problem.
Dou Wenda clasped his fists again, this time a little deeper.
"Then Pingyang Prefecture," he said carefully, "owes you its survival."
Cheng Xu smiled behind his mask.
Somewhere above them, the rain continued falling—
having already chosen its side.