The rebel army didn't retreat so much as fall apart.
It wasn't a clean withdrawal.
It wasn't a tactical repositioning.
It was men tripping over mud, over corpses, over their own courage as it ran away faster than their legs could keep up.
From the ruins of Puxian, Ma Xianglin watched it happen—and for once, the famous One-Eyed Ma didn't immediately understand what he was seeing.
"They… broke?" he said slowly.
Beside him, Zhang Fengyi said nothing—but the look she gave him answered clearly enough.
How is this even possible?
That musket fire just now—
Too dense.
Too coordinated.
Too damn confident.
It had sounded less like a volley and more like someone tearing open the sky and dumping thunder straight onto the battlefield.
Ma Xianglin frowned, rain dripping off the edge of his helmet. "Since when does the court have a firearm unit like that in Shanxi?"
He didn't remember hearing about it.
More importantly—he didn't remember anyone being stupid enough to use muskets like that in heavy rain, in open ground, with no cover.
He turned sharply and looked at one of his own musketeers, a veteran gripping a Three-Eyed Arquebus.
The soldier met his gaze.
Then… awkwardly shook his head.
Ma Xianglin snorted. "Forget it."
He straightened, his voice snapping back into command. "I don't care who they are. If they're driving the rebels back, they're friends today."
He raised his spear.
"Prepare to counter-charge. We're linking up with them."
"Yes, sir!"
The Sichuan White Pole Soldiers moved as one.
These weren't conscripts scraped together from hungry villages. These were veterans—men raised on mountain paths and cliff edges, trained to kill where footing was a luxury.
Their signature weapon—the white pole—came up in practiced grips.
White waxwood shafts, pale as bone.
Hooked spearheads that could stab, drag, or rip a man off his horse.
Iron rings at the butt ends that turned every miss into a second strike.
When needed, those hooks and rings could even link together—forming makeshift ladders to scale cliffs.
This was an army built for bad terrain and worse odds.
Ma Xianglin swung onto his white horse, rain streaking across his silver armor. The contrast made him look almost unreal—like something that had stepped out of a story rather than history.
He glanced at Zhang Fengyi. "You take command."
She stared. "You're dumping command on me again?"
He laughed loudly, bright and careless. "Commanding is troublesome. Doesn't suit me."
Then, grinning, he added, "I don't want to command."
And with that, he kicked his horse forward and charged out of Puxian first.
Zhang Fengyi watched his back for half a breath, then shook her head. "White Pole Soldiers!"
"Yes!"
"Follow your general!"
Two thousand white poles surged forward, their formation breaking into a killing wave as they poured out of the ruined city.
On the other side of the battlefield, Cheng Xu was having a very different day.
Rebel troops were collapsing in front of him—not because of bravery, not because of heroic charges, but because bullets were very rude and refused to negotiate.
Teams armed with Chassepot rifles had already fanned out, moving in small, flexible units. They fired, repositioned, fired again—methodical, ugly, effective.
Meanwhile, closer in, the rifled musketeers were… struggling.
Broad-brimmed bamboo hats tilted low. Waterproof covers clung awkwardly to musket stocks. Reloading in the rain was a test of patience, faith, and hand dexterity.
One soldier muttered while tamping powder. "Instructor He… when can we all switch to Chassepot rifles?"
Cheng Xu didn't answer.
He wasn't even listening.
His eyes scanned the battlefield, searching—again—for a familiar figure.
He didn't see Grandma.
And that absence sat wrong in his chest.
Lao Nanfeng, on the other hand, was in an excellent mood.
"Hahaha! Good weapons are for veterans!" he said cheerfully. "You brats focus on not blowing your own fingers off first."
A recruit grumbled, "So new soldiers just exist to be bullied?"
"Yes," Lao Nanfeng replied instantly. "Correct."
The soldier protested, "They've fired four rounds! I've barely loaded my second!"
Lao Nanfeng snorted. "When I joined, I got bullied for fun."
Everyone went quiet.
Then Lao Nanfeng continued lightly, "Besides—even with a Chassepot, you'd still get bullied. There's always someone higher. Otherwise, why would anyone want to be emperor?"
He paused, then laughed. "And even emperors get bullied by the Manchus."
Silence again.
He casually snapped a cartridge into his Chassepot, lifted it, fired once—boom—and didn't even bother checking where it landed.
Reloaded.
"Listen carefully," he said, still not looking forward. "In battle, don't whine about fairness or equipment. Whatever's in your hands—that's your lifeline. Believe in it, squeeze everything out of it, or die wondering why."
Boom.
Another shot.
Still without looking.
The recruits felt cold sweat crawl down their backs.
Is he just wasting bullets?
Then Lao Nanfeng stopped talking.
"Oh?"
He tilted his head. "The court general's out."
He hadn't turned.
Yet he'd seen everything.
The recruits snapped their gazes forward.
Through the rain—there he was.
A white horse.
Silver armor.
One eye patched, the other burning.
Ma Xianglin.
His white pole spear moved like a living thing, hooking, thrusting, smashing. Rebels fell in every direction, knocked flat before they even understood what had hit them.
Lao Nanfeng clicked his tongue. "Tsk. I was wondering."
He smiled. "So it's Ma Xianglin. The Little Ma Chao from Shizhu."
A soldier asked, awed, "General, you know him?"
Lao Nanfeng shook his head. "Nope."
Then added, "But that style? Instantly recognizable."
He chuckled. "These days, generals who charge first are rare. There's He Renlong the Madman. Ma Xianglin the Little Ma Chao. And our Chengcheng County patrol inspector—Fang Wushang."
He laughed. "That's about it."
At that moment, Cheng Xu finally spoke, eyes still searching. "That kind of fighting is unacceptable."
Everyone blinked.
"If the general charges himself," Cheng Xu continued calmly, "who commands? If he dies or gets wounded, the entire army collapses. That's irresponsible—to himself and to everyone else."
The soldiers exchanged looks.
Instructor He is scared again, they thought.
Lao Nanfeng finished loading—but didn't fire.
He rested the rifle, then shouted across the battlefield, voice cutting through rain and gunfire alike:
"Ma Xianglin!"
"You muscle-brained idiot!"
"Get the hell out of our firing lanes!"
"If you get shot by friendly fire, is that your fault—or ours?!"
The rain kept falling.
But someone, somewhere, was finally learning that bravery without brains was just another way to die fast.