Xing Honglang's forces and Ma Xianglin's forces began preparing to march west, their banners heavy with rain and ambition, continuing the pursuit of the retreating rebels toward Daning County.
From the outside, everything looked orderly.
From the inside, Ma Xianglin's mind was noisier than a market at dawn.
Since learning Cheng Xu's true identity, Ma Xianglin had quietly started watching.
Not staring—he was a general, after all—but observing with the refined paranoia of a man who had survived court politics.
And the more he watched, the clearer it became.
Xing Honglang was the banner.
Cheng Xu was the hand holding the pole.
Orders flowed from Cheng Xu first. Decisions bent around him. Even Xing Honglang, decisive and sharp as she was, deferred to his judgment without hesitation.
So that's how it is, Ma Xianglin thought.
On the surface, Xing Honglang accepted the amnesty.
In reality, Cheng Xu slipped back into the imperial fold wearing someone else's shadow.
Brilliant.
Absolutely brilliant.
If Cheng Xu revealed himself openly as the War God of Chengcheng County, the imperial court might hesitate to grant him amnesty at all. After all, the current Emperor Zhu Youjian had one outstanding virtue: he was never wrong.
If someone suffered, it was because they deserved it.
If someone rebelled, it was because they were ungrateful.
And if Cheng Xu had once been marked for death by the Jinyiwei, then clearly the correct course of action was to finish the job—consistency was important.
But by placing Xing Honglang at the front and returning as her subordinate, Cheng Xu sidestepped the Emperor's pride with surgical precision.
He didn't challenge imperial authority.
He simply walked around it.
Ma Xianglin exhaled softly.
No wonder they call him a god of war, he thought. On the battlefield and off it.
After sufficient rest, both armies finalized their preparations and readied themselves to move west.
That was when the townspeople gathered.
They came hesitantly at first, then in greater numbers, faces lined with worry deeper than the rain-soaked streets.
"General," one elderly man said, voice trembling, "if you leave… what will we do if the bandits return?"
Another added anxiously, "Puxian has no city walls. Our militia couldn't stop even a small raiding party."
"That's right," voices echoed. "You saved us once—please don't abandon us now. Leave some troops behind. Just a few!"
The words weren't loud.
But they were heavy.
Everyone present fell silent.
The problem was painfully clear.
They had to pursue the rebels. Letting them regroup would only create a larger disaster later. But rebel armies weren't neat little bands; they often numbered in the tens or hundreds of thousands.
If they left garrisons everywhere they passed, the main force would wither before ever catching the enemy.
And yet—
Leave Puxian undefended, and even a handful of bandits could turn it back into hell.
As hesitation thickened the air, a scout came sprinting in, rain splashing around his boots.
"Report!" he shouted. "Imperial reinforcements have arrived!"
Everyone perked up.
"Which general?" someone asked.
The scout swallowed.
"General Li Huai."
There was a pause.
Then—snickers.
"Oh," someone muttered, "that one."
Li Huai's reputation preceded him like a bad smell.
Back when he garrisoned Pinelyang Prefecture, he'd been beaten so thoroughly by the West Camp Eight Great Kings that legend claimed he couldn't recognize his own mother afterward.
If not for Shi Jian arriving with two hundred arquebusiers and using disciplined two-stage firing, Pinelyang would've fallen, and Li Huai would've gone down in history as a footnote titled 'How Not to Defend a City.'
They hadn't heard his name in a long time.
No one expected him to resurface now.
Still…
Though Li Huai lacked combat brilliance, he also lacked villainy. He didn't massacre civilians for merit, nor did he extort the populace for personal gain.
In times like these, not actively making things worse was already a valuable trait.
Xing Honglang considered briefly, then said, "Very well. Let General Li Huai remain here to garrison Puxian. Our forces will continue west."
Ma Xianglin nodded immediately.
"Agreed."
They waited for Li Huai to arrive and explained the situation to him carefully.
When Li Huai heard that he was to stay behind—
His eyes nearly sparkled.
"Garrison duty?" he repeated, just to be sure.
"Yes," Xing Honglang confirmed.
Li Huai clasped his hands fervently.
"Good! Excellent! Wonderful!" he declared. "Garrison duty is the foundation of stability. The cornerstone of peace. Truly the noblest of military responsibilities!"
No one pointed out that he just didn't want to fight.
Li Huai agreed so fast it was almost suspicious and immediately led his eight hundred mismatched soldiers into Puxian, setting up camp with the enthusiasm of a man who'd just dodged a falling boulder.
Only then did Xing Honglang's and Ma Xianglin's forces finally feel at ease enough to march westward.
Jiangzhou.
Several days earlier, Prefect Qin Changqing had been torn apart by the townspeople, guided—quite literally—by the God of Agriculture.
He and his accomplices were crushed beneath the fury of the masses, leaving behind a city abruptly freed of corrupt officials.
For a brief moment, Jiangzhou entered a state best described as "officially leaderless."
In later ages, this would've been the perfect recipe for chaos: looting, arson, and the mysterious phenomenon of people "finding" items they'd never owned before.
But ancient society had its own emergency system.
Local gentry and powerful clans—acting as Baojia leaders—stepped in.
Where officials vanished, they became the authorities by default.
Order was maintained. Patrols continued. Jiangzhou somehow kept functioning, wobbling but upright, like a table missing one leg but propped up with bricks.
Mo Xiaopin, a local squire responsible for patrols, stood atop the south city wall, gazing at the Fen River below.
The waters had settled somewhat, but they were still murky, thick with stirred silt. He wondered how many more days it would take for the river to run clear again.
The fishermen had suffered badly.
After Dao Xuan Tianzun widened the river, the fish—apparently lacking either courage or a sense of historical responsibility—vanished entirely.
No matter how many nets were cast, they came up empty.
Fortunately, after the intervention of the Jiwang Deity, the wealthy families of Jiangzhou suddenly discovered their long-lost consciences and released grain to the populace.
No one starved.
But Mo Xiaopin knew charity wasn't a livelihood.
Fishermen needed fish.
As he pondered this, a servant shouted excitedly, "Master! Look—down the river!"
Mo Xiaopin turned.
Through the rain and mist, a massive ship was approaching upstream.
Not just large.
Absurdly large.
A flat-bottomed cargo vessel, broader and longer than any ship Mo Xiaopin had seen in his entire life.
Had the Fen River not been dredged, such a vessel would've grounded instantly.
His heart skipped.
He remembered Dao Xuan Tianzun's words:
"Wait a few days. A large ship will arrive from downstream."
Others remembered too.
Cheers erupted along the riverbank.
"The ship is here!"
"The big ship the Heavenly Lord promised!"
"We're saved!"
As it drew closer, they saw a man in white standing at the bow, two servants behind him holding enormous umbrellas.
Rain fell.
He remained dry.
White robes fluttered in the river wind, dramatic enough to make poets consider changing careers.
The ship docked.
The man stepped ashore, snapped open a folding fan—pa!—revealing the word "Junzi".
He flipped it.
On the reverse was the image of Dao Xuan Tianzun, reaching down from the heavens.
The crowd surged forward.
Mo Xiaopin led the gentry in a deep bow.
The man returned the salute gracefully.
"I am Bai Yuan," he announced calmly. "By the divine decree of Dao Xuan Tianzun, I have come to Jiangzhou to help its people prosper and grow wealthy together."
The image on the fan spoke:
"You may trust him."
That settled it.
Mo Xiaopin and the others bowed deeply once more.
"Sir Bai," they said in unison, "we welcome you with the utmost respect."
Rain continued to fall.
But Jiangzhou had just received something rarer than clear skies—
A plan.