Wang Ziyong swept his gaze across the assembled bandit chieftains and spoke in a tone that suggested he was holding an emergency meeting for a sinking ship.
"Alright. Let's be clear. That army outside—whether they're the Divine Mechanism Battalion or some new monster cooked up by the court—they're knocking on our door. So tell me: fight, or run?"
The Southern Camp Eight Great Kings slammed the table first, nearly breaking it.
"Fight! What's there to be afraid of? We have two hundred thousand men and a city! If we retreat into the streets and alleys, their firearm troops won't even be able to line up properly. They'll choke on their own formations!"
Gao Jie, the Mountain Vulture, growled darkly.
"Fight. I'm still holding a grudge from Pingyang. I want my interest—and compound interest."
Zhang Xianzhong, West Camp Eight Great Kings, leaned back lazily.
"Run. Why fight government troops with weapons that look like they fell from Heaven's workshop? There are plenty of softer persimmons elsewhere. Why insist on biting the iron one?"
Li Zicheng, the Dashing General, sighed as though fate itself had personally offended him.
"I also vote retreat. Call it intuition. Call it cowardice if you want. But every time I ignore this feeling, people die and I end up with fewer men and more regrets."
Gao Yingxiang, the Chuǎng Wang, nodded calmly.
"I follow Brother Zijing Liang."
Old Huihui Ma Shouying whistled, clearly uninterested.
"Whatever you decide. My troops are cavalry. If you say fight, I'll be the first one there even if I start late. If you say run, I'll still be gone before any of you finish shouting."
Wang Ziyong pinched the bridge of his nose, glanced again at the approaching militia, then looked up at the gray, rain-soaked sky.
Finally, he slammed his hand down.
"Fight. We can't flee every time we meet real soldiers. We'll defend at least one wave. If we can't hold, then we run."
Zhang Xianzhong raised an eyebrow.
"Oh? You're really fighting?"
He immediately stood up.
"Then pardon me. I won't be participating in this exciting suicide exercise."
And with that, he turned around and walked out—so casually it was almost insulting.
Weapons half-drew across the room. Zhang Xianzhong's men also reached for their hilts.
The air froze.
Then Wang Ziyong waved a hand impatiently.
"Let him go. Anyone else who wants to leave—door's open."
Zhang Xianzhong didn't look back. His men followed. A clean, professional exit—like people who had rehearsed this exact moment in their heads.
Li Zicheng sighed again.
"This battle has 'disaster' written all over it. Brothers, we'll meet again somewhere with fewer bullets."
He left as well.
Wang Ziyong clenched his fists, then barked orders.
"Those remaining will fight properly! My troops, the Chuǎng Wang's, Southern Camp Eight Great Kings, and Mountain Vulture's forces hold the front! Old Huihui, prepare cavalry—flank their firearm troops if they expose themselves!"
The remaining chieftains roared assent, though several of them were clearly doing so to convince themselves.
Outside the city, the Gao Family Village Militia advanced.
And immediately confused everyone.
They didn't form dense firearm ranks.
They didn't march in tight blocks.
They didn't look like a "proper" army at all.
Instead, four thousand men spread out into loose ten-man squads, drifting forward like an unhurried tide.
Inside the city, bandits stared.
"…Are they lost?"
"…Is this a trap?"
"…Did their commander die on the way here?"
Ma Xianglin frowned deeply.
Before the battle, Lao Nanfeng had told him: "Protect the firearm troops."
Now Ma Xianglin looked at the formation.
Protect what exactly?
Protect where?
They were scattered so wide even Heaven would need a map.
"Damn it," Ma Xianglin muttered. "This isn't protection, this is babysitting cats."
Left with no choice, he split his Sichuan White Pole Soldiers into two groups—one with him on the left, one with his wife Zhang Fengyi on the right.
At least they could look intimidating.
The two forces crept forward.
No artillery.
No fancy tricks.
Just rain, mud, and steadily advancing death.
At 500 meters—
"Don't fire yet," Cheng Xu said calmly. "Rain affects range. Walk closer."
The militia obeyed.
Gao Jie, watching from behind cover, felt his scalp tighten.
This distance…
This exact cursed distance…
Last time at Pingyang, this was when people started dying.
He didn't warn anyone.
He simply ducked lower.
Four hundred meters.
Three hundred meters.
Cheng Xu raised his flag.
"Halt. Free fire."
Bang.
One single shot cut through the rain.
An archer standing proudly atop the barricade toppled backward like a sack of wet grain.
The message was clear: Stop showing off.
Then—
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Gunfire exploded across the line.
The rebel soldiers who had been crowding the "city wall" vanished instantly—either dead or smart enough to hide.
Moments ago, the wall had looked packed.
Now it looked abandoned.
Only the bravest—or stupidest—faces peeked out.
"Advance. Maintain free fire."
The militia walked forward as if on a casual stroll.
No shouting.
No rushing.
Ma Xianglin was losing his mind.
Why are you so slow?!
Charge already!
Let me charge!
He gripped his spear until his knuckles whitened.
Hold back. Hold back. For the sake of the telescope.
Inside the city, anxiety spread like rot.
Finally, one rebel archer snapped.
He leaned out, drew his bow—
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Nobody knew how many rifles fired.
The archer dropped without even understanding why.
The others shrank deeper into cover.
But the militia kept coming.
Half an arrow's distance now.
The makeshift wall—barely waist-high in places—suddenly felt like a joke told by a cruel god.
If the enemy reached it, they could step over it.
Wang Ziyong roared:
"Charge!"
Yes.
The defenders had to charge.
Bandits vaulted the wall.
And immediately—
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Leaping out was suicide.
Men fell in droves.
"We can't charge!"
"Retreat!"
"Abandon the wall!"
Discipline collapsed.
Those who ran too slowly were shot in the back.
Wang Ziyong screamed hoarsely:
"Damn it! Fall back into the streets! Use the buildings! Fight them up close!"
Because when guns rule the battlefield—
Someone always gets anxious first.