Cheng Xu took the paper with a cheerful grin, lifting his bamboo hat slightly to keep the rain from dripping straight onto the ink. He twirled the brush between his fingers—clearly someone who believed he could still write properly—and signed with a dramatic flourish.
Or rather, he almost did.
Out of habit, his brush started with the "He" radical, boldly confident, like a veteran charging into battle.
Then—halfway through the stroke—his hand froze.
"…Ah."
He stared at the paper.
The radical was not the full character.
This wasn't He Cheng. This was He Jiu.
Cheng Xu reacted with the speed of a man realizing he was about to embarrass himself in public. He forcibly stopped mid-stroke and awkwardly completed the signature as "He Jiu," pretending the first half hadn't just betrayed his literacy level.
The result was… abstract.
Wang Tang glanced at it.
He immediately understood what had happened.
And, like a civilized young man raised properly, he pretended not to notice a thing.
With a faint smile, he accepted the paper and carefully folded it away.
Cheng Xu cleared his throat. "With you young ones handling the accounts now, every sack of grain needs a signature. Anyone hoping to skim rations will find it… inconvenient."
Wang Tang nodded politely. "The Dao Xuan Tianzun said our generation is meant to replace the old."
He paused, smiling.
"And that if we behave exactly like our elders, nothing in this world will ever improve."
Cheng Xu snorted. "So you're insulting your seniors now?"
He pointed a finger. "I'll tell your father."
Wang Tang's smile widened. "Those were exactly the Dao Xuan Tianzun's words. Not one character altered. Even my father wouldn't dare argue."
On his chest, the silver-threaded image of Dao Xuan Tianzun seemed to smile faintly.
"That is what I said," the Dao Xuan Tianzun added calmly.
Cheng Xu: "…Fine."
After the grain transfer, Wang Tang continued working without pause—beans for the warhorses, gunpowder, bullets, tents—each item recorded with terrifying precision.
Every basket was counted.
Every seal was stamped.
Every ledger line was clean.
Watching from afar, Ma Xianglin felt something unfamiliar tighten in his chest.
"…Xing Honglang is frighteningly capable."
He lowered his voice. "She's a pacified bandit, yet her management is stricter than the imperial court."
Zhang Fengyi nodded.
"The court embezzles rations, sells warhorses, invents ghost soldiers to pocket wages… every disgrace imaginable."
She glanced at the orderly scene before them.
"Meanwhile, her people treat logistics like sacred scripture."
Ma Xianglin sighed. "Who's the bandit here, really?"
The couple exchanged a look.
When we return to Wan Shou Zhai…
We're stealing these methods shamelessly.
Xing Honglang approached them with a smile.
"Our supplies have arrived. Two hundred baskets of flour, fifty baskets of luncheon meat. Each basket is one hundred twenty catties—thirty thousand catties total."
She tilted her head. "How many men do you command?"
"Three thousand White Pole Soldiers," Ma Xianglin replied.
"Then you'll receive sixty baskets of flour and ten baskets of meat."
Ma Xianglin's breath hitched.
That was seven thousand two hundred catties of flour and twelve hundred catties of meat.
In disaster years like these… this amount was obscene.
When the White Pole Soldiers served the emperor, they supplied themselves. When suppressing bandits in Shanxi, Governor Song Tongyin—an honest man, yes, but stingier than winter—rationed grain like he was squeezing water from stone.
Ma Xianglin had never seen provisions given so freely.
He cupped his fists. "I'll owe you this. When I return to Sichuan, I'll repay it."
Xing Honglang waved it off. "No rush."
Ma Xianglin hesitated. "These are… court-issued settlement provisions?"
He had heard Wu Shen brought one hundred thousand taels to pacify bandits—funds for land, seeds, cattle.
Xing Honglang burst out laughing. "Settlement provisions?"
She wiped her eyes. "Wu Shen is so broke he's crying into Shi Kefa's sleeves in Xi'an!"
Ma Xianglin: "..."
"These supplies," she added cheerfully, "I earned as a salt smuggler."
Ma Xianglin laughed. "Is it too late for me to switch professions?"
Zhang Fengyi slapped his arm. "Nonsense! Say that near a censor and you'll be impeached before dinner."
Xing Honglang laughed louder. "Straightforward men are my favorite."
The White Pole Soldiers moved to receive their share. Tarps went up. Oilcloth was lifted.
Snow-white flour.
Top-grade.
So fine it practically glowed.
"I've never seen flour this white."
"Our old rations looked like dirt by comparison."
One soldier opened a luncheon meat basket.
Inside—neatly packed square tins.
He opened one.
Perfect meat.
The sound of collective swallowing echoed like rolling thunder.
They'd seen this meat before. In Puzhou. In Daning. Distributed to civilians.
They'd only watched. Disciplined. Silent.
Now—
"It's our turn!"
One soldier laughed skyward. "Twelve hundred catties of meat! Three thousand men—almost half a catty each!"
He measured. "Two boxes per person!"
"Meat!"
"So much meat!"
The soldiers erupted.
Stoves were lit. Yellow River water fetched—muddy but usable. Wooden boxes went straight into the pot, then became bowls.
Efficiency born of hunger.
"It smells incredible."
"I might cry."
"I never thought I'd eat meat on campaign."
Nearby, the refugees watched from a distance.
Eyes wide.
They didn't dare approach.
Then—
Thump.
Zheng Daniu dropped a basket before them, grinning.
"Same treatment," he announced. "Three thousand refugees—sixty baskets of flour, ten baskets of meat. Organize yourselves and collect it."
For a heartbeat—
Silence.
Then the refugees exploded with joy.
"Thank you! Thank you, military lord!"
Zheng Daniu scratched his head.
"Hey, don't thank me."
He glanced toward the river.
"Thank whoever thought feeding people was a good idea."
And under the rain, beside the Yellow River—
Everyone ate.