The flintlock rifles roared without pause.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
There were barely more than a hundred shooters, yet the sound was so dense, so relentless, that it felt as if a thousand men were firing in unison—no gaps, no rhythm breaks, just a continuous wall of thunder.
Dongshan Hu's men froze.
Charging forward was no longer bravery—it was suicide.
On the other flank, Chuang Tatian's troops fared no better. Zao Ying's cavalry refused to close in. They circled, reined, loosed arrows, then circled again—never giving the infantry a single clean chance to counterattack.
Arrows fell like rain.
Men screamed.
Unable to advance, unable to flee, Chuang Tatian's men instinctively collapsed inward, forming a miserable clump. Shields came up. Pot lids came up. Even doors ripped from village houses were hoisted overhead.
They had only wanted to rob a caravan.
No one had signed up to die like this.
From the rear, Cao Cao watched in silence.
He hadn't charged yet—he had been waiting, measuring the fight.
Now, he exhaled slowly.
He looked at Dongshan Hu, pinned flat against the ground.
Then at Chuang Tatian, trapped beneath a sky full of arrows.
That was enough.
"The wind's against us," Cao Cao shouted. "Pull back!"
The rebels immediately obeyed.
But this wasn't a normal retreat.
With rifles and arrows dominating the battlefield, they couldn't simply turn and run. Chuang Tatian's men had to keep their shields raised, inching backward step by step.
Dongshan Hu's situation was worse.
His men crawled.
They pressed their bodies flat against the dirt and dragged themselves backward like worms, terrified that the moment they stood up, a bullet would punch through their backs.
The sight was absurd.
Pitiful.
Almost laughable.
Fortunately for them, the Gao Family Village forces had no intention of chasing.
Bullets cost money.
Arrows cost money.
Killing was exciting—but resupplying ammunition felt like attending your own funeral.
They were deep in northwestern Shanxi. Supply lines were long. Bullets were precious.
Tie Niaofei lifted a hand. "That's enough. Stop."
Almost simultaneously, Zao Ying's cavalry loosed their final volley. Quivers were empty; the lesson had been delivered.
The battlefield fell silent.
Rifles lowered. Horses slowed.
Only then did Dongshan Hu's and Chuang Tatian's men dare to stand, turn, and flee.
They ran.
They ran like their souls were on fire, retreating several hundred meters in one mad rush, convinced that if they slowed even a little, the thunder would start again.
Tie Niaofei laughed softly.
"That should be enough. After this, when they hear the name Tie Niaofei, they'll think twice before robbing caravans."
Zao Ying smiled faintly. "Arrows can be picked up. Bullets can't. How many paper cartridges do you have left?"
Tie Niaofei pointed toward the central wagon and grinned.
"That cart is nothing but ammunition. We could fight four more battles like this."
Zao Ying nodded. "Good."
Cao Cao's forces did not return.
Zao Ying's riders dismounted briefly, collecting arrows embedded in the dirt and bodies alike, sliding them back into their quivers with practiced efficiency.
Then the convoy resumed its march north.
Not far down the road, they found the remains of another Jin merchant caravan.
Overturned wagons.
Scattered blood.
Not a single sack of grain left behind.
Tie Niaofei stared at the scene for a long moment.
"If we'd lost back there," he said quietly, "this would be us."
Zao Ying's expression darkened. "There are black sheep among the Jin merchants—but most of them are decent folk. For centuries, they've supplied the border armies. No glory, no thanks—just duty."
She looked toward the north.
"Now the rebels block the roads. Small merchants can't reach Datong anymore. The border army's supplies…"
Her voice trailed off.
The Datong Border Command governed thirteen garrisons, eight hundred twenty-three fortified villages, and over three hundred signal towers.
It was the shield of the Ming heartland.
And it was starving.
The soldiers lived year-round in frozen winds, crumbling forts, and broken fields that yielded almost nothing. They faced Mongol cavalry that could appear overnight and erase entire outposts before dawn.
Hunger.
Cold.
Fear.
And now—
Grain shortages.
Zhang Zongheng listened to the reports, his face dark as iron.
"We have grain for three days," a subordinate said stiffly.
"The smaller Jin merchants can't get through. Their convoys are intercepted, and many are too frightened to even try."
Silence fell.
Sun Chuanting slammed his fist down. "Let me take my household guards! I'll hunt those rebels myself!"
Zhang Zongheng shook his head. "Useless. Even with Xu Dingchen and me setting traps across the region, we can't wipe them out."
Sun Chuanting said nothing.
Zhang Zongheng sighed deeply. "The rebels won't be cleared in a day. But soldiers must eat every day. What are we supposed to do?"
He paused.
"Those powerful Jin merchants—what's their situation?"
A deputy general leaned in and whispered.
"Half a month ago, Tian Shenglan delivered fifty shi of grain and five shi of salt. Then he pretended to return home—but actually circled south, then northeast."
"Our scouts followed him. At a border fort near Hongshaba Town, we saw him trading directly with the Mongols. The garrison there had already been bought. He delivered a hundred shi of grain, ten shi of salt, one shi of tea, and dozens of iron pots."
Sun Chuanting exploded.
"Fifty shi for us—but double that for the Mongols?! He deserves death!"
Zhang Zongheng replied quietly, "They pay better."
Sun Chuanting clenched his teeth. "We're starving—and the only merchants who can break through the rebels sell even more to the enemy!"
The deputy general whispered again.
"If we execute him, we lose even the fifty shi. If we let him live, at least he still delivers that much."
No one spoke.
The room tightened like a drawn bowstring.
Suddenly—
A soldier burst in, shouting, "Commander-in-Chief! Good news! A major Jin merchant has arrived! Fifty wagons of grain!"
"Fifty wagons?!" Zhang Zongheng exclaimed.
Sun Chuanting's eyes lit up.
Everyone surged toward the South Gate.
There, a long convoy rolled into Datong.
Fifty wagons.
Each piled high.
Tie Niaofei rode at the head. He dismounted, clasped his hands, and smiled.
"Commander-in-Chief. Master Sun."
He bowed.
"We meet again."