North of Mengjin County, along the banks of the Yellow River, at the easternmost edge of Xiaolangdi.
Dawn had only just begun to break.
The sky was still dim, the line between night and morning blurred and indistinct, when a vast shadow slowly emerged on the northern bank of the Yellow River.
Boat after boat.
At first, they were only silhouettes.
Then the silhouettes multiplied.
Small sampans, fishing boats, merchant vessels, commandeered transports—packed so tightly together that they seemed to fuse into one dark, crawling mass upon the water.
The rebel army had begun to cross.
At the very front were the remnants of Xu Chenglong's Xiaolangdi water bandits. These men knew the river best. They piloted small, nimble boats, weaving through the current with practiced ease, serving as guides and pathfinders.
Close behind them came the true vanguard.
The forces of the South Camp Eight Great Kings and Zhang Xianzhong of the West Camp Eight Great Kings.
These were no longer mere river bandits. They were hardened rebel elites—men who had fought, killed, and survived countless engagements. They commandeered everything that could float: merchant ships seized from the docks, fishing boats stripped bare, and even government warships looted from the riverbanks of Shanxi.
Further back came the true bulk of the army.
The main forces of Chuǎng Wang and Zijing Liang.
Their numbers were overwhelming, an endless stream of bodies and hulls pouring toward the southern bank like a flood that could not be stopped.
And still, not all of them moved.
A large portion of the army remained behind on the northern shore.
That force was under the command of the Dashing General.
His task was clear: to guard the rear. If Xu Dingchen, the Governor of Shanxi, attempted pursuit, the Dashing General would intercept him—buying time at any cost.
The rebels had deliberately chosen this hour.
The moment when night had not fully retreated and dawn had not yet claimed the world.
Visibility was poor. The river was shrouded in mist and half-light. They hoped to slip past the government scouts unnoticed.
But they had badly misjudged their enemy.
The instant the rebel flotilla stirred, intelligence had already reached Qin Renhong, Regional Commander of Henan.
Government warships surged out from Cangbing Bay within Heqing Bay, cutting across the river with full speed, heading straight toward the center channel.
There was no probing.
No warning.
The naval battle erupted almost immediately.
"Loose arrows!"
"Loose arrows!"
"Kill those damned government dogs!"
"We have no retreat—break through their blockade!"
"Board them! Board them!"
Shouts and curses overlapped chaotically.
The river ignited.
Flaming arrows streaked across the dim sky, hissing as they struck decks and sails. Burning oil splashed across wooden hulls, fire spreading in violent blooms. The surface of the Yellow River reflected the flames, turning the water itself into a writhing sheet of fire.
On the southern bank, some distance away, Dao Xuan Tianzun lay prone in the tall grass, Gao Yiye beside him.
They peered through a telescope, silently observing the chaos unfolding on the river.
Gao Yiye rarely witnessed war.
Aside from the earliest battles of Gao Family Village, and the campaign when the Guyuan rebels attacked Chengcheng County, she had almost never been present on a battlefield.
Now, through the telescope, she saw a small wooden boat engulfed in flames. Burning oil clung to its hull and crew alike. Screaming men leapt into the river in desperation—only to be shot down by arrows from neighboring boats while struggling in the water.
Her stomach churned.
She lowered her voice unconsciously. "What a fierce battle…"
She swallowed. "Can the government forces win?"
"They won't."
Li Daoxuan's answer was calm, almost detached.
He had read the historical records. In this battle, the rebels would succeed in entering Henan.
Of course—that was assuming he did nothing.
With Gao Family Village now acting as a butterfly's wing, history was already trembling.
They continued watching.
The rebel warships surged forward in waves, colliding with the government vessels. Hooks flew. Ropes tightened. Ships crashed together.
The government forces were quickly overwhelmed.
They were simply too few.
The troops under Qin Renhong were only Henan garrison soldiers. Their combat strength could not compare to famous frontier generals like Cao Wenzhao, He Renlong, or Ma Xianglin, who were suppressing bandits in Shaanxi and Shanxi.
They were even inferior to Zuo Liangyu.
How could Qin Renhong possibly withstand such enemies?
At the height of the chaos, a harsh scraping sound rang out.
Grappling hooks slammed into the side of Qin Renhong's flagship.
He spun around.
A ferocious bandit had already vaulted aboard.
The man's eyes burned with savage excitement. He grinned broadly and roared with laughter.
"The South Camp Eight Great Kings has arrived!"
He pointed his saber forward.
"Qin Renhong! Hand over your dog's head!"
The name struck like thunder.
Qin Renhong's face went pale.
The South Camp Eight Great Kings—this was a bandit among bandits. Even official gazettes spoke of him with dread, describing him as brutally bloodthirsty, ruthless, and monstrously strong.
Now that the man stood before him in the flesh, Qin Renhong's legs trembled uncontrollably.
He didn't even dare to fight personally.
"Men!" he bellowed. "Quickly—throw him off the ship!"
Government soldiers rushed forward in a cluster.
The South Camp Eight Great Kings wielded his waist-saber with terrifying speed. He parried, slashed, thrust—several government soldiers fell back, wounded or killed, unable to gain the upper hand.
He planted himself by the ship's rail, holding the position alone.
Behind him, more grappling hooks flew.
One by one, fierce bandits scrambled aboard.
Qin Renhong's heart sank.
He turned and ran toward the stern, desperately searching for an escape skiff.
But before he reached it—
Hooks slammed down again.
Another group of bandits leapt aboard.
Their leader grinned widely, eyes glittering with madness.
"My name is Zhang Xianzhong," he announced loudly.
"The West Camp Eight Great Kings!"
He raised his saber.
"Remember it well. When you report to the King of Hell, don't misstate my name."
He pointed toward the other bandit.
"I am Zhang Xianzhong of the West Camp. The one before me is the South Camp Eight Great Kings."
Qin Renhong's heart thudded violently.
Damn it.
He'd remembered it wrong.
The official gazettes had described Zhang Xianzhong—the West Camp Eight Great Kings—as the truly brutal and vicious one.
And now—
Zhang Xianzhong charged.
Qin Renhong raised his weapon clumsily, barely managing to parry.
Three moves.
Less than three.
Zhang Xianzhong's saber flashed.
It hacked cleanly into Qin Renhong's neck.
Blood sprayed in a wide arc across the deck.
On the southern bank, Gao Yiye lowered her telescope.
Her voice was quiet.
"Heavenly Lord… the government forces have lost."
Li Daoxuan nodded.
"Yes. They're about to rout."
As if on cue, the government line collapsed.
The remaining warships turned and fled toward the southern bank. In their panic, several ran aground on sandbars. Soldiers scrambled ashore, abandoning ships entirely.
As they fled inland, they tore off helmets and armor, discarding anything that slowed them down.
On the riverbank, the Magistrate of Mengjin County was organizing local militia.
He was immediately swept up by the fleeing soldiers.
Panic spread.
The militia wavered.
"So many bandits!"
"The river is covered in their ships!"
"We can't stop this!"
"Should we retreat to the county seat and defend there?"
The magistrate felt numb.
He wasn't skilled in warfare, but military treatises all said the same thing: defending a riverbank was easier than defending a city.
Just then—
He saw two figures emerge calmly from the tall grass nearby.
The young hero Xiao Qiushui.
And his wife, Tang Fang.
They walked forward unhurriedly, utterly unfazed by the chaos.
The magistrate stared, dumbfounded.
Li Daoxuan asked evenly, "Why aren't you fleeing? What are you still standing here for?"
The magistrate trembled.
"The military texts say…" he stammered, "to strike them mid-crossing… is the best tactic. I was waiting until half their army crossed, then I would attack."
Li Daoxuan countered calmly, "The rebel army numbers two hundred thousand. Are you planning to wait until one hundred thousand have crossed?"
He looked at the militia.
"Can your handful of men defeat one hundred thousand bandits?"
The magistrate fell silent.
After a brief moment, understanding struck him like cold water.
He cried out, "Retreat! Fall back to defend the county seat!"
The militia vanished almost instantly.
Li Daoxuan spread his hands.
"Good," he said lightly. "All obstacles are gone."
He turned his gaze forward.
"Now it's our people's turn to enter."
At his words—
Three thousand local militiamen surged forward from behind.
They carried cast-iron versions of Chassepot rifles.
They rushed into the position abandoned by the Mengjin magistrate and immediately began working.
Sandbags were dumped.
Stacked.
Pressed together.
In mere moments, low sandbag walls took shape along the riverbank.
Riflemen crouched behind them.
A defensive line was born.
Jiang Cheng, commander of the new Henan militia, shouted loudly:
"Everyone—load your bullets!"
In truth, Jiang Cheng himself was new.
He had never commanded rifle troops before.
His soldiers were new.
The entire unit was painfully green.
The militia hurriedly began loading their first paper cartridges.
Hands trembled.
Some dropped bullets into the sand and scrambled desperately to find them.
Others inserted cartridges backward, sensed something wrong, yanked them out, and tried again.
Chaos reigned.
But the line held.
For now.