The New People's Militia erupted into chaos—textbook chaos—the kind that only fresh recruits could produce when their first real battlefield suddenly decided to exist.
Hands shook. Cartridges were dropped. Ramrods clattered into the sand. Someone loaded a paper cartridge backward and stared at the rifle like it had personally betrayed him.
Jiang Cheng, commander of the New People's Militia, felt sweat pour down his back.
"What are you panicking for?!" he roared. "Pull yourselves together! You're defending your own homes! If you collapse like this, then when the marauders enter Henan, your parents, your wives, your children—who do you think they'll kill first?!"
The result was immediate.
The recruits panicked harder.
Jiang Cheng: "..."
Even Gao Yiye couldn't help clutching her sleeve. "Heavenly Lord… can they really hold?"
Ahead, on the riverbank, the answer was already trying to crawl ashore.
Small boats scraped against the mud in rapid succession. The first to land were the Xiaolangdi water bandits—traitors turned guides—leaping ashore with wild grins. Behind them came the vanguard forces of the South Camp Eight Great Kings and the West Camp Eight Great Kings.
Boats jammed together. Men shouted. Feet hit land.
Cheers exploded.
They saw the sandbags. They saw figures crouched behind them.
And they laughed.
"Militia?" someone scoffed. "These farmers think they can stop us?"
Xu Chenglong charged at the front, eyes red with excitement. "Break through! Take Xiaolangdi back!"
"Ooo–ah!"
The shout rolled forward like a wave—and smashed directly into panic.
Then—
One hundred figures stepped out.
Gao Yiye's personal guards.
They moved as one, boots digging into the riverbank, Chassepot rifles rising with terrifying calm.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
A hundred rifles spoke at once.
As the saying went: the bird that sticks its head out first gets shot.
Xu Chenglong's bird vanished.
He froze, eyes dropping to his lower body in disbelief. Then a scream tore out of him—high, sharp, inhuman.
Two more shots followed.
His chest burst red.
The collaborator collapsed face-first into the mud.
The Xiaolangdi bandits around him dropped just as fast, bodies thudding into the sand.
"They've got firearms!"
"So what?!" a subordinate of the South Camp Eight Great Kings roared. "After one volley, they take forever to reload! Charge!"
The bandits surged forward, screaming.
But something had changed.
The recruits had seen it.
They had seen veterans step up—and enemies fall.
Hands stopped shaking.
Breathing steadied.
They reloaded.
They aimed.
Months of training finally remembered itself.
"Bang!"
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
The New People's Militia opened fire.
Bandits charging at full speed pitched forward, tumbling like wheat under the sickle.
But the enemy was endless.
More boats scraped ashore.
More men poured out, howling.
The militia fired again.
And again.
Li Daoxuan, watching with interest, suddenly brightened. "Huh. Beach Landing Battle, 1632."
Gao Yiye slowly turned her head. "...What?"
Li Daoxuan waved at a nearby soldier. "Lend me your firearm."
The recruit froze—then immediately handed it over, trembling.
Li Daoxuan took the rifle, struck a dramatic pose, and narrowed his eyes.
"Hmph. Back in the day, I was a sharpshooter. Hitting misses was my specialty."
He aimed.
"Bang!"
The bandit kept charging.
Li Daoxuan: "..."
"Must be the controls. New mouse and keyboard."
He aimed again.
"Bang!"
Nothing.
Li Daoxuan handed the rifle back calmly. "Mortal weapons are truly troublesome. Far inferior to divine artifacts."
The recruit nodded vigorously. "Naturally. How could mortal tools suit one accustomed to celestial arms?"
He reloaded, aimed at the very bandit Li Daoxuan had missed.
"Bang!"
The bandit dropped.
The silicone at Li Daoxuan's lips twitched.
Damn it.
Then—
The river roared.
Ten massive flat-bottomed cargo ships surged forward, lined abreast, cutting across the Yellow River like iron beasts.
Gao Family Village's fleet had arrived.
Some bandits were already ashore, still locked in a deadly game with the militia. Others were mid-crossing, boats strung out in a long, vulnerable chain.
Bai Yuan's eyes lit up.
This is it.
The electric motors howled.
Ten ships charged straight into the rebel flotilla.
Zijing Liang jerked upright. "What are those?!"
Chuǎng Wang Gao Yingxiang stared. "No sails. No oars. How are they moving that fast?"
"They're not government ships!"
"And they're heading straight at us!"
"Intercept them!"
The orders died in the water.
No signals. No flags. No coordination.
On the river, command shattered.
Each boat became its own island.
Some bandits pressed on toward the bank. Others turned to face the charging ships.
The South Camp Eight Great Kings laughed loudly. "Ha! Let's seize those strange boats! They look like they can carry plenty!"
Beside him, the West Camp Eight Great Kings—Zhang Xianzhong—hesitated.
The gunfire on the shore reached his ears.
That familiar rhythm.
Sandbags.
Rifles.
Long ago, at the Longmen Yellow River Bridge…
He had fled once.
A five-centimeter-diameter circular shadow formed in his heart.
Please calculate the area of this psychological trauma.
The sounds were the same.
The feeling was the same.
The South Camp Eight Great Kings grinned. "Old Xi, coming with me?"
Zhang Xianzhong laughed dryly. "I'll leave them to you. Wouldn't want you thinking I'm stealing your spoils."
The river churned.
The crossing was broken.
And the strike—had truly come mid-stream.