Huaiqing Prefecture stood firm.
Its towering walls loomed beneath the sky, battered yet unbroken, stubbornly resisting the prolonged siege. No matter how many days passed, the city refused to fall.
Outside the walls, however, patience was wearing thin.
Inside the main rebel camp, the Eight Great King of the Southern Camp pushed aside the tent flap and ducked in. The air inside was heavy with oil smoke and sweat. At the center of the tent, the Dashing General was crouched over a rough map scratched into a wooden board, his brow tightly furrowed, eyes sharp and restless.
The Southern Camp King dropped down beside him with a heavy thud.
"Dashing General," he said loudly, "my brothers and I owe you a great debt. If you hadn't carved a path for us into Henan, we'd have been cornered by the Yellow River and beaten to death by government troops."
The Dashing General merely nodded, his gaze never leaving the map.
Not far away, the Eight Great King of the West Camp sat in silence, arms folded, expression unreadable.
The Southern Camp King shot him a resentful glance and quickly looked away. The memory of their Yellow River crossing still burned in his chest. That bastard had sworn not to compete for boats—then shoved the hardest enemies onto his men. The betrayal still tasted bitter.
He turned back to the Dashing General.
"Dashing General," he said grimly, "if we don't take Huaiqing soon, we're finished. Our army's grain won't last much longer."
The Dashing General finally looked up.
"Indeed," he said. "With more than two hundred thousand mouths to feed, our consumption is terrifying. Plundering small towns and petty counties is no longer enough. Only by taking a major prefectural city like Huaiqing can we stockpile grain to survive."
The Southern Camp King frowned.
"But judging by things now, I don't see us taking it anytime soon."
The Dashing General exhaled slowly.
"A prefectural city isn't like a county seat," he admitted. "Our men are mostly new recruits. Their siege discipline is poor, coordination worse. They need time—training we simply don't have."
He paused, fingers tapping the map.
"At this stage," he continued, his voice lower, more cautious, "keeping everyone gathered together may not be the wisest choice. If we split up and advance along several routes, we can secure food more easily. At the same time, we'll force the Ming forces to scatter. They won't be able to concentrate their strength against us."
His tone lacked its usual arrogance. There was even a faint trace of self-blame.
The Southern Camp King frowned.
"You're saying… we should break up the army?"
"Not disband," the Dashing General replied. "But two hundred thousand men marching as one is too conspicuous—and too expensive. For now, splitting up is the only viable option."
Silence fell inside the tent.
Zijing Liang, Chuǎng Wang, Lao Huihui, Cao Cao, and the other rebel leaders all wore dark expressions. No one liked the idea—but no one could refute it.
The Eight Great King of the Southern Camp abruptly stood up.
"Fine. Fine!" he barked. "If that's the case, I'll be the first to leave. Damn it all, you people still have food, but my men are already starving! I was counting on taking Huaiqing so I could distribute grain. Since that won't happen anytime soon, I'll head out myself and scrounge up supplies."
Zijing Liang sneered.
"Scrounge? Every village, town, and county nearby has been plundered by us over and over. Where do you think you'll find food?"
The Southern Camp King only smirked, offering no answer. He turned and strode out of the tent without another word.
In truth, he already had a target.
His scouts had secretly delivered him crucial intelligence: Fan Shangzheng, Governor of Henan, had brought three thousand garrison troops and stationed them in Wenshui County, just to the south.
The moment he heard this, a vicious grin had crept across his face.
Three thousand garrison soldiers?
That's not an army—that's a gift.
There were no civilians left to plunder anyway. So why not rob the imperial soldiers instead?
Even if those soldiers were poor, they would certainly be carrying rations. Grain, weapons, armor—take it all, and it would still be a profitable haul.
After all, the fighting strength of garrison troops was barely better than that of peasants.
The Eight Great King of the Southern Camp wasted no time.
He left the main camp, gathered ten thousand men, and marched south in force, heading straight for Wenshui County.
The Henan garrison troops had never imagined that, while the imperial court left them half-starved and forgotten, this strange little county town would somehow produce both a great hero and a newly appointed magistrate capable of feeding them properly.
Rice cakes—warm, solid, real.
As Chen Yuanbo's men distributed food, the three thousand imperial soldiers clutched the rice cakes in their hands, many of them on the verge of tears.
This was no exaggeration.
Throughout the Great Ming, aside from the hardened northern frontier armies, southern garrison troops had spent more than two centuries farming. In practice, they had long become indistinguishable from common peasants.
In peacetime, they received no training. Their entire existence revolved around military farms. Yet even those lands were frequently seized by officers, civil officials, and even imperial princes. Countless military households were crushed under unbearable hardship.
As a result, desertion became rampant throughout the southern garrisons.
Military officers didn't stop it—why would they? Every deserter meant one more "phantom soldier" whose wages could be pocketed. It was a perfect arrangement.
Under such a system, these garrison troops had no will to fight. They fled at the first clash. In truth, their resolve was even weaker than that of local militias—for militias knew that defeat meant losing their homes.
Fan Shangzheng, commanding such troops, would have needed a miracle to ever win a battle.
Watching the soldiers devour their food like starving wolves, Fan Shangzheng felt a strange sensation stir in his chest.
Then—
A scout came sprinting in, shouting at the top of his lungs.
"Rebels! The rebels are here again!"
Fan Shangzheng's heart lurched violently.
At the same moment, Chen Yuanbo let out a soft, surprised "Ah," and turned his head toward Li Daoxuan.
Li Daoxuan met his gaze and gave a small, calm nod.
Absolute confidence.
Chen Yuanbo's anxiety instantly faded. If Dao Xuan Tianzun showed such composure, it meant that Gao Family Village's naval forces were undoubtedly nearby. There was nothing to fear.
On the other side, Fan Shangzheng was already panicking.
He grabbed the scout by the collar.
"Which rebel force? How many men?"
"It's the Eight Great King of the Southern Camp," the scout replied breathlessly. "About ten thousand men!"
"Him again?" Fan Shangzheng muttered. "Wasn't that man routed by Bai Yuan at the Yellow River, suffering catastrophic losses? How does he suddenly have ten thousand troops again?"
It was a question no one could answer.
"Prepare for battle!" Fan Shangzheng roared, leaping to his feet.
Orders rippled through the ranks.
The garrison troops hastily swallowed the last bites of their rice cakes, grabbed their weapons, and rushed toward the city walls.
Strangely enough, though they were cowardly garrison soldiers, they didn't appear especially afraid.
In their memories, imperial troops had always been the hunters, rebels the prey. Surely these bandits didn't know that imperial soldiers were stationed in Wenshui County. Once they saw the banners and the walls, they would retreat in panic.
A mere display of force would scatter them.
This belief was shared not only by the soldiers, but by their officers—and even by Fan Shangzheng himself.
Along the city walls, banners unfurled in dazzling profusion.
Governor Fan Shangzheng of Henan.
Deputy Commander-in-Chief of Henan.
Brigadier General of Henan.
With so many flags flying, even a fool could tell that thousands of imperial soldiers were garrisoned here. Ordinary rebel bands would never dare approach.
However—
Reality struck swiftly and mercilessly.
The ten thousand men of the Eight Great King of the Southern Camp did not scatter. They did not retreat. They did not hesitate.
As though blind to the banners and deaf to imperial authority, they surged toward Wenshui County like a rolling black tide, pressing forward with unstoppable momentum.
Only then did the imperial soldiers realize—
Something was terribly wrong.