Fan Shangzheng suddenly realized something was terribly wrong.
These rebels felt… different.
"They're not planning to flee."
"They're advancing—deliberately."
"What does this mean?"
"Do these rebels actually intend to fight us head-on?"
The realization struck like a hammer.
Panic spread through the Ming soldiers in an instant, raw and uncontrollable. Fear gripped them by the throat before anyone could think to stop it.
Below the walls, the Eight Great King of the Southern Camp raised one hand.
Five hundred hecklers immediately surged forward, spreading out in formation. Then, as one—
They roared.
"Fan Shangzheng, Governor of Henan!
Your grandpa, the Eight Great King of the Southern Camp, has come today to demand grain!"
Fan Shangzheng stared down in disbelief.
He had never—never—seen rebels this brazen.
The hecklers continued, voices booming like thunder.
"Order your soldiers to surrender all military provisions—grain, weapons, armor, bows, arrows, carts—everything!"
"Hand them over obediently, and perhaps your grandpa will spare your worthless life!"
"But if you refuse—when this city falls, we will slaughter every last one of you!"
"Not even chickens or dogs will be left alive!"
Five hundred voices shouted in perfect unison.
The sound slammed into the city walls like a physical force.
Faces drained of color. Even veteran officers felt their scalps go cold.
Fan Shangzheng shrieked, his voice cracking with fury.
"Waugh! This official is enraged! How dare these bandits be so insolent!"
The Eight Great King of the Southern Camp threw his head back and laughed.
"Don't you squawk at me!" he shouted. "Do you think I'm afraid of a paltry governor like you?"
Fan Shangzheng, a civil official through and through, still hadn't grasped the true gravity of the situation.
But the military officers had.
They understood one brutal truth: war was fought with morale.
In the past, rebels fled at the sight of government troops because their morale collapsed first. But now?
The rebels were burning with fighting spirit—while the imperial soldiers' resolve was crumbling before their eyes.
At least Chen Yuanbo had prepared in advance, ordering laborers to reinforce the city walls. Otherwise, Wenshui County would have been completely undefended, and morale would have shattered even faster.
Still—
The walls were barely two meters high.
Any officer with even the most basic understanding of warfare felt a chill crawl up his spine the moment he stood atop them.
How could anyone defend a wall this low?
The rebels could stack corpses and climb straight over.
Fear spread—silent, cold, and infectious.
Many officers, long accustomed to embezzling military funds to keep private household guards, quietly pulled those guards close, forming tight protective circles. If things went south, they would carve a path through the chaos and flee.
Fan Shangzheng's own guards instinctively closed ranks around him.
This lord is impossible, they thought bitterly. Disaster is upon us, and he's still raging and cursing instead of understanding reality.
Below, the Eight Great King of the Southern Camp watched with cold satisfaction as the hesitation rippled along the walls.
Excellent, he thought. The Henan garrisons are still as easy to scare as ever.
"In the past," he mused, "the imperial troops chased us."
"Now—it's our turn to chase them."
He raised his arm.
"Prepare the assault!"
At his command, the rebel army stirred.
Ten thousand men began advancing—slowly, steadily—toward Wenshui County.
Fan Shangzheng fumed, stamping his foot.
"Outrageous! Utterly outrageous! Everyone, prepare to engage the enemy—"
He froze.
On the far right of the city wall, five hundred government soldiers suddenly turned around and ran.
Fan Shangzheng stared, stunned.
It took him a moment to react.
"Commander Guan!" he shouted. "How—how dare you abandon your post and flee the battlefield while I, the Governor, am still here?!"
Commander Guan didn't even look back.
He ran.
Fan Shangzheng was a governor, but he was still only a civil official. He had no immediate power to stop a military commander. At worst, a report would be filed later. With Commander Guan's connections at court, execution was unlikely—perhaps just a demotion.
But if he stayed?
He would die today.
The choice was obvious.
Commander Guan and his five hundred men moved with astonishing speed, like ghosts skimming water. They reached the South Gate, threw it open, and vanished.
That single act shattered the dam.
Another five hundred on the left fled.
Then five hundred from the front.
Then another five hundred.
When an army collapses, even the smallest crack becomes an avalanche.
In moments, all three thousand men Fan Shangzheng had brought were in full retreat.
Fan Shangzheng had originally stood at the rear, trying to maintain order. But the fleeing soldiers surged past him like a raging river. He and his household guards were stones in the current—forced apart as the flood rushed around them.
"How can you all be so craven?!" Fan Shangzheng bellowed.
No one listened.
Everyone was running.
In the blink of an eye, Fan Shangzheng and his guards found themselves standing at the very front of the battlefield.
His hands trembled. His mouth opened—but no sound came out.
Seeing this, the rebels erupted in wild cheers.
"Hahaha! The government troops are running!"
"Weren't you arrogant just now?"
"Chasing us day after day—now it's your turn to flee!"
"Hahahaha! Storm Wenshui County! Chop off those corrupt officials' heads!"
The rebels advanced even more boldly, their laughter echoing across the fields.
Fan Shangzheng did not flee.
Instead, he staggered forward and climbed onto the city wall. Staring at the dark tide of rebels pressing closer, despair swallowed him whole.
His guards screamed beside him.
"Master, run!"
"Master, abandon the city!"
"Master, they're almost here—run!"
Fan Shangzheng said nothing.
He stood there, utterly dazed.
Then—
A solemn, unfamiliar song drifted across the wall, sung by a young man:
"Let our weak selves learn cruelty,"Let our weak selves learn cruelty,
To fiercely face life's every chill…"
Fan Shangzheng turned his head in a daze.
Standing even closer to the edge of the wall than himself was Great Hero Xiao Qiushui.
Somehow, Li Daoxuan now held a curved saber in his hand. No one knew where it had come from.
He raised it, alone, facing tens of thousands of rebels.
Fan Shangzheng asked foolishly,
"Great Hero Xiao… what are you doing?"
Li Daoxuan replied calmly,
"I'm reenacting a scene."
"A man stands alone, facing an army of thousands charging at him. He raises his saber."
"So cool."
Fan Shangzheng was speechless.
Li Daoxuan glanced back.
"Was I cool just now?"
Fan Shangzheng remained speechless.
At that exact moment—
Hundreds of arquebusiers suddenly appeared behind Li Daoxuan, swiftly filling the gaps left by the fleeing soldiers.
The city wall—only two meters high—was pitiful for cold steel combat.
But for firearms?
It was perfect.
Infinitely better than sandbags.
Their morale soared, standing in stark contrast to the scattered imperial troops.
Fan Shangzheng gasped.
"Huh? These are militia? Where did they come from?"
One of his guards whispered urgently,
"Master, they came from those colorful tents. It seems those strange tents were their encampment."
Fan Shangzheng's eyes widened.
Li Daoxuan, radiating inexplicable confidence, pointed his saber forward and opened his mouth—
Then suddenly turned around.
"You take command," he said to the actual unit captain.