The first month of Chongzhen's sixth year arrived.
Spring returned to the land, bringing with it the season of plowing and sowing.
Outside Puzhou City, a scene unfolded that would have astonished any Ming official bold—or unlucky—enough to witness it.
A thousand White Pole Soldiers from Sichuan stood neatly along the field ridges, hands clasped behind their backs, gazes focused with battlefield-level intensity.
And standing before them—
was a scholar.
Zhao Sheng.
Sleeves rolled up, trousers splashed with mud, he stood knee-deep in farmland, gesturing animatedly as he explained the mysteries of what he called scientific farming.
"Look carefully," Zhao Sheng said, holding up a small sack. "This is urea. Used properly, it will greatly increase crop yields. But remember—too much will burn the roots. Fertilizer is nourishment, not poison."
As he spoke, he demonstrated each step himself: how to dilute it, how to spread it, how far from the roots it should be applied.
The White Pole Soldiers watched without blinking.
Watching alone was not enough.
Soon, the thousand soldiers dispersed into nearby fields, rolling up their sleeves and following Zhao Sheng's instructions step by step.
This made perfect sense.
The Tujia people of Shizhu followed the ancient system of "soldiers in wartime, farmers in peacetime." These men who charged fearlessly into arrow fire became, once back in Wan Shou Mountain, the backbone of their villages' agriculture.
They were not unfamiliar with soil.
They were simply learning how to master it.
This instruction had been personally ordered by Dao Xuan Tianzun himself.
After finishing a round of explanation, Zhao Sheng straightened up and suddenly noticed someone strolling along the field ridge with an easy, relaxed gait.
"Ah—Dao Xuan Tianzun," Zhao Sheng said with a grin. "General Zhang is over there."
Zhang Fengyi, who had been observing quietly, turned her head.
"So Dao Xuan Tianzun has arrived."
After spending time within Gao Family Village's territory, Zhang Fengyi had long since realized the truth.
Mr. Xiao, Mr. Li—those were merely mortal disguises.
This being was no ordinary man.
Li Daoxuan smiled lightly.
"How's it going? Are they learning well?"
Zhang Fengyi nodded.
"Thanks to Dao Xuan Tianzun's careful arrangements, they're learning quickly. My only worry is Wan Shou Mountain itself. The land there is rocky, the soil thin… I fear—"
Li Daoxuan waved his hand.
"No need to worry. I have three crops to recommend. They're perfectly suited for Wan Shou Mountain."
Zhang Fengyi's eyes lit up.
"Oh? Which three?"
Li Daoxuan extended his hand.
A potato.
A sweet potato.
An ear of corn.
Simple. Unremarkable.
Yet these three crops were precisely what future generations of the Tujia people would rely upon to survive and thrive in Wan Shou Mountain's harsh terrain.
Even centuries later, travelers would taste local specialties—potato rice, corn rice, sweet potato rice—and praise the resilience of the land and its people.
These crops were born for the White Pole Soldiers.
Zhang Fengyi studied them carefully.
"I've heard of these… but I have no experience planting them."
"No problem," Li Daoxuan said, turning his head. "Mr. Zhao."
Zhao Sheng stepped forward immediately.
"You'll need to teach them how to cultivate corn, sweet potatoes, and potatoes as well."
Zhao Sheng laughed.
"Dao Xuan Tianzun, I was already planning to. We simply haven't reached that part of the curriculum yet."
Li Daoxuan laughed heartily.
"Good, good. Follow your curriculum. Don't let me interfere. I wouldn't want an amateur guiding an expert."
Zhao Sheng burst into laughter.
"Dao Xuan Tianzun, you're being modest again. You know five centuries past, five centuries future, and five centuries in between. What could you possibly not know?"
"Hey," Li Daoxuan said, pretending to scold him, "you're learning bad habits. That's shameless flattery. Back to teaching."
Zhao Sheng bowed his head obediently and resumed his lesson.
The White Pole Soldiers listened with absolute seriousness—
as if this were battlefield orders rather than farming techniques.
Li Daoxuan turned to Zhang Fengyi.
"General Zhang, bandit armies are stirring in Hebei. For the time being, don't pursue them. Return to Wan Shou Mountain first. Implement these new farming methods immediately. Ensure your people are fed."
He paused.
"Food comes before war."
Zhang Fengyi clasped her fists deeply.
"That was my intention as well. The bandits grow stronger by the day. With only a thousand men, it's difficult to contend with them. I'll summon my husband to join me."
Li Daoxuan nodded.
"Good."
Three days later, after completing their studies and loading several carts of fertilizer as samples, the thousand White Pole Soldiers began their return to Sichuan.
Gao Family Village had provided grain, fertilizer, technology—and seeds for potatoes, corn, and sweet potatoes.
Zhang Fengyi could barely find words for such generosity. In the end, she could only say:
"I will repay this kindness."
Then she led her troops away.
Second month of Chongzhen's sixth year.
The bandit armies exploded across Hebei.
Zhaozhou fell.
Xishan fell.
Shunde fell.
Zhending fell.
They descended from the western slopes of Motianling into Wu'an, where they routed Zuo Liangyu's army. Garrison commander Cao Ming and registrar Wu Yingke were killed.
The bandits' momentum surged.
Then—
they collided with a wall.
Lu Xiangheng's Tianxiong Army appeared.
First, they smashed the bandits at Xishan.
Then, selecting elite troops from Huaxian, Lu Xiangheng set an ambush in dense forest terrain. When the bandits arrived, they were struck head-on.
Next came Linming County, then Motianling again.
Each battle was a hammer blow.
Finally, the bandits fled back to Xishan and besieged guerrilla commander Dong Weikun at Lengshui Village.
Lu Xiangheng ambushed them at southern Shicheng—another crushing defeat.
He pursued them to Qinglonggang, routing them once more and driving them back toward Wu'an.
Wu'an lay outside his jurisdiction.
Only then did the bandits barely escape with their lives.
Their situation became dire.
To the southwest of Shanxi stood Xing Honglang, Lao Nanfeng, Shi Jian, and Wang Xiaohua.
To the north of Hebei loomed Lu Xiangheng, a monster in human form.
To the northeast of Henan stood Bai Yuan and Chen Yuanbo.
The bandits' space to survive had been compressed to the extreme.
Those still in Shanxi fled north, crossed the Yellow River, and returned to Shaanxi.
Those already in Hebei gathered in Wu'an, arguing over their future.
"Brother Zijing Liang," someone asked, "what do we do now?"
Zijing Liang had no answer.
He looked around.
One by one, his subordinates lowered their heads.
Until—
his gaze landed on Chuǎng Wang.
Chuǎng Wang met his eyes without flinching. His gaze burned.
"Brother," Chuǎng Wang said, "I have a plan."
Zijing Liang straightened.
"Oh? Speak."
Chuǎng Wang said calmly,
"We have only one path left. We cross the Yellow River—south."
Zijing Liang shook his head.
"We can't cross there. Bai Yuan—"
"No," Chuǎng Wang interrupted. "Last time, we crossed at Mengjin and ran straight into Xiaolangdi. That's why Bai Yuan intercepted us."
He continued,
"But now we're in Hebei. We cross near Kaifeng Prefecture. Far from Xiaolangdi. Bai Yuan won't make it in time."
Zijing Liang's eyes narrowed.
"And after crossing?"
"We bypass Luoyang," Chuǎng Wang said. "Move southeast."
Then he smiled.
"We enter Huguang."