Luoyang City, East Gate.
The city wall was cold beneath him.
Zhu Changxun sat there in silence, legs dangling over the inner edge of the battlements, his expression dark and restless. Behind him stood his five hundred personal guards — not five hundred more, not five hundred less. Every single one of them had been counted, registered, and approved by the court.
He knew that number by heart.
Five hundred.
Not a symbolic figure. Not an estimate. A hard ceiling.
Outside the city, the wind carried dust from the east. Kaifeng lay in that direction, and beyond Kaifeng, the rebels were stirring again. Everyone knew it. Messages came daily. Scouts rode in and out like ants fleeing a flooded nest.
If the rebels attacked, they would come from the east.
Which was why Zhu Changxun had transferred all five hundred of his personal guards here, stacking them tightly along the East Gate. Fan Shangzheng had also mobilized local militias and forcibly conscripted villagers, filling the gaps in the defenses with men who barely knew how to hold a spear straight.
Zhu Changxun stared at the horizon, teeth clenched.
In his heart, he cursed his ancestors.
Not the Great Ancestor, of course. Never the Great Ancestor.
Emperor Taizu, Zhu Yuanzhang, had treated his descendants generously. Princes were enfeoffed in key cities, stationed at strategic locations, given soldiers, supplies, and authority. The Zhu clan had once stood like iron pillars across the empire.
Back then, a prince was a prince.
But everything changed after Emperor Yongle.
The Jingnan Campaign had proven one thing with terrifying clarity: a prince with an army was a threat to the throne.
So the later emperors began to strip them, layer by layer.
First the command authority.
Then the troop numbers.
Then the right to recruit.
Then the right to train.
By the time it reached Zhu Changxun's generation, the so-called Prince of Fu — stationed in Luoyang, the "Center of the World" — was allowed exactly five hundred guards.
No more.
Not even one.
"If only I had as many soldiers as Old Ancestor Zhu Di did when he was enfeoffed in Yanping…" Zhu Changxun ground his teeth. "Why would I be afraid of a bunch of starving rebels?"
His resentment surged.
Princes of this generation lived worse than dogs.
And as if that weren't enough, he had even been swindled out of ten thousand taels of silver by a mere gentry member.
At the thought of this, Zhu Changxun turned sharply toward Fan Shangzheng.
"Governor," he said stiffly, "that fellow surnamed Bai took my money. Why isn't he here yet?"
Fan Shangzheng, standing to the side with his hands folded in his sleeves, replied calmly, "They're here already. Your Highness, look."
Zhu Changxun followed his gaze.
And froze.
From the distance, a formation approached.
Two thousand men.
Their footsteps were synchronized, steady, and heavy, producing a low, rolling sound that echoed faintly against the city walls. The formation was clean — not the loose, chaotic clumps of villagers or militia, but something disciplined, deliberate.
They wore no visible armor.
At least, not the kind Zhu Changxun was accustomed to seeing.
Plain cloth garments. Tight sleeves. Simple boots. Each man carried a firearm slung over his shoulder, with an ammunition pouch secured at his waist. Their faces were relaxed. Some even smiled faintly as they marched.
They advanced openly, without hesitation, straight toward the city.
Then, as if rehearsed countless times, they dispersed and began taking up defensive positions along the wall.
Zhu Changxun's expression cracked.
"A mere gentry member…" he thought wildly, "…dares to raise two thousand armed men? All with firearms? In the open?"
Yet he — a prince of the imperial clan — dared not command more than five hundred guards.
"What kind of world is this?" he cursed inwardly.
Envy.
Resentment.
And an unwilling spark of admiration.
They tangled together in his chest.
Unable to restrain himself, Zhu Changxun muttered aloud, "Isn't he afraid the court will accuse him of rebellion? Raising so many firearm troops?"
Fan Shangzheng lowered his voice. "The court stopped caring about that long ago, Your Highness. Didn't you know?"
Zhu Changxun turned sharply.
"Along the coast," Fan Shangzheng continued, "there's Zheng Zhilong. Former pirate. He openly buys firearms by the shipload. Cannons, muskets — whatever he wants. And what did the court do?"
Zhu Changxun didn't answer.
"They appointed him a Mobile Corps Commander," Fan Shangzheng said flatly. "Allowed him to raise troops, buy ships, purchase artillery."
Zhu Changxun went silent.
For a moment, it felt as if something heavy had slammed into his chest.
He slowly raised his hand, palm facing the sky, fingers spread, as if asking the heavens themselves.
"So… only princes aren't allowed to do this?" he said bitterly. "Everyone else can? Even thieves? But not us?"
Fan Shangzheng glanced at him, his expression unreadable.
That look said everything.
Zhu Changxun laughed dryly and waved the matter away. Complaining too much about this was dangerous. He changed the subject.
"I paid him ten thousand taels," he said. "And he sends only two thousand men. Five taels per head. Isn't that expensive?"
"That's because you haven't seen how formidable these men are," Fan Shangzheng replied.
"How formidable could they be?" Zhu Changxun scoffed. "They're just bird-guns."
He waved his hand.
A personal guard immediately stepped forward and presented a bird-gun.
Zhu Changxun took it, weighing it in his hands with casual familiarity.
"I've even used this thing to hunt birds," he said smugly.
Fan Shangzheng noticed the phrasing.
Used it, not hit anything.
"This thing doesn't shoot far," Zhu Changxun continued. "It's inaccurate. After one shot, reloading takes forever. It's a toy."
He glanced again at Bai Yuan's two thousand men and shook his head.
"Ten thousand taels for soldiers like these? Not worth it."
Fan Shangzheng nearly replied — but stopped himself.
There was no need to argue.
If the rebels came, Zhu Changxun would understand.
Outside Kaifeng City, in the rebel encampment.
A roughly drawn map lay spread across a table.
It depicted Henan Province — crude lines, uneven proportions, but every major river and city was marked. For rebels, this was already a luxury.
The Chuǎng Jiang stood nearby, having drawn it himself.
The Chuǎng Wang looked at the map, then nodded. "We've broken through the Yellow River defenses. As the Chuǎng Jiang suggested, we should bypass Luoyang and move southwest into Huguang."
Before he could say more, two generals stepped forward.
Brothers.
Meng Hu and Du Hu.
"Brother Chuǎng Wang," Meng Hu said loudly, "why bypass Luoyang? That's the Center of the World! Rich city! And there's even a prince inside. What's his title again?"
"Prince of Fu," Du Hu supplied.
"Right! Prince of Fu!" Meng Hu slapped his thigh. "Such a fat lamb, and we just walk around it?"
The Chuǎng Wang hesitated.
The Chuǎng Jiang frowned. "Luoyang is easy to defend and hard to attack. You all know this."
"We do," Meng Hu retorted. "But not even trying? I can't swallow that."
He scratched his head. "Is it a mule—"
"A horse," Du Hu corrected patiently.
"Right! Mule or horse, you have to ride it to know!"
The Chuǎng Jiang's face darkened. "Xiaolangdi is right next to Luoyang. Have you forgotten who stopped us at the Yellow River?"
"That was water!" Meng Hu snorted. "And northerners can't sail. This time it's land. What am I afraid of?"
"The gentry member," the Chuǎng Jiang snapped.
"What gentry member?" Meng Hu scoffed. "Bai… something."
"Bai Yuan," Du Hu said.
"That's the one!" Meng Hu waved dismissively. "Why fear him?"
"Enough," the Chuǎng Jiang said coldly. "I oppose attacking Luoyang."
"And who are you to decide?" Meng Hu shot back. "You're not the boss here."
The camp fell silent.
All eyes turned to the Chuǎng Wang.
The Chuǎng Wang felt his scalp tingle.
He wasn't a decisive man. Never had been. That was why he had survived this long.
After a long pause, he sighed.
"Fine," he said. "Those who want to scout Luoyang can go. Those who don't can bypass it."
He forced a smile.
"Let's be casual about it."