At the border between Guangyuan and Hanzhong, atop Zengjia Mountain at a narrow pass known as Gourd Neck, a newly constructed Gao Family Village watchtower stood like a lonely sentinel against the sky.
The location was harsh beyond description. Jagged ridgelines overlapped like waves of stone, and the mountain path that coiled upward was so narrow in places that two mules could not pass each other without one stepping aside in fear of the abyss. It was here that the Gao Family Village engineers had originally entertained an ambitious idea. They had hoped to transport cement up the mountain and construct a proper reinforced tower so that the sentries stationed there could live with a bit more comfort and safety.
In the end, reality won.
To move cement along the Shu mountain paths would require either divine intervention or utter madness. Even carrying grain up the slope demanded extraordinary effort. Transporting heavy building materials was nothing short of fantasy.
The engineers reluctantly abandoned their vision and turned instead to the forest itself. Timber was felled locally. Beams were carved and joined by hand. What rose from the summit was a sturdy wooden outpost, practical and unadorned, crouching against the wind like a hunter wrapped in rough fur.
Because of the difficulty of supply, the garrison was drastically reduced. While other outposts might house fifty soldiers, Gourd Neck had only ten. Even feeding those ten required careful coordination. Every sack of grain and every bucket of oil had to be hauled upward step by aching step.
Yet the hardship came with one incomparable reward.
From the summit of the Shu Road, one could gaze across endless mountains layered into the distance like brushstrokes of ink. Clouds drifted beneath the tower on certain mornings, turning the peaks into islands afloat upon a white sea. It was a view so grand that even Li Bai, who once lamented that the Sichuan Road was harder than climbing to the blue sky, had likely never stood at such a vantage.
Unfortunately, all ten sentries were illiterate. Not one among them could compose a single immortal verse to match the scene before their eyes.
Around noon that day, one of the sentries followed his usual routine. He descended a short way down the slope to draw spring water, balancing the bucket carefully as he returned, intending to boil it for the midday meal. As he approached the edge of the cliff near the outpost, something unusual caught his eye.
Far below, along the winding mountain path, movement rippled like a dark river.
He narrowed his eyes.
It was not wildlife.
It was not a caravan.
It was a dense, sprawling mass of human figures packed tightly together.
"Brothers," he shouted, voice cracking through the thin mountain air. "Come look at this."
The others rushed out, boots pounding against wooden planks, and crowded near the edge of the cliff. From above, the mountain path resembled a thread stitched across stone, and along that thread crawled an army.
The squad leader did not waste time guessing. He pulled out a telescope and steadied it against the wooden railing. When he focused the lens, a banner came into view among the chaotic ranks below. The character for Chuang flapped violently in the wind.
His face changed.
"It is the Dashing Bandits," he said sharply. "They have entered Shaanxi."
He snapped the telescope shut and rose in one motion.
"Light it. Quickly, light the beacon tower. Rally the forces at once."
The men moved instantly.
The beacon tower at Gourd Neck was simple in construction. A circle of stacked stones formed its base, and within it lay a carefully prepared pile of combustible material designed not merely to burn but to produce thick, dark smoke visible across vast distances. This method, refined over centuries, was one of the ancient strategic arts of the Central Plains, simple yet astonishingly effective.
When the fire was set, the result was immediate and dramatic. Black smoke surged upward in a thick column, so dense that the sentry who had crouched too close while igniting it emerged moments later coated head to toe in soot, his face darkened so completely that his companions burst into startled laughter despite the tension.
The smoke did not laugh.
It rose straight into the sky.
Miles away, at the Shanwu Head outpost, another group of sentries noticed the plume in the southern sky.
"That is Gourd Neck," their squad leader said grimly. "Beacon lit. Rebels have crossed into Shaanxi. Light ours as well."
Soon a second column joined the first.
Then another.
Then another.
Smoke signals leapt across the mountains in sequence, each tower passing the message onward until the entire southern horizon bore witness to the alarm.
In Hanzhong Prefecture, life had been proceeding with relative calm. A large steam train rolled into a temporary station, its pistons hissing as it slowed. Prince Rui, Zhu Changhao, as was his habit, leaned across the counter of the modest ticket booth and asked the attendant in a tone that mixed curiosity and calculation, "How many tickets did we sell today?"
"Sixty taels," the ticket seller replied.
Prince Rui blinked. "Only sixty? That cannot be correct. Business declines each day. How much silver am I losing? This will not do. There must be a method to increase revenue."
The ticket seller, seasoned by countless conversations with travelers, offered a suggestion. "Your Highness, I heard that the Prince of Qin's heir once faced similar trouble. He developed tourism along the railway route, promoted scenic sites, and encouraged travel. Ticket sales improved greatly, and the attractions themselves generated profit."
Prince Rui's eyes brightened immediately at the word profit.
"That is worth studying," he said thoughtfully. "I shall dispatch someone to learn the method."
Before he could elaborate further, a collective shout rose from the platform.
"Look to the south."
Prince Rui turned.
Against the southern sky, a thick column of black smoke swayed with the wind, unmistakable in its intent.
He frowned. "What is that? Someone curing meat on an enormous scale?"
Wang Er, who had remained stationed in Hanzhong, reacted differently. He sprang to his feet.
"Enemy sighted. Bandits have entered Shaanxi. Dispatch riders to Xi'an immediately. Mobilize the militia."
Prince Rui startled at the sudden urgency.
"Again?" he exclaimed.
Instinctively, he ran toward the train and shouted at the engineer, "Drive to Xi'an. Quickly. Hide until the fighting ends."
The engineer leaned out with an expression halfway between amusement and disbelief.
"Your Highness, the train is meant to carry soldiers here, not flee and abandon you."
Prince Rui froze.
Then clarity returned.
"Right. Of course. Proceed to Xi'an and bring men back at once."
After the previous crisis, he had finally grasped the true value of the great steam machine. It was not merely a tool for commerce. It was an instrument for rallying forces with unprecedented speed.
Hanzhong entered war readiness without delay.
Zhao Guangyuan, Regional Commander of Hanzhong, assembled his household guard and garrison troops. The prefect ordered militia instructors to summon their men. The steam train roared northward and returned swiftly, its carriages filled with militia members drawn from Baomei First Factory, Chang'an Automobile Factory, Xigang First Factory, and other organized units.
Men disembarked asking in loud voices, "Where are the bandits?"
"Zengjia Mountain," came the reply.
"Then let us move."
Unlike before, the militia did not rely solely on their legs. Roads now stretched partway into the Micang and Zengjia Mountains. While they could not penetrate the deepest Shu paths, reaching the foothills posed no difficulty. Vehicles from the Chang'an Automobile Factory, supplemented by Gao Family Village solar cars requisitioned in urgency, transported troops in steady waves toward the southern approaches.
Meanwhile, after enduring the treacherous plank roads of Mingyue Gorge, Chuang Wang and his weary forces finally emerged onto more stable ground.
They counted their losses.
Nearly two hundred men had fallen from cliffs or been injured along the way.
Chuang Wang looked back at the jagged ridges and spoke with bitter certainty, "I will never traverse the Shu mountain paths again."
As he rested briefly upon a stone, he lifted his gaze forward and saw it.
A black column of smoke pierced the distant sky.
His expression changed instantly.
"A beacon," he said.
Guo Tianxing stepped closer. "And what of it?"
"It means we have been seen," Chuang Wang replied. "It means they are warning others."
Guo Tianxing shrugged. "Everywhere we go, alarms ring. What has it changed? Aside from a few capable generals and that strange firearms unit, what can the court do to us?"
Chuang Wang considered this carefully.
There was truth in the words. Time and again, alarms had sounded. Time and again, they had broken through.
The smoke might signal danger, but it did not guarantee defeat.
At last he raised his hand and pointed toward the horizon where the beacon burned.
"Continue the advance," he ordered.
The army resumed its march northward, unaware that along iron rails and winding roads, forces were already converging in response to that single column of black smoke rising from Gourd Neck.