The moment Chuang Wang saw the man standing at the mouth of the valley, his heartbeat seemed to miss a step.
For a split second, he wondered whether exhaustion had finally begun to play tricks on his eyes. The burly frame, the thick beard, the steady gaze that did not waver even in the face of an army crashing toward him, all of it felt impossibly familiar.
"Wang Er… of Baishui?" he muttered under his breath.
The rebels around him also froze. They had all believed Wang Er to be long dead.
Years ago, after Wang Jiayin's brother in law Zhang Liwei and his kinsman Wang Guozhong had attempted to assassinate Wang Er, forcing him to flee from within the rebel ranks, he had vanished completely. No body had been found, no grave discovered. Rumors had circulated for a while, but in the brutal world of rebellion, absence usually meant death. Eventually, people stopped talking about him.
And yet his name had never truly faded.
Among the rebels, Wang Er of Baishui was still spoken of in low voices, sometimes with regret, sometimes with admiration. He had once been a figure of weight.
Now he stood there in flesh and blood.
Chuang Wang's voice trembled despite himself. "Wang Er from Baishui, you are actually still alive? No wonder. No wonder I felt something was wrong. The men on these peaks did not move like government troops. So they are all your subordinates? You gathered this many people just to ambush us? Back then it was Brother Wang Jiayin who wanted you dead, not me. Is this enormous display truly for revenge?"
Wang Er looked at him quietly and then slowly shook his head.
"Give up," he said in a calm voice. "Dashing General. No, I should call you Chuang Wang now. Your methods are wrong. This realm should not be contested in this way."
Those words struck harder than any blade.
Chuang Wang's jaw tightened. "If you command so many men, even more than I do, then why have you hidden in Shaanxi all these years? After Brother Wang Jiayin died, if you had stepped forward and called for support, heroes across the land would have flocked to you. You would not have needed to kill me to take the title. If you want it now, I will hand over the name of Chuang Wang. I will return to being Dashing General. Say the word."
Wang Er gave a faint, lonely laugh.
"I am no great hero," he replied. "If I gathered people like you and raised another banner, what would it change? Would it save the common people? No. It would only shatter more families, burn more homes, and leave more children wandering without parents. I have seen enough of that."
Chuang Wang could not answer.
For years he had told himself that rebellion was justice. That overthrowing corrupt officials would bring relief to the people. But standing before Wang Er, surrounded by peaks filled not with imperial troops but with ordinary militiamen, something in that logic felt fragile.
Wang Er extended his hand.
"Lower your weapons and surrender," he said steadily. "I will guarantee your life. But if you resist and are captured after defeat, there will be only death. No one will save you. Just like the previous Chuang Wang."
Steel rasped against its sheath.
Chuang Wang drew his saber in one swift motion. The blade flashed in the light.
"Wang Er," he said coldly, "you may command many men, but that does not mean you can defeat me."
Seeing the blade, Wang Er understood that words had failed.
He sighed softly. "Does power blind a man so completely? Once seated in the position of Chuang Wang, would one rather die than surrender?"
"Enough talk!" Chuang Wang roared.
He spun around and shouted toward his rear ranks, "Old Eighth Squad, prepare to fight to the death!"
Behind him stood the Old Eighth Squad, men from Mizhi County who had followed him from the earliest days. They had marched through mud and snow, starved together, fled together, killed together. Among all his forces, they were the most loyal and the most capable.
In unison, they drew their sabers and stepped forward.
The air grew taut.
Across from them, Wang Er raised his hand slightly.
"Wang Village Militia," he ordered calmly, "prepare for battle."
The men behind him were from Wang Village in Chengcheng County, his most trusted core. With smooth, practiced movements, each man lifted a bolt action rifle to his shoulder.
The metallic clicks of bolts sliding into place were crisp and disciplined.
When Chuang Wang saw the rifles clearly, his face darkened.
He had encountered these strange firearm troops before. They had appeared first in Shaanxi, then extended operations into Shanxi, Yunyang, Henan, even into Sichuan. Their activity had always centered around Shaanxi. He had once drawn a rough map, circling their area of operation, trying to trace their origin.
Now understanding dawned.
"So it was you," he said sharply. "The strange firearm unit. You created it."
Wang Er shook his head. "I do not possess such ability."
Before Chuang Wang could press further, something flickered in his eyes.
He turned his head abruptly and shouted at the top of his lungs, "Old Eighth Squad, run!"
The shift was so sudden that even Wang Village Militia hesitated.
Moments earlier Chuang Wang had declared a fight to the death, blade drawn, spirit blazing. Now he was already turning to flee.
But the Old Eighth Squad did not hesitate for even a heartbeat.
Years of fleeing across battlefields had forged reflexes sharper than steel. At his shout, they pivoted instantly and dashed sideways toward an eastern valley.
For two heartbeats, Wang Village Militia stood stunned.
Then Wang Er barked, "Fire!"
Gunshots erupted.
The sharp cracks echoed between the mountains as bullets tore through the air toward the fleeing men.
One of the Old Eighth Squad cried out and fell, blood blooming across his chest.
Another was struck in the shoulder, stumbling.
Yet the men beside them did not stop. They hoisted the wounded onto their backs and continued running. Their formation scattered fluidly, weaving between rocks and trees, using every scrap of terrain as cover.
Years of being hunted had taught them the art of escape better than any military drill.
More shots rang out.
Another man fell, clutching his leg.
This time, he knew he could not continue. He pushed himself upright, turned to face the pursuing fire, and roared, "Brothers, run! Avenge me later!"
He planted his feet and held his saber horizontally behind the retreating men. Bullets struck him. His body jerked once, twice, then collapsed heavily onto the ground.
Gunfire continued in grim succession.
Despite the barrage, Chuang Wang and more than half of the Old Eighth Squad burst out of the valley's far side. They sprinted into the eastern forest as rocks and rolling logs continued to crash down from the peaks.
The forest swallowed them.
By the time the smoke cleared, they had vanished.
"Damn it," several Wang Village militiamen muttered. "He escaped?"
Some of them wanted to pursue immediately.
But they could not enter the valley. Militiamen on the flanking peaks were still hurling rocks at the remaining rearguard rebels. Charging in now would invite friendly casualties.
Wang Er lowered his hand slowly.
Even after everything, they had failed to capture him.
He exhaled deeply. "After all this, we still could not keep him. Could it be that Heaven believes he should not die yet?"
He paused at his own words.
Heaven. Did that mean Dao Xuan Tianzun?
Not necessarily. The heavens might contain many beings. Perhaps Chuang Wang was shielded by other deities, less benevolent ones. It was even possible that some unruly immortals interfered. Matters above were never simple.
Shaking off the thought, Wang Er issued his next command.
"Send word to all outposts. Every road leading into Shaanxi must be monitored. Chuang Wang must never re enter. He has few men left, but as long as he lives, there will be no true peace."
Meanwhile, the battle across the forested valleys continued.
The rebel army had splintered completely. Men ran in every direction, pursued by rocks, logs, gunfire, arrows, crossbow bolts, and even toy catapults that Dao Xuan Tianzun had once bestowed. What had once been a grand host was now a scattered mass of terrified fugitives.
Not long after, Cheng Xu arrived with Gao Family Village's First Main Regiment. Behind them marched the pole wielding soldiers in their varied colors.
When they looked toward the peaks ahead, they saw hillsides packed with militia, still hurling rocks at rebels trapped below.
One of the pole wielding soldiers muttered in disbelief, "How many militia units did Shaanxi mobilize for this battle?"
Qin Liangyu observed calmly, "We will not advance into that valley. The rocks will not distinguish friend from foe. It is enough for us to block escape routes here."
Caught between relentless attacks from above and armed forces closing in from the rear, the rebels finally broke.
One by one, then in clusters, then in waves, they threw down their weapons.
They knelt.
They begged.
The peaks gradually fell silent as militiamen ceased their barrage.
When the counting was finished, the scale of the collapse became clear.
Chuang Wang's once mighty host was shattered. Vast numbers had died beneath stone and shot. Over seventy thousand were captured and designated for labor reform. Many bandit chiefs were seized. A few, with trusted retainers, escaped through obscure mountain paths, vanishing into the wilderness.
The rebel army that had once rampaged across Sichuan had met its end among these valleys.
Only Chuang Wang himself remained at large.
And as long as he breathed, the story was not yet finished.