The people of Jiangzhou didn't leave.
Not one of them.
After the clouds closed and the smaller Dao Xuan Tianzun descended, no one thought of going ho to cook, to work, or even to breathe properly. They simply stood there—packed shoulder to shoulder along the city walls, crouched on rooftops, balanced on broken tiles—eyes wide, necks craned, afraid that blinking might cause the miracle to vanish.
They had just watched a god beat a magistrate into sothing that barely resembled a human being.
No one wanted to miss the sequel.
The drizzle continued, light and persistent, misting the widened Fen River. The river itself seed confused, like it had gone to bed a narrow stream and woken up promoted to sothing much more important.
Then—
Sothing descended from the clouds.
A shovel.
Not a taphorical shovel.
Not a poetic one.
A very real, very large shovel, gleaming faintly through the rain.
It plunged into the river.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
The water roiled, mud boiled up from below, and the riverbanks visibly retreated.
The people of Jiangzhou collectively forgot how to use indoor voices.
"Wow—!"
"The Fen River—look at it!"
"It's wider!"
"And deeper!"
"Heavens above—this is divine power?!"
Soone squinted hard, then frowned.
"…Wait. Why is the god digging with a shovel?"
That question imdiately earned him a slap on the back of the head.
"Are you stupid?" another villager hissed. "If he blasted it open with a spell, where would we go? Straight to the underworld!"
"That's right," a third chid in solemnly, arms crossed like an expert. "Digging carefully is rcy. You think gods don't care about collateral damage?"
A fisherman wiped rain off his face and nodded fervently. "Exactly. If the river explodes, my boat explodes too."
Soone else whispered, awed, "This Dao Xuan Tianzun… his strength is no less than Jiwang's."
"Well, obviously," ca the reply. "Would Jiwang introduce just anyone as a friend?"
The shovel continued its work.
Mud flew.
Water surged.
The river groaned and reshaped itself under force that was neither violent nor gentle—but deliberate.
By the ti the shovel finally withdrew, the Fen River had doubled in width, stretching forty to fifty ters across. The water ran thick and murky now, ugly as sin—but everyone there knew rivers healed with ti.
Ugly water ant deep water.
Deep water ant ships.
The golden hand vanished back into the clouds.
The small Dao Xuan Tianzun, standing atop the southern city wall, rose slowly into the air. Rain slid off his smooth silicone body, pattering softly to the stones below.
His voice rolled out, calm and unhurried.
"Wait a few days. Large ships will arrive from downstream."
The people didn't cheer this ti.
They stared.
Because this wasn't a promise for tomorrow—it was a promise for a future they'd never dared imagine.
Then Dao Xuan Tianzun ascended.
The clouds closed.
The drizzle remained.
For a long mont, no one spoke.
Soone finally looked down.
The river was wider.
The city was still standing.
Qin Changqing lay crumpled near the temple steps, his face swollen beyond recognition, breathing shallowly, emitting noises that suggested regret had arrived late but violently.
This was not a dream.
It had happened.
Soone laughed.
Soone cried.
Soone dropped to their knees again, just in case.
And then Jiangzhou erupted.
Puxian.
The air there tasted nothing like rain and miracles.
It tasted like fear.
Zijing Liang stood outside the ruined county town, staring at the shapeless ss of broken walls and earthen barricades that passed for Puxian's defenses.
They should have fallen days ago.
Yet they hadn't.
"Our n pulled back again?" he asked quietly.
Chuǎng Wang, Gao Yingxiang, stepped up beside him and sighed. "Again."
"They won't break," Chuǎng Wang continued, rubbing his temples. "The governnt soldiers inside fight like madn. No fear. No hesitation. Every ti our people charge, morale collapses."
Zijing Liang didn't answer.
His eyes were fixed on a figure standing amid the rubble.
Silver armor.
White horse.
A straight-backed silhouette that refused to bend.
"Little Ma Chao," Zijing Liang spat. "Ma Xianglin."
Inside Puxian, Ma Xianglin was frowning as well.
Rain streaked down his silver armor, soaking the white plu of his helt. One eye burned with exhaustion; the other, long blind, stared unblinking toward the rebel camp.
He had been called many things.
Zhao Zilong.
Little Ma Chao.
One-Eyed Ma.
All of them ant the sa thing: a man who refused to die quietly.
Beside him stood Zhang Fengyi, armor dark with rain, posture unyielding.
"Any news?" Ma Xianglin asked.
She shook her head. "None. Scouts can't break through. We're sealed in."
Ma Xianglin exhaled slowly.
Defending a city without walls was like defending a corpse that refused to lie down. Every hour cost blood. Every night drained strength.
"The reinforcents will co," he said, more to himself than to her. "They have to."
Then—
A shout rang out from the tower.
"Movent to the east!"
Ma Xianglin and Zhang Fengyi climbed, boots slipping on wet stone.
Through the rain, they saw it: tens of thousands of rebels peeling away, surging eastward.
And beyond them—
A much smaller force.
Only a few thousand.
Ma Xianglin's jaw tightened. "Too few…"
Before the thought could finish—
Thunder cracked.
Not from the sky.
From the ground.
A wall of gunfire tore through the rain.
Bangbangbangbang—
The rebels' roar shattered into screams.
n turned and ran.
Chaos rippled backward like a broken wave.
Ma Xianglin stared.
Then smiled.
Just a little.
Rain or not, sothing had finally gone very, very wrong for the wrong side.
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