The roar arrived before the men.
It rolled over the fields beyond the village like a physical force, a unified bellow from more than ten thousand throats, crashing against rooftops and picket fences until even the dust seemed to tremble.
Meng Hu and Du Hu had returned with everything they had.
This time there would be no probing, no testing the waters. Over ten thousand rebels surged forward in a single mass, and their first strike was not steel, but sound. The thunderous war cry was meant to break morale before blades ever crossed.
It worked.
The Prince of Tang's guards had not yet glimpsed the enemy's banners, yet the sheer magnitude of the roar had already unsettled them. They numbered little more than a thousand in total, and among them barely two hundred were properly trained personal guards. The rest were hired swords, men of varying quality who had followed coin more faithfully than command.
At the first echo of that immense cry, discipline began to fray.
The commander, who had only just regained his composure after the earlier humiliation, rushed to Zhu Yujian in visible alarm. "Your Highness, the rebel force is overwhelming. We cannot withstand this. We must retreat to Nanyang at once."
Zhu Yujian's expression hardened. "We have only just left Nanyang. We have not even laid eyes upon the Manchu invaders, and you speak of retreat?"
"To face the Manchus," the commander replied urgently, "we must first survive this."
Even as they spoke, the weaknesses in their formation began to show. A handful of mercenaries slipped away toward the ditches behind the village. Others edged toward the tree line as if drawn by invisible strings. Panic spread in ripples. Orders were shouted, then contradicted. No one quite knew who should be obeyed.
Zhu Yujian stared in disbelief. "How can this be happening?"
Then he noticed something that froze him in place.
Bai Yuan's men had not moved in confusion.
They stood in quiet formation, faces composed, eyes fixed on their commander. There was no shouting, no frantic glances, no scrambling for escape. They simply waited.
Bai Yuan raised his hand.
"Prepare for battle."
The words were calm, almost conversational.
The effect was immediate.
The militia dispersed with astonishing precision. Men ran to abandoned huts and retrieved flintlock rifles concealed beneath loose floorboards. Others reached into thick brush where weapons had been hidden in oilcloth bundles. A few pulled long rifles from hollows in old trees as if drawing water from a well.
Within moments, every militiaman held a flintlock rifle.
They moved again, each to a predetermined position. Some climbed the small hill overlooking the village and lay prone behind natural cover. Others mounted rooftops, flattening themselves against tiles, barrels already aligned toward the approaching tide. Several crouched behind the village fence, adjusting angles of fire with measured care.
No one hesitated.
Voices carried across the field, crisp and orderly.
"Xiaolangdi Militia, Fifth Battalion, in position."
"Sixth Battalion, ready."
"Seventh Battalion, deployed."
"Eighth Battalion, ready."
The roll call ended. Silence followed.
The Prince of Tang's guards were still milling about in anxious clusters, while the militia had already become something else entirely. They were no longer villagers with weapons. They were a machine waiting for the correct moment to move.
Zhu Yujian felt a chill travel down his spine.
Who are these men?
Even the guard commander, moments ago eager to retreat, stared in awe. "Thank Heaven we did not clash with them earlier," he murmured. "We would not have survived it."
Bai Yuan turned slightly toward Zhu Yujian. "Your Highness, allow your men to secure the center of the village. Watch how this round unfolds."
Zhu Yujian could only nod.
A shout rose from the hill. "The rebel vanguard is within range."
"Not yet," came the calm reply from a battalion commander. "Let them come closer."
"They believe we are the Prince's guards," another voice added evenly. "They do not expect flintlocks. Hold."
The rebel mass surged forward, a living wave of bodies and crude weapons. They expected panic. They expected arrows loosed too early. They expected disorder.
Instead, they met silence.
Zhu Yujian found himself holding his breath. Had these been his own troops, someone would have fired prematurely out of fear or impatience. Yet here, even with ten thousand men charging, not a single shot rang out without command.
Only when the rebels were dangerously close did the frontline commander suddenly roar, "Open fire."
The order rippled down the line.
A deafening volley erupted.
The village exploded with thunder.
Moments earlier the militia had been as still as carved stone. Now the flintlocks cracked in relentless succession, smoke billowing across rooftops and fences, the sound like beans bursting in a blazing pan, rapid and merciless.
The front ranks of the rebels collapsed almost instantly.
Meng Hu's eyes widened in horror. "We've been trapped!"
Du Hu spat a curse. "We thought it was the Prince's rabble. It's that flintlock unit again."
"Retreat!" Meng Hu bellowed.
The charge reversed as quickly as it had begun. The rebel force, which had surged forward like a rising tide, now receded in chaos.
But they had come too close.
The earlier restraint of the militia now revealed its full brilliance. The rebels were well within effective range, and turning their backs only made them easier targets. Shots struck men mid-stride. Others stumbled and fell while scrambling over one another. Panic magnified casualties.
Some rebels dropped flat and refused to move, shouting for mercy. Others crawled desperately, unwilling to risk standing upright beneath that disciplined storm of lead.
It did not take long.
Meng Hu and Du Hu fled once more, abandoning hundreds of bodies and hundreds more who lay trembling with hands raised in surrender.
When the firing ceased, smoke drifted lazily over the field.
Bai Yuan lowered his hand.
"Count the casualties. Clear the field. Take the surrendered for labor reform."
His tone was steady, without triumph.
The militia moved at once, efficient even in aftermath.
Zhu Yujian stood speechless. His guards were equally stunned, watching as the Gao Family Village Militia handled prisoners, secured weapons, and reorganized positions with the same composure they had shown before the battle.
Villagers began emerging cautiously from their homes. Refugees who had once hesitated to leave now stared at the fallen rebels scattered beyond the fences, fear etched across their faces.
"They attacked again?" one refugee asked in disbelief.
"They did," a militiaman replied calmly. "And they may return yet again."
That was enough.
"Please take us with you," several refugees pleaded. "We will go to Luoyang. We dare not remain here."
The militiaman laughed lightly. "Do not call me 'honorable soldier.' That sounds ancient. Call me 'young man' or 'handsome lad.'"
Faced with such options, no one chose poorly.
"Handsome lad, please take us to Luoyang."
He grinned. "Ah, so my distinguished features have finally been recognized."
Fear eased into nervous laughter.
Before long, there was not a single villager willing to remain behind.
With prisoners secured and refugees assembled, Bai Yuan clasped his hands toward Zhu Yujian. "Your Highness, this village's matter is settled. I must proceed to the next."
Zhu Yujian looked at him with open admiration now, the earlier doubts replaced by something deeper.
"Master Bai," he said slowly, "your militia is truly formidable. If such men marched to the capital to support the emperor, where would the Manchu invaders find the arrogance to boast?"
The question lingered in the smoky air, heavier than any war cry.