The setting sun cast a blood-red glow over the battlefield outside Fenglai Town. The remnants of the Yuan forces had fled like startled birds, leaving behind a scene of devastation—shattered armor, broken spearheads, scattered arrows, and countless lifeless bodies strewn across the land they had sought to conquer. In the distance, the sound of retreating hooves faded, like the footsteps of a departing grim reaper.
Zijian stood at the town's entrance, holding aloft the blood-soaked head of the Yuan general. His gaze was as sharp as a blade, surveying the carnage. Behind him, the youth militia and villagers buzzed with high spirits, their weapons glinting in the dying sunlight, their killing intent still palpable.
This was the third town they had captured in a month since leaving Gudong Village, and the most strategically vital. Though small, Fenglai Town held immense value: bordered by the Yangtze River to the north for water control, backed by mountains to the south for defense, and flanked by trade routes to the east and west, it was a coveted prize for any army.
Zijian stared at the blood-hued sunset, crimson dripping through his fingers, staining the yellow earth. He thought, "Fenglai, with the Yangtze to the north and mountains to the south, could choke the Yuan's throat if fortified. The rebellion begins here."
Through months of battle and preparation, Zijian had evolved from a time-traveler into a rebel leader. His ambitions now stretched beyond survival, aiming to carve out a haven in this chaotic era—perhaps even to reshape history's course.
Turning to the crowd, he declared, "Brothers, this town is ours, the foundation of our rebellion! From today, we rename it 'Hezhou'—'He' for peace. We rise to end the world's chaos!"
"End the world's chaos!" the crowd roared, their voices shaking the hills, their morale soaring.
The words carried historical weight. Zijian knew that in the late Yuan, rebel armies rallied under banners like "acting for heaven." Emperor Hongwu had used the Red Turban banner to champion the people's welfare. Now, under his name, Zijian would carry forward that spirit.
Villagers began emerging from ruined homes, their faces a mix of fear and hope. Seeing the Yuan defeated, they wept with joy, rushing toward the rebels who had saved them.
A frail woman in her seventies knelt before Zijian, tears streaking her wrinkled face into the dust. "My savior, you've saved our village! I have no way to repay you!"
Zijian gently lifted her. "No need for ceremony, elder. The rebels fight for the people, and we'll keep you safe."
The townsfolk, witnessing this, erupted in praise. "This savior is a god-sent general!" "The rebels are righteous, true saviors!" The accolades echoed.
Zijian understood that in the desperate late Yuan, the people needed not just a victorious army but one that offered safety and dignity. This was the image he aimed to forge for his rebels.
---
Over the next few days, Zijian led the rebels in consolidating Hezhou. They inventoried grain to ensure supplies, reinforced weak defenses, and resettled the townsfolk to restore normalcy.
On the fifth day, he gathered all able-bodied men in the town square for a brief but rousing speech.
"The Yuan is corrupt, the people suffer," he proclaimed from a makeshift platform, his voice carrying. "Those who wish to resist, join our cause! Farmer, blacksmith, merchant, scholar—if you dream of a better world, you're one of us!"
His words rippled like a stone in a still lake. News spread beyond Hezhou, reaching nearby villages. Young men flocked to enlist, blacksmiths offered to forge weapons, farmers donated grain, merchants provided funds, and even women and elders sewed flags and uniforms.
Within ten days, the rebel force grew from dozens to nearly a thousand. Zijian didn't accept all, rigorously selecting six hundred strong and resolute recruits. From them, he handpicked fifty elite youths to form a special unit, the "Divine Machine Camp."
"Divine Machine Camp," he told the chosen, "means agility and ingenuity, striking to win. You'll be our spearhead, handling the most dangerous missions."
To forge this elite force, Zijian taught modern tactics: squad-based combat, stealth raids, and rapid retreats—revolutionary in the late Yuan.
Each dawn, as the sky blushed, the Divine Machine Camp trained in the forest. Despite the biting cold, the youths drilled with blades and spears, sweat soaking their tunics, their battle cries echoing through the trees.
"Remember," Zijian told them after a session, "when outnumbered, speed and wit prevail. Let the Yuan tremble at the name Divine Machine!"
The youths gritted their teeth, their eyes burning with hunger for victory—a resilience born of hardship that Zijian cherished.
---
Weapon upgrades were key to the rebels' growth. Zijian knew that to gain a decisive edge in this cold-weapon era, he needed advanced weaponry born of modern knowledge.
He gathered Hezhou's best blacksmiths, guiding them to mass-produce improved hand cannons and grenades. While hand cannons were simple, their reliability and lethality demanded precise craftsmanship and testing.
"The gunpowder mix is critical," he explained. "A slight error in saltpeter, sulfur, or charcoal changes the power drastically."
He demonstrated grenade-making—packing gunpowder into clay pots, inserting fuses, and sealing them. The first test produced a muffled blast, shards flying, startling the watching youths.
Zijian, calm, inspected the results and tweaked the formula. After several failures, a thunderous explosion shattered a boulder, debris raining down.
"My savior's divine skill!" the youths exclaimed.
The most awe-inspiring was the cannon test. When the blacksmiths' rushed prototype fired, its roar shook the valley, obliterating a target a hundred paces away. The crowd was stunned, morale soaring.
"With this divine weapon, how can we not conquer?" a blacksmith said, pride gleaming in his eyes.
Zijian smiled, knowing technological edges were fleeting. Long-term success demanded deeper planning.
---
Amid the busy military work, Zijian noticed a standout youth during a mock battle. He had split the rebels into two teams—Yuan soldiers versus rebels. The rebel commander, a young man named Tang He, used terrain to set a cunning ambush, routing the "enemy."
"This lad has a general's talent," Zijian nodded, impressed. "He'll go far."
Tang He, in his early twenties, was lean and resolute, with a calm intelligence beyond his years. Under Zijian's guidance, he quickly led a squad with disciplined formations.
"Tang He?" The name struck Zijian. In history, Tang He was a key general under Emperor Hongwu, a loyal ally in countless campaigns. Could this be him?
Scrutinizing the youth, Zijian sought traces of the historical figure. Tang He met his gaze with respect, saying, "Your teachings, my savior, are etched in my heart."
Zijian decided to mentor this promising leader, teaching advanced tactics: "When outnumbered, use terrain; fish-scale formations allow attack and retreat."
Beyond theory, he led Tang He in field drills, simulating battle scenarios. Tang He's quick learning made him Zijian's right-hand man.
"My savior," Tang He asked after a session, "where did you learn such profound strategies, unlike any common warrior?"
Caught off guard, Zijian smiled. "The art of war lies in the world's patterns, gained through observation and thought."
Tang He nodded thoughtfully, his eyes flashing with admiration. "Your insight is unmatched, my savior."
---
Late at night, Hezhou slept, but a lone lamp burned in Zijian's residence.
He sat at his desk, staring at the moonlight, his heart heavy. The image of Aleopard's sacrifice haunted him—the brave youth falling in blood, his fading eyes and final cry, "My savior, live!" carved into Zijian's soul.
His fists clenched, nails piercing his palms, blood dripping onto the map unnoticed. "Aleopard, you died for me, and I can't repay you. But my resolve won't waver."
Since that battle, such painful reflections often gripped him in the quiet night. He grieved not just for Aleopard but for the crushing responsibility of a time-traveler altering history. Could he bear this burden?
As he sank into thought, soft footsteps approached. His hand instinctively gripped his dagger, but he recognized Peishi's tread.
"Still awake, my savior?" Peishi entered, carrying a steaming bowl of medicinal broth.
Zijian relaxed, smiling. "Military matters keep sleep at bay."
Peishi set the broth down. "You toil daily; mind your health. This calming broth, drink it hot."
He downed it gratefully, warmth easing his fatigue. "Thank you for your care."
"You're a heaven-sent hero," Peishi said, her eyes shining with admiration. "With your leadership, you'll sweep away the Yuan and unite the land in three years."
Her words stirred a sigh. To the people, he was a legendary savior, a burden of expectation as much as motivation.
"The road is long," he said softly, "but I'll do my utmost."
Peishi smiled, tidying his desk before slipping out, leaving him to his thoughts.
---
Half a month later, Hezhou took shape. Fortifications strengthened, granaries filled, and rebel training advanced. To reward the troops and reassure the people, Zijian ordered a grand feast.
In the town square, red lanterns hung high, torches banishing the night. Whole roasted goats sizzled over fires, their aroma mingling with the scent of rice wine.
Children laughed and chased each other, women served steaming dishes, and the clatter of bowls mixed with song and laughter, turning Hezhou into a sea of joy.
Tang He led the Divine Machine Camp in a display—firing hand cannons at moving targets, sparks flying, earning roars of approval. A blade demonstration followed, their flashing steel showcasing rigorous training.
Old Li, tipsy, grabbed Zijian, slurring, "My savior, your genius saves Hezhou! In my twilight years, I hope to see you pacify the realm!"
Zijian laughed, raising his cup. "This victory is yours. We drink today, we fight tomorrow!"
After three rounds, music swelling, Zijian felt the wine's warmth. As night deepened, he excused himself, cheeks flushed. The crowd reluctantly let him go, Tang He steadying him with a grin. "Don't get too drunk, my savior—enjoy the night!"
Zijian clapped his shoulder, eyes warm but firm. "Train well, fight tomorrow." Waving to the crowd, he headed to his residence.
---
Back in his quarters, candlelight flickered as Zijian stumbled, head spinning. A lithe figure emerged from a side door, approaching.
"Drunk, my savior? Let me help," a soft female voice said.
In his haze, Zijian saw a woman in gossamer, her veiled face resembling Peishi's, her form alluring in the candlelight.
"Peishi, is that you?" he slurred, chuckling, reaching for her cheek.
As his hand neared the veil, a sweet, acrid scent hit him. His military instincts flared: *Drunk and careless, nearly fatal!*
Before he could react, the woman sneered, flicking her wrist. A cloud of smoke burst from her sleeve, enveloping his face. He held his breath, but the wine slowed him, and the fumes invaded his lungs.
The world spun, and he collapsed, his wine cup shattering with a sharp crack. In his fading consciousness, he glimpsed the woman's cold smile, utterly unlike Peishi's warmth.
---
"Drip, drip"—water droplets echoed off stone walls, piercing and monotonous.
Zijian stirred, head pounding, limbs heavy as lead. He found himself in a damp, cold cave, faint light from the entrance outlining its contours.
Struggling to sit, his throat parched, lips cracked, he analyzed, "The smoke was a sedative, not lethal. They want me alive, but for what?"
A figure approached from the cave's depths. As it neared, Zijian saw a girl of fifteen or sixteen, strikingly beautiful, with an ethereal air. Her plain white dress bore a white lotus pendant, glinting faintly.
Her eyes stunned him—deep and cold, like those of a weathered elder, not a young girl. They pierced him, as if seeing through his soul.
"Who are you? Where am I?" Zijian asked, voice hoarse from thirst, fighting dizziness. He tried to stand but staggered, bracing against the wall.
The girl stepped closer, a flicker of disdain in her eyes, a cold smile on her lips. "I am a White Lotus follower, tasked to test you. So lustful, ensnared by a woman's charm—how can you claim to overthrow the Yuan?"
Her voice was clear as a mountain stream but chilling, each word a dagger to his pride.
"Drunken misstep, not lust!" Zijian retorted, but his defense felt hollow.
She snorted, stopping an arm's length away, her gaze cutting. "Drunk and careless? Had it not been me, you'd be dead by a woman's hand, a laughable drunkard dreaming of greatness."
Her chin lifted, tone icier. "My name is Ma. Remember it. Fate may bring us together again."
She unhooked the white lotus pendant and tossed it at his feet. It landed with a crisp clink, echoing in the cave. Turning, she vanished into the darkness, her parting words lingering: "Wake up, hero."
Zijian's heart jolted. He picked up the pendant, fingers tracing its delicate lotus pattern. A buried historical memory surfaced—the White Lotus Society, a secretive, powerful religious group in the late Yuan and early Ming. And the surname "Ma" held weight in that era.
"Ma, White Lotus… could it be…" A bold guess formed, but he dismissed it. "No, history mentions no such figure."
Clutching the pendant, his mind raced. This encounter was not just a test of his vigilance but a hint of deeper undercurrents, signaling greater challenges ahead.
Outside, dawn broke, a ray of sunlight piercing the cave, warming the chill. Zijian stood, heading for the entrance, resolved to return to Hezhou and bolster defenses.
He sensed a larger storm brewing. This mysterious girl and her lotus pendant were enigmas he must unravel—keys to his survival in this chaotic era.