The Battle for Hequ County had begun.
It was not a clash that unfolded with elegance or heroic rhythm, but a roaring, shaking, gunpowder-devouring monster that gnawed at stone, flesh, and silver alike. Cannons thundered day and night, their voices never truly fading, only pausing long enough for the echoes to roll back from the hills. Each blast tore chunks from the city walls and, just as mercilessly, burned holes through the Ming treasury itself.
The imperial army had dragged in every cannon they could scrape together from across Shanxi. Iron pieces blackened with age, bronze guns polished smooth by generations of hands, old Portuguese cannons bought or seized long ago, and new locally forged monsters whose barrels still smelled of fresh casting. When the barrage began in earnest, the earth trembled beneath the feet of men like a fever-struck ox, shuddering and groaning as if it might collapse outright.
Inside the walls, Wang Jiayin's rebel army answered with pitiful means. They possessed only two Western cannons, trophies seized from Wang Guoliang in an earlier victory, and even those were rendered nearly useless by the reality of war. Powder dwindled, shot ran short, and each thunderous reply cost more than they could afford. Their ammunition disappeared faster than a beggar's patience at a closed gate.
The outcome of such a duel was never truly in doubt.
Artillery cared nothing for courage or reputation. It obeyed only numbers and supply.
And Wang Jiayin was running dry.
Within the city, chaos spread like an invisible sickness. Morale fractured first among the common soldiers, then among officers, until despair thickened the air like a clinging fog. A whisper passed from mouth to mouth, carried without sound yet understood by all.
"It's over. We're finished."
When men believe their fate is sealed, silver becomes sharper than blades, and rumors cut deeper than spears.
That night, beneath smoke-darkened skies and cold moonlight, imperial agents slipped into the city through forgotten wells and neglected drainage tunnels. Gatekeepers were bribed, patrols distracted, and words chosen with exquisite care. They found Wang Jiayin's cousin, Wang Guozhong, and poured sweet poison into his ear.
"The Emperor forgives quickly," they murmured. "Titles, mansions, gold. All you need to do is open one gate."
By dawn, the East Gate creaked open, slow and quiet, like the grin of a traitor who already tasted reward.
Through it surged Cao Wenzhao, the court's ferocious general, leading imperial troops in a brutal rush. Hequ County exploded into bedlam. Cannon fire, screams, and clashing steel merged into a single deafening storm that swallowed thought and command alike.
Zijing Liang, also known as Wang Ziyong, Bai Yuzhu, Chuang Wang Gao Yingxiang, Zhang Xianzhong, Bu Zhan Ni, every rebel lord lost his nerve at once. Each gathered his own followers and fled through different gates, abandoning banners, drums, and any pretense of order. One hundred thousand desperate men poured out of the city in every direction, and the imperial encirclement of twenty thousand buckled under the sheer force of panic.
You could not contain a flood with a fishing net.
Amid the confusion, Wang Jiayin himself broke southward, guarded closely by his most loyal shadow, a grim and silent man known only as Black Fiend.
Far to the south, in quiet woodland untouched by fire or shouting, Bai Mao had been waiting since dawn. The small puppet of Dao Xuan Tianzun perched on his shoulder, its stitched face unreadable, its presence oddly comforting. Bai Mao gnawed through his last strip of dried jerky as distant cannon fire rolled across the hills, each boom tugging at his nerves.
In his mind echoed the calm voice of Dao Xuan Tianzun.
"South."
So he waited.
Then it came.
A scattered, terrified column of soldiers flooded through the valley below him, no banners raised, no ranks held, just men running with fear painted plainly on their faces. Bai Mao's pulse quickened as he pressed himself against the rocks, his rifled musket already loaded and steady in his hands.
He recognized faces among them, men he had once seen laughing around campfires or looting villages under rebel banners.
Then he saw him.
Wang Jiayin.
Bai Mao aligned the barrel with the rebel king's head, breath slowing as the world narrowed to that single point.
"Spirits of Heaven, Spirits of Earth," he murmured, "may Dao Xuan Tianzun guide my hand."
He pulled the trigger.
Bang.
At that exact instant, Black Fiend stepped forward, placing himself between his lord and the unseen danger. The bullet punched cleanly through Black Fiend's skull, dropping him without a sound. Blood splashed across Wang Jiayin's face as he recoiled in horror.
"Ambush! Imperial ambush!"
The rebels surged forward in blind panic, scattering southward and vanishing into the mountain fog. Bai Mao lowered his musket and cursed under his breath. The noose had tightened, but not closed.
When the smoke thinned, he descended into the valley, hoisted Black Fiend's corpse over his shoulder, and began the long march north toward Wang Cheng'en's camp.
Hequ County, after the battle.
Inside the old county yamen, General Du Wenhuan sat in the high seat, surveying a hall that had been grotesquely transformed during Wang Jiayin's brief and foolish reign. The magistrate's modest chamber had become a vulgar parody of royalty. A throne draped in tiger skins, silk hung thick on the walls, gold goblets looted from who knew where, and a grand sign proclaiming, "The Single King Who Spans the Heavens."
Du Wenhuan curled his lip in disgust.
"A bandit playing emperor," he sneered. "Pathetic nouveau riche nonsense."
He slammed his hand down.
"Has Wang Jiayin been captured?"
Cao Wenzhao bowed stiffly. "He escaped."
"Zijing Liang?"
"He escaped."
"Bai Yuzhu?"
"He escaped."
"Even Chuang Wang Gao Yingxiang?"
"He also escaped."
"Heaven's sake!" Du Wenhuan roared, flinging a teacup that shattered across the floor. "Did everyone escape? What am I to tell His Majesty, that we captured their horses?"
"Our encirclement was too thin," Cao Wenzhao said helplessly. "Twenty thousand against one hundred thousand. We couldn't seal every gap."
Du Wenhuan paced, teeth clenched. "Useless, all of you…"
A soldier burst in. "Report! Shaanxi Regional Commander Wang Cheng'en has arrived with good news!"
"Good news?" Du Wenhuan snapped. "Did the rebels trip over their own swords?"
"He has captured a major rebel general."
That cooled Du Wenhuan's fury to a controlled simmer. "Very well. Let him in."
Moments later, Wang Cheng'en entered, followed by Bai Mao, who carried Black Fiend's corpse over his shoulder like a sack of grain. The officers recognized the dead man instantly.
"Black Fiend. Wang Jiayin's right-hand butcher."
Du Wenhuan's anger vanished, replaced by calculation and satisfaction. "Excellent. One dead Black Fiend is worth ten escaped bandits. Wang Cheng'en, you've earned credit."
"The credit belongs to this officer under my command," Wang Cheng'en said, gesturing to Bai Mao.
All eyes turned toward him. Lean, armored, dust-streaked, with the ragged puppet of Dao Xuan Tianzun perched proudly on his shoulder, he stood straight and silent.
Du Wenhuan frowned. "Your name and post?"
Bai Mao hesitated. His bandit name could never be spoken here. He blurted the first safe name that came to mind.
"Your humble subordinate, Wang Xiaohua of Chengcheng County, serving as centurion under General Wang."
"Wang… Xiaohua?"
The room paused. A name like Little Flower did not exactly inspire martial awe. A few officers failed to fully hide their amusement.
"No wonder he carries a doll," someone muttered.
Du Wenhuan ignored them. Merit mattered more than dignity.
"Wang Xiaohua, you slew a major rebel commander. Your achievements will be reported to the court. I hereby promote you to battalion commander. Serve loyally and bring glory to the Ming."
Bai Mao bowed deeply, his face solemn, his heart grinning like a gambler who had struck gold.
A battalion commander meant four hundred and forty men.
Perfect.
The puppet of Dao Xuan Tianzun on his shoulder tilted slightly, as if sharing in the smile.
Trivia :
"Why So Many Betrayals in Ancient Wars?"
1. Yes — Most of These Betrayals Really Happened.
The tales of generals or city officials secretly opening gates, switching sides, or assassinating their own lords are not fiction invented for drama. Ming and late Yuan–era military records are full of such accounts.
In the late Ming alone (1620s–1640s), nearly every major rebel siege — from Li Zicheng's campaigns in Shaanxi to Zhang Xianzhong's in Sichuan — ended with defection or betrayal rather than annihilation.
Even imperial officers did it. Generals like Wu Sangui famously opened the Great Wall to the Qing — the single most consequential betrayal in Chinese history.
2. Why Was Loyalty So Fragile?
Ancient loyalty wasn't the modern, patriotic type we imagine today. It was transactional — built on personal bonds, pay, and survival.
Here's why it broke so often:
a. Weak Central Authority:
The Ming bureaucracy was overstretched, and local armies were semi-independent. Commanders often paid their own soldiers. When the court delayed salaries or grain (which was frequent during famine and corruption), loyalty evaporated.
b. Pragmatism Over Honor:
In a collapsing regime, survival outweighed ideals. Soldiers and officials calculated:
"Why die for a doomed lord when I can switch sides and live comfortably?"
Betrayal wasn't seen as sin so much as clever timing.
c. Bandit Origins of Rebel Forces:
Many armies, like Wang Jiayin's, came from bandit backgrounds. These weren't disciplined, oath-bound troops; they were loose coalitions of survivalists. Their "loyalty" was to whoever could feed them.
d. No Professional Identity:
There was no national army in the modern sense — soldiers served generals, not nations. If a general fell, so did his men's allegiance.
e. The Culture of Opportunism:
Late imperial China revered success more than sentiment. A successful defector could later claim moral justification:
"I was serving the true emperor all along."
3. The Irony of History:
Because of this culture, betrayal became a survival mechanism — and sometimes, the only reason some states endured as long as they did. Even emperors learned to bribe or co-opt traitors instead of condemning them. It was cheaper, faster, and more predictable than loyalty.