Bai Shui Wang Er charged toward the county seat with several hundred villagers at his back.
The two elderly soldiers guarding the gate took one look at the oncoming tide of pitch-smeared faces and froze like frightened hens. Because of the Ming dynasty's absurd tuntian garrison system, the county's actual troops weren't in town at all—they were miles away on the garrison farms, hoeing fields instead of holding spears.
Two old soldiers against a few hundred rebels?
Not even if Heaven granted them a hundred borrowed lifetimes.
Without hesitation, the pair dove into the drainage ditch, wriggled like terrified eels, tore off their uniforms, and instantly transformed into "harmless old grandpas" who'd never touched a weapon in their lives.
The rebel tide poured through the undefended gate and into the streets.
Panic erupted. Chickens squawked, dogs bolted, and terrified townsfolk slammed their doors shut.
Wang Er ignored them.
He led his mob straight toward the county yamen.
Only after the rebels thundered past did San Sier slip out from a narrow alley, glance left and right at the now-deserted street, and sprint toward the craftsmen's district—the cluster of shabby homes where artisans lived.
A moment earlier, as soon as Gao Chuwu had escorted his wife and daughter out of town, San Sier had been preparing to find an ironsmith. Then the roar outside the walls erupted—shouts, screams, the unmistakable sound of a rebellion breaking loose.
So Wang Er truly had risen in revolt.
San Sier reacted instantly. He peeled off his elegant scholar's robe and replaced it with coarse servant's clothes. He ruffled his hair until he resembled a weary, grimy middle-aged beggar. Only then did he slip out of his house and dart through the narrow lanes—arriving just in time to see Wang Er's rebels storm down the main thoroughfare like a flood of wrath.
Once they were gone, San Sier exhaled deeply to steady himself and ran toward the artisans' quarter.
Soon he reached Smith Street.
The place was dim, cramped, and reeking of waste water. The homes were shabby, sagging, and soot-stained. Ironworkers, carpenters, potters—every family here lived on the edge of survival.
San Sier drew a breath and knocked on one door.
Inside, the household's blacksmith—alone and trembling—nearly jumped out of his skin. With rebels rampaging outside, someone knocking on his door felt like Death tapping a finger on his shoulder. He wouldn't have opened at all if not for the familiar voice whispering softly:
"It's me. San Sier."
Only then did he muster the courage to unlatch the door.
"San Sier? Wh—why are you dressed like that?"
San Sier slipped inside and shut the door firmly behind him.
"Quiet. Rebels are everywhere. I had to disguise myself."
"Oh…" the smith muttered, more confused than reassured.
San Sier lowered his voice.
"Forget the rebels. They won't come for the likes of you. At worst they'll butcher the magistrate, the deputies, and the petty clerks, then raid the granaries. You and I—lowly folk—we're far down the list."
The smith swallowed. "Then… why have you come?"
San Sier put on his most earnest, flattering tone.
"Li Da, you're the finest blacksmith in Chengcheng County, though none of the officials ever treated you like a human being. Only I recognize your skill. That is called seeing a man's worth."
Li Da—indeed the county's best ironsmith—had forged weapons and armor for the patrol officers and garrison troops. Yet as a registered craftsman (jianghu), he ranked even lower than commoners. The magistrate rarely spared him a glance.
Only clerks like San Sier ever bothered to know which artisans were truly capable.
And San Sier, to be fair, was a decent man. He often spoke up for the poor. Li Da had benefited from his help before; otherwise he would never have dared unlock the door for anyone today.
"Yes," Li Da murmured awkwardly, "only you have ever valued my work."
San Sier leaned in.
"I know you're poor and desperate for a better life. Today I bring you a chance. Come with me. Serve as the private ironsmith of a very, very wealthy lord. Are you willing?"
Li Da blinked.
"A wealthy lord? Private ironsmith? But—I carry a craftsman's registration. If I leave without permission, that's… disastrous."
San Sier jerked his chin toward the window.
"Li Da, listen. Rebels are slaughtering people outside. If you escape now, no one will chase you. They'll assume you were hacked into paste. And once you're gone, you're free—no more craftsman status. Serve your new master well and he might even secure you a clean, freeborn registration."
That hit Li Da like thunder.
His ancestors had been captured generations ago and forced into artisan service. Their descendants, including him, inherited the same restricting caste. It was a miserable life—poor, despised, and nearly impossible to find a wife. No wonder he was still a bachelor.
Now San Sier promised escape, protection, and even the hope of becoming a free man?
His heart was already halfway out the door.
And, of course, ancient folk lacked modern scams to compare with—no tales of "go work overseas and wake up with missing kidneys." With San Sier's reputation as the one clerk who actually cared for people, Li Da believed every word.
"You… you're sure I can have a better life?"
"Trust me," San Sier said solemnly. "We must leave now. While rebels distract the guards, you can walk out of the city. When the rebellion ends, escape will be impossible. You'll be trapped in this caste for generations."
That last sentence terrified Li Da more than the rebels.
He gritted his teeth.
"Then take me. Take me to meet this great lord."
San Sier almost cheered. Excellent. Blacksmith acquired.
All thanks to his shameless tongue and total disregard for dignity—he had managed to secure one skilled craftsman for the "Heavenly Lord" of Gaojia Village. His status as Heaven's loyal boot-licker was now indisputable.
Far better than serving the magistrate, really.
He clapped Li Da on the shoulder and dragged him outside.
The county was in chaos—roars near the yamen, screams from the wealthy households, clashes of weapons. From the sound alone, San Sier could tell the yamen had fallen. The fighting had spilled into the noble estates; household guards were still resisting, but only barely.
From time to time, women's cries pierced the air.
San Sier didn't need to see it.
He knew exactly what horrors were unfolding. Officials' daughters, maids—fair-skinned, delicately raised—were the first victims in a mob's frenzy.
He sighed deeply.
The officials were guilty of seizing seed grain… but what crimes had those women committed?
Officials were no good—but rebels were no better.
In this filthy world, he thought, only I, San Sier, keep my conscience clean.
That, he decided, was called remaining pure while all around are corrupt.
"Come!" He tugged Li Da along. "If we delay, the rebels will sweep into this quarter next."
The two men ran through the alleys toward the gate.
It stood wide open.
No guards remained.
The moment they crossed the threshold, Li Da's heart soared.
He, a lifelong shackled craftsman, had finally slipped free of the government's chains.