The daily life of the tiny kingdom had erupted across the internet like a firecracker tossed into a henhouse.
Overnight, the short clip of the miniature battle surged through Douyin, leaving scorched earth in its wake—hundreds of thousands of likes, ten thousand comments, and an entire nation wondering what sorcery they had just witnessed.
Li Daoxuan lounged comfortably beside the diorama box, scrolling through the flood of reactions with the satisfied grin of a man watching crops he didn't plant suddenly sprout gold ingots.
"The tilt-shift effect is insane! Looks like a real tiny kingdom!"
"The Lego fortress walls—chef's kiss. Absolute comedy."
"Hold up, building this set must've cost a fortune."
"Fortune my foot. Obviously CGI. Nobody builds Lego fortresses just for a one-minute clip."
"If that's CGI, the artist isn't human. This is heavenly-realm craftsmanship."
"Those tiny props though! The pots, pitchforks, rusty blades—those are real."
"The bandit charge! Looked like a thousand extras!"
"Try thirty actors and a computer."
"Are you blind? Every guy looks different!"
"That catapult though—what in the nine heavens is it made of?"
"Uh… nobody actually got crushed by those stones, right?"
"Relax, genius. Even low-budget crews don't flatten stuntmen anymore."
"The effects look better than half the feature films this year."
"This one-minute clip must've cost serious silver."
"He's planning something big, trust me."
"One viral hit means nothing. If he can't keep the quality, he'll vanish."
Comment after comment, the praise poured in.
Li Daoxuan was so delighted he accidentally skipped lunch—an achievement worthy of a poetic inscription.
He wasn't a veteran content creator, but even he understood one rule of the digital battlefield:
If several videos perform well consecutively, the algorithm spirits will bless the account.
And once traffic stabilizes?
Livestream sales.
Easy money.
The sacred path of modern heroes.
Li Daoxuan studied his own reflection on his phone screen and nodded.
"Handsome enough," he murmured. "Livestreaming might actually work."
He cleared his throat and practiced with all the gravitas of a swordsman rehearsing a duel:
"Dear friends, I've negotiated a heavenly bargain for you! The same bricks used in the tiny kingdom fortress—no, not nine hundred and ninety-nine, not ninety-nine… only nine point nine! Free shipping to your door!"
He even pointed dramatically at the mirror, as if selling treasure weapons rather than building blocks.
Meanwhile, far from Li Daoxuan's blissful world of future online fame, Shansier and his companions marched under the protection of Goodman Wang.
The county town of Chengcheng lay only a few miles ahead.
Its silhouette peeked through the shimmering heat like a mirage.
But Goodman Wang halted abruptly.
"This is as far as I can go," he said, clasping his fists respectfully. "I'm still a wanted rebel. The court's pretending not to bother with me for now, but if I stroll up to the city gates… well, that'd be voluntary suicide."
Shansier returned the salute.
"You've helped us greatly. Here—some silver for your brothers."
He produced a handful of loose ingots.
Goodman Wang laughed and waved them away.
"Keep it. Everyone wants us dead these days. Even with silver, we couldn't buy a cabbage. Your kindness is enough."
Fair point, Shansier thought.
"Then tomorrow at dawn, we meet here again."
They parted with mutual respect, and Shansier's group made for the gates.
County towns in the Ming realm were normally run by a seventh-rank magistrate and about thirty constables, with a ninth-rank inspector leading soldiers from a garrison stationed miles away. Civil and military—each minding their own lane.
But today, Chengcheng had soldiers at its gate.
Young, broad-shouldered, sweating buckets under their armor, and glaring with such intensity that passing farmers reconsidered their life choices.
Shansier's group—ten men, large bundles, blades at their waists—looked like trouble from a mile away.
The moment they approached, the guards shoved the gate halfway shut.
"State your names!" one barked.
Shansier stepped forward calmly.
"I am Shansier, adviser to former magistrate Zhang Yaocai. These behind me are my assistants."
The soldier's face contorted as if he'd seen a ghost clawing its way out of its grave.
"S-S-Shansier…? But… didn't you… become a ghost in Gaojia Village…?"
Shansier blinked.
"When exactly did I die?"
Then it struck him—his previous little performance with Li Daoxuan, scaring Inspector Cheng Xu with supernatural theatrics.
He'd forgotten how convincing it had been.
And these two guards…
Yes, they were definitely part of Cheng Xu's squad.
They had been among the men who ran screaming, tripped over each other, and suffered nightmares for days.
Now, seeing him alive in broad daylight, they trembled like reeds in a river storm.
Shansier fought back laughter and instead wore the expression of a scholar mildly disappointed in the stupidity of the common folk.
"In the bright light of day, under the full gaze of the sun, you think I'm a ghost? Sounds like your conscience is haunted."
Both soldiers instinctively looked up.
Yes.
Sun blazing.
Ghosts rarely sunbathed.
One scratched his head.
"Then… what happened last time?"
Shansier adopted a bewildered face worthy of an award.
"When rebel Wang'er attacked, I fled with my wife. Only recently heard the county was safe, so I returned. Why? Have we met?"
The soldiers exchanged glances.
"The one we saw last time… must've been a ghost imitating him."
"This one looks like the real adviser."
And so Shansier, very much alive, very much amused, walked through the gates in triumph—all without lifting a blade or chanting a single ghostly incantation.