As the scout looked as though he was about to escape, the Guyuan border army scouts pursuing him instantly grew frantic.
This was not panic born of cowardice, but the sharp, professional anxiety of men who understood exactly what failure meant.
The other five scouts had already finished off their respective targets. They turned their heads almost at the same time, only to see the last Manchu scout spurring his horse harder and harder, the distance between them stretching by the breath.
Too far.
Far enough that even a perfect arrow shot would be gambling with fate.
They could only watch helplessly as the scout sped farther and farther away, his figure shrinking against the rolling earth.
If he escaped, everything would be exposed.
The ambush route.
The militia's direction.
The timing of the attack.
All of it would be gone.
Just as everyone felt powerless—just as the thought "This mission has failed" began to settle in their hearts—
Something exploded out of the tall grass with a violent whoosh.
The sound was not the thundering hooves of cavalry, nor the hiss of an arrow slicing the air.
It was a strange mechanical whirring, completely out of place on a Ming–Qing battlefield.
It was none other than Production Model 3.
The Heavenly Lord.
Li Daoxuan.
His mystical propulsion wheels spun at terrifying speed. Four-wheel drive, oversized rubber tires, shock absorption tuned for broken terrain—his off-road performance was, without exaggeration, far superior to most military vehicles of later eras.
In an instant, he closed the distance.
From the Manchu scout's perspective, it was pure nightmare fuel.
He heard the noise first.
A buzzing, rolling sound, like some kind of demon grinding its teeth.
He turned his head.
And saw a figure—covered in wheels—driving toward him at unbelievable speed, pressed low to the ground in a prone position, like a metal beast hunting prey.
For a brief moment, his mind failed to process what he was seeing.
Then instinct kicked in.
The Manchu scout shrieked in absolute terror.
"What are you?! Stay away from me! Noooo!"
Li Daoxuan did not answer.
There was no time, and frankly, no obligation.
He closed the final distance and leaped.
Mid-air, the four wheels retracted smoothly into hidden compartments. There was no time to deploy the silicone outer shell.
As a result, the form revealed in that instant was neither human nor machine—but something deeply unsettling in between.
A half-human, half-mechanical Terminator T-800, descending from the sky.
This was not a sight that only terrified ancient people.
Even in modern films decades later, this kind of visual would still make audiences grip their seats.
The Manchu scout was so petrified that his breathing stopped entirely.
The next moment—
Li Daoxuan delivered a flying kick, squarely into the man's face.
He had originally intended to knock the scout off his horse and take him alive. Intelligence was valuable, after all.
Unfortunately, he had seriously underestimated one thing.
His own weight.
And his own strength.
The kick landed with a sickening crunch.
Facial bones shattered on impact, collapsing inward as if struck by a siege hammer.
There was no scream.
Just a dull thud as the scout and his horse crashed to the ground together.
Li Daoxuan landed, straightened up, and calmly pulled the silicone shell back into place, restoring his perfectly "normal" human exterior.
He dusted off his hands.
"…Damn it," he muttered. "Didn't get a live one."
He glanced at the corpse, then at the mangled face.
"Oh well. No big loss," he added. "Probably nothing useful to ask anyway."
Lao Nanfeng rode up from behind, reining in his horse beside him, a wide grin on his face.
"Heavenly Lord! The enemy scout squad to the southwest has been completely wiped out," he reported briskly. "No survivors. No messages sent. We can launch a surprise attack on the main Manchu army from this direction."
Li Daoxuan nodded.
"Good. Then the rest is up to you."
He did not say anything dramatic.
There was no need.
Meanwhile, the battle for Daizhou City had already descended into desperation.
The official troops led by the Prefect of Daizhou were simply no match for the Manchus.
At this time, the Manchu Eight Banners had not yet rotted from within. They were still disciplined, ferocious, and terrifyingly effective—able to claim, without exaggeration, the title of Asia's strongest army.
Their warriors were skilled, savage, and utterly indifferent to death.
Across the entire Ming Empire, only a handful of famous forces—the Guanning Iron Cavalry, the Qi Family Army, the Tianxiong Army, and the White Pole Soldiers—could truly face the Eight Banners head-on.
As for the rest?
They were soft-bellied soldiers in name only.
Daizhou City was on the brink of collapse.
Sun Chuanting, despite being proficient in both civil administration and military command, simply did not have enough men.
The city walls were under siege on all sides.
Manchu elite warriors had already climbed onto the battlements, forming stable combat formations. More soldiers continued scaling up behind them like an unending tide.
Sun Chuanting saw the situation clearly.
The balance had already tipped.
Daizhou City was finished.
"My lord, we must leave!" his retainers pleaded, rushing toward him.
"We cannot leave!" Sun Chuanting roared. "We can still fight!"
A retainer gritted his teeth. "My lord, you are not an imperial official at present. There is no need to die here. Look—the Prefect is the one who truly cannot escape."
High atop the Bianjing Tower, the Prefect of Daizhou stood motionless, his face pale as ash.
The imperial decree echoed endlessly in his mind.
Whoever loses a city shall be executed.
He was finished.
If death was unavoidable, then there was no reason to wait.
He laughed twice—hollow, empty laughs—and stepped off the tower.
His head struck the ground first.
With a sickening sound, it split open.
Sun Chuanting could only stare, utterly speechless.
"My lord! We must go!" the retainers shouted again.
They seized him from both sides, preparing to force him toward the south gate.
And then—
From the southwest flank of the Manchu siege army, a new force appeared.
No warning.
No signal.
They emerged as if from thin air.
The Manchu army had been completely focused on Daizhou City. No one had imagined an enemy appearing from that direction.
Because—
No scouts had returned.
In battle, nothing was more terrifying than an enemy appearing from an unknown quarter.
The effect on morale was devastating.
The Manchu army instinctively split in two.
One half continued assaulting the city.
The other half turned, without waiting for orders, to face the sudden threat.
It was not strategy.
It was instinct.
Sun Chuanting, viewing the battlefield from the city wall, saw everything clearly.
The approaching army carried no banners.
No standards.
"…Ah."
Suddenly, he remembered.
Tie Niaofei had given him a telescope.
He hurriedly pulled it out and focused on the new force.
At the very front—
Tie Niaofei himself was waving at him.
Sun Chuanting's heart surged with joy.
"The Jin merchants… organized a militia to help me?"
"Advance, advance, advance!"
The martial song rose.
For the first time, the Gao Family Village Militia advanced as a full army of ten thousand.
Cheng Xu commanded the center.
Lao Nanfeng led the vanguard.
Gao Chuwu guarded the left.
Bai Mao and Wang Er held the right.
Pride swelled in every soldier's chest.
And behind them—
The artillery battalion advanced.
The battalion commander was practically glowing.
"Brothers!" he shouted. "We've been ignored for too long! But now—with our light mortars and small grenades—the future battlefield belongs to us!"
"Let's go!" the artillerymen roared.
"Primary preparation!"
"Secondary preparation!"
"Fire!"
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Small grenades arced into the sky.
Moments later—
The Manchu formation shattered.
Cheng Xu raised his saber.
"Infantry—advance!"
"Advance, advance, advance!"
Volley fire.
Rolling fire.
The Manchu army collapsed.