The Prince of Tang's guard had scattered Meng Hu and Du Hu so quickly that even the bandits themselves had not fully understood what had happened. Years of surviving as rebels had given them one supreme instinct: when uncertain, run first and think later. By the time Zhu Yujian's men finished their first decisive push, the two bandit leaders were already gone, vanishing into scrubland with enviable efficiency.
Zhu Yujian, flushed with triumph, felt his confidence swell.
"These petty bandits," he declared proudly, "dare show themselves before this prince? From now on, wherever we march, such vermin shall be swept aside."
The Prefect of Nanyang, who had ridden behind in increasing despair, stared at him with complicated eyes. He had expected a reckless noble. What he had just witnessed, however, was not recklessness alone. It was competence. And competence in a prince marching without authorization was far more dangerous than incompetence.
If Zhu Yujian proved useless, the court might forgive him.
If he proved capable, suspicion would bloom like poison ivy.
The Prefect's mind raced. Once this news reached the capital, how would the emperor interpret it? A prince with private troops. A prince capable of defeating bandits. A prince proclaiming loyalty while marching north.
The Prefect swallowed.
There was only one safe course. He would write first.
Without waiting for further developments, he excused himself and hurried back toward Nanyang City, determined to draft a memorial that placed distance between himself and whatever consequences were brewing. In careful language, he would report that Prince Zhu Yujian acted independently, ignoring repeated counsel, and that as a mere prefect he lacked the authority to restrain imperial blood.
He would make it abundantly clear that none of this was his idea.
Meanwhile, in the drought-stricken village, Bai Yuan listened as a scout recounted the clash in precise detail.
When the report ended, Bai Yuan allowed himself a faint smile.
"So His Highness won," he murmured.
Then his expression shifted slightly.
"Bandits are courageous only when they believe they hold the advantage. Once they realize the opponent is organized and disciplined, their courage evaporates. But once they understand that this force is merely a prince's private guard and not an imperial army, they may regain their nerve. When that happens, the Prince of Tang will discover that first victories are sometimes the most misleading."
Another scout approached at a brisk pace.
"Instructor Bai, the Prince of Tang's guard is approaching this village. It appears they intend to enter and rest."
Bai Yuan nodded calmly.
"Then let us receive them properly. Inform His Highness that the Xiaolangdi militia is here conducting disaster relief under the Governor's orders. If he wishes to enter, he is welcome. We will share food."
He paused, then added in a lighter tone.
"And put away the firearms. There is no need for His Highness to develop unnecessary curiosity."
The militia soldiers grinned and quietly removed their muskets from sight, tucking them into carts or covering them with cloth. Discipline was second nature to them, and discretion even more so.
As for the villagers, news of an approaching princely guard produced immediate unease. Many who had only just begun to trust retreated once more into their crumbling homes, clutching their bowls. To starving peasants, nobles were rarely symbols of comfort.
Before long, the Prince of Tang's men entered the village.
Zhu Yujian rode in with an expression of mild curiosity. He had intended only to rest briefly, allowing his troops to recover after their exertion. Instead, he found himself greeted by orderly relief operations and disciplined militia members who neither bowed excessively nor groveled.
He dismounted and surveyed the scene.
Large cauldrons simmered at the center of the village. The porridge within was thick, not the watery mockery so often served in the name of relief. If one inserted a chopstick upright, it would likely stand firm rather than sink.
Zhu Yujian felt a flicker of approval.
"This is genuine relief," he thought. "Not mere display."
Bai Yuan stepped forward, sleeves gathered neatly, posture composed.
"I am Bai Yuan, instructor of the Xiaolangdi militia. I pay my respects to His Highness, the Prince of Tang."
Zhu Yujian studied him briefly and sensed refinement beneath simplicity. He returned the courtesy without hesitation.
"These disaster victims are my people as well," Zhu Yujian said earnestly. "I could not assist them myself. For your efforts, Instructor Bai, you have my thanks."
Bai Yuan inclined his head.
"To do good without calculating the future," he replied softly, "is often the only way good may be done at all."
Zhu Yujian laughed lightly.
"Well spoken. As I march north, I follow the same principle. If one acts rightly, why fear consequences?"
"You are a courageous man, Your Highness."
"Courage is too grand a word," Zhu Yujian replied. "I merely refuse to sit idle."
Their exchange might have continued in mutual respect had events elsewhere in the village not taken a more heated turn.
One of the Prince's officers, a man clad in polished scale armor, strode directly to the porridge cauldrons. Without greeting anyone, without so much as a nod to the militia distributing food, he seized a bowl and dipped a ladle deep into the thick porridge.
Steam curled upward.
The act itself was not the issue. The militia had no intention of denying food to hungry soldiers. But the manner of it, the assumption that he need not ask, that this was his by right, carried the sour taste of entitlement.
A militia member standing nearby narrowed his eyes.
"Hold it," he said evenly. "This porridge is being distributed in order. You could at least ask."
The armored officer snorted, patting his chest where metal scales overlapped with a sharp clatter.
"Do you see this armor? Do you know who I serve?"
The militia soldier's expression did not change.
"I see armor. I do not see manners."
Several nearby militia members chuckled under their breath.
The officer's pride flared.
"What's wrong with taking a bowl? We just suppressed bandits."
"If you had asked," the militia soldier replied calmly, "a bowl would have been yours. But since you assume it is owed to you, we must clarify that it is not."
As he spoke, he extended his left hand and grasped the bowl.
The officer tightened his grip and pulled.
To his surprise, the bowl did not move an inch.
He applied more force. Veins stood out on his wrist. The bowl remained suspended between them, steady as a stone.
The officer's surprise quickly turned to irritation. He had not expected strength from a man holding a ladle.
With his free hand, he swung a punch toward the militia soldier's face.
It was a mistake.
Until that moment, the confrontation had remained a contest of pride. The instant the fist came forward, it became something else.
The militia soldier shifted slightly, the long ladle in his right hand sweeping upward with practiced precision. The reach of a ladle exceeds that of a fist, and in close quarters that difference matters.
The wooden scoop struck the officer squarely on the forehead.
Thwup.
A generous portion of steaming porridge followed, splattering across his face and dripping down the polished scales of his armor.
The officer staggered backward with a yelp.
"Hot! Hot!"
The militia soldier calmly retrieved the bowl in the same motion and stepped back.
"Good thing the bowl didn't spill," he remarked lightly. "No waste."
A nearby militia member shook his head in exaggerated sorrow.
"You smeared half a ladle on his face. That was waste."
The first soldier sighed theatrically.
"You are right. To waste good porridge in such a manner… I must reflect deeply on my mistake."
Laughter rippled through the militia ranks.
Across the square, Zhu Yujian turned at the commotion, his brows knitting slightly.
The drought had wasted enough already.
Now even porridge was being wasted on pride.