The dry riverbed stretched like a scar under the rising moon, its cracked earth muffling their footsteps. Feng Kuan moved at the head of the first wave, ten bandits crouched low behind him. The baby was bound tightly to his chest with strips of cloth, her small body warm against his scarred skin. Every breath reminded him of the weight, both the physical burden and the chain that refused to let him die.
Scar Wang's plan had been simple and brutal, drilled into the men during the long afternoon: approach silently along the riverbed under cover of dusk, use the three precious matchlock muskets for a single devastating opening volley to stun the enemy, then close with cold steel while Black Ox's crew was still reeling. No prolonged fight. Hit hard, loot fast, retreat before any jiangshi drawn by noise could arrive.
So far, it was working.
They reached the edge of the granary compound without raising alarm. Lantern light flickered inside the half-ruined Ming supply depot. Black Ox's fifteen men lounged around small fires, laughing coarsely and passing wine skins. Grain sacks and three horses stood near the entrance. No sentries on the outer wall, overconfidence born of months without serious challenge.
Scar Wang, mounted on his gaunt horse at the rear, gave the silent signal.
Feng Kuan raised his hand. The three matchlock gunners knelt in the shadows, lit their slow-burning match cords, and aimed carefully just as he had taught them earlier that day.
"Fire!" Feng Kuan hissed.
The muskets cracked in near-perfect unison. Three heavy booms shattered the night. Thick white smoke billowed. Two of Black Ox's guards dropped instantly, chests torn open by lead shot. A third staggered, clutching a shattered shoulder, screaming.
Chaos erupted exactly as planned.
"Now!" Scar Wang roared from behind.
The bandits surged forward with disciplined fury. Feng Kuan led the charge, dao raised high. "Formation!" he barked, voice carrying over the sudden din. "Stay in line, don't bunch up!"
He met the first defender head-on, a burly man swinging a spear. Feng Kuan parried the thrust with the flat of his blade, stepped inside the reach, and delivered the powerful downward Ming infantry chop he had drilled into them. The dao bit deep into shoulder and collarbone. The man crumpled with a wet scream.
"Horizontal cut next!" Feng Kuan shouted at the bandit beside him, who was swinging wildly. "Weight on the back leg, open the belly!"
The man adjusted mid-stride and slashed low. His blade tore across an enemy's midsection. Blood sprayed. The tactical lessons were paying off. Scar Wang's crew pressed the advantage, pushing Black Ox's startled men back toward the granary doors in a controlled, brutal push. Steel clashed in ringing echoes. A spearman tried to flank Feng Kuan; he sidestepped, countered with a thrust under the ribs, then kicked the body free.
For several long minutes the raid unfolded almost exactly as Scar Wang had envisioned swift, overwhelming, profitable. Bandits were already grabbing sacks of millet and salt even as they fought.
Then the surprise hit.
From inside the granary came the unmistakable crack of returning gunfire, louder, sharper, and more numerous than Scar Wang's three muskets. Four… five… six shots in rapid succession. Heavy lead balls tore through the advancing line. One bandit spun with a shattered thigh. Another dropped silently, a hole punched through his chest. A third clutched his bleeding shoulder and screamed.
"They have guns!" Scar Wang bellowed, voice cracking with genuine shock. "The bastards have more matchlocks than we thought, and a three-eyed gun!"
Black Ox had hidden his real strength. Instead of the expected swords and spears, his crew had four additional matchlocks and a crude multi-barreled three-eyed gun positioned at the doorway. The surprise volley shattered the momentum of Scar Wang's plan. What should have been a clean rout turned into a messy, deadly brawl.
"Cover!" Feng Kuan roared, falling back behind a low stone wall as instructed in training. "Gunners reload fast! Everyone else, use the walls! Don't bunch up or you die together!"
The fight fragmented into brutal, tactical pockets. Feng Kuan moved like a shadow of his former captain self, correcting form even under fire. He parried a desperate spear thrust from a Black Ox man, then slashed horizontally across the attacker's torso. "Like that!" he shouted to the nearest bandit. "Back leg planted, power comes from the hips!"
Gun smoke thickened the air, stinging eyes and burning throats. Black Ox himself appeared at the granary entrance, firing a heavy matchlock before discarding it and drawing a massive cleaver. He charged Scar Wang with a roar. The two leaders clashed in a whirlwind of steel, cleaver against dao, while bullets continued to crack around them.
The baby's cries pierced the chaos, sharp and terrified. Feng Kuan tried to shield her with his body while fighting, one hand steadying her as he blocked and countered. Every wail felt like a dagger. "Quiet, little ghost," he growled through gritted teeth. "Your voice will bring the dead faster than their guns."
A bandit near him took a bullet to the leg and fell screaming. Feng Kuan dragged him behind cover. "Press the rag and burn if the stiff ones come," he ordered, voice steady despite the exhaustion clawing at his forty eight year old frame. "Don't let the wound close on you."
The battle dragged on longer than Scar Wang had planned. Black Ox's unexpected firearms forced a grinding melee instead of a quick overrun. Men died in ones and twos, stabbed, shot, or clubbed. Feng Kuan's training kept Scar Wang's side from collapsing entirely; he moved between pockets of fighting, shouting corrections: "Volley reload, one line fires while the other prepares! Keep distance from their guns!"
Finally, Scar Wang landed a decisive blow, opening Black Ox's throat with a vicious upward cut. The rival chief collapsed gurgling. His remaining men broke and fled into the darkness.
"Secure the grain!" Scar Wang ordered, breathing hard, blood on his face. "Take the horses and the extra muskets!"
The bandits looted frantically, sacks of millet, salt, two horses, four captured matchlocks, and a small barrel of gunpowder. But the cost was steep. Seven of Scar Wang's men lay dead or dying on the blood-soaked ground. The surprise of Black Ox's superior firearms had turned a clean raid into a costly, prolonged slaughter.
Scar Wang clapped Feng Kuan on the shoulder as they loaded the horses. "Your training held, old soldier. We came for grain and left with more guns. You earned your place tonight."
Feng Kuan said nothing. The baby's cries had weakened to exhausted hiccups against his chest, but the real price was only now becoming clear.
The heavy gunfire, far louder and more sustained than anyone had anticipated, had carried across the hills like thunder. Distant moans rose on the wind. Low. Hollow. Unnatural. Many of them.
Thump… thump… thump.
The jiangshi were coming, drawn in force by the roar of unexpected matchlocks and the scent of fresh blood.
As the battered bandits began their retreat toward the watchtower, Feng Kuan looked back at the burning granary and the bodies left behind. Another slaughter. Another group of men he had helped lead into death.
He placed one scarred hand gently over the baby's back, feeling her tiny, frantic heartbeat.
"Damn you, little ghost," he whispered, voice thick with exhaustion and self-loathing. "Your cries… their guns… everything burns because we exist."
The night air carried the growing chorus of moans, closer now.
The raid was over.
But the real horror was only beginning to follow.