"SO, YOU'RE NO LONGER the chief of the Eastern Depot, yet you still refuse to let Xiahou Lian go?" Xiahou Lian asked, gaze lowered.
Shen Jue didn't answer his question, but instead pressed, "Who exactly are you?"
"Just Shang-erlang, a humble servant from Yunxian Tower," Xiahou Lian replied. "You may have killed Yan Xiaobei, but he died in our courtesan A-Chu's bed. A-Chu has always been kind to me, and I couldn't stand by and do nothing. So I disguised myself as Yan Xiaobei."
Shen Jue raised his hand slightly, gesturing to his officers. "We'll know whether you're Shang-erlang or not once we tear your mask off."
Two officers immediately stepped forward, and Xiahou Lian dismounted his horse, standing still as they flanked him. They probed his jaw and hairline for the seam of a mask, to no avail, then began poking and prodding at his face. No matter how long they searched, they found nothing. The officers exchanged baffled looks, but then one caught a faint scent wafting lightly from Xiahou Lian on the rain. The officer's eyes lit up with understanding.
"He's not wearing a mask—it's makeup!" He swiped his hand across Xiahou Lian's face, then brought it to his nose to sniff. "It's Tianxiang Pavilion's powder. My wife uses it, too. Their formula is unique; water doesn't wash it off. You need an oil-soaked cloth to remove it."
"Then we need to go into the inn," the other officer said. "They should have some tea oil."
Xiahou Lian stood quietly, his hands at his sides. Shen Jue regarded him for a while and said, "You seem rather calm."
"That's because I'm not," Xiahou Lian replied.
Shen Jue said nothing. The heavy downpour battered the leaves of the old locust tree, producing a loud crackle. The narrow alley was pitch black, every face a blurred shadow in the darkness. Xiahou Lian tilted his head to look up at Shen Jue on his horse, but he couldn't discern his expression—only that Shen Jue was staring in his direction. For some reason, Xiahou Lian sensed deep sorrow in his gaze.
As the screams from the inn gradually faded, Xiahou Lian followed Shen Jue and the others through the main gate. Beyond the spirit screen, the blue bricks on the ground were stained with dark-red blood; it mixed with the rainwater and flowed into the gutters, the rain soon rinsing it away. Shen Jue's officers were disposing of the bodies, digging a large pit and tossing them in one by one, whether they'd been identified or not. The corpses piled up in the pit, head against feet, feet against head, their faces frozen in terrified expressions, twisted into grotesque masks.
The men had already cleared the inn's main hall, pushing the tables and chairs aside. They'd left only a single high-backed chair in the center of the room next to a black-lacquered tea table. Two men dressed in bright-yellow flying fish robes knelt on the ground. Their hats were gone, their hairnets askew, and their faces trembled uncontrollably. Shivering, they huddled together like birds frozen in a frosty wind. The innkeeper cowered with his wife and children in a corner by the western wall. A wooden shelf jutted out above them, holding a gilded clay statue of the God of Wealth. The innkeeper and his family were acting like the statue was that of a Bodhisattva, chanting "Amitabha"27 and bowing repeatedly.
Shen Jue sat in the central chair, the hem of his robe fanning out like a peacock's tail, the silver and gold embroidery over his lap shimmering. The two kneeling men shivered even harder at the sight of him, but Shen Jue ignored them. Instead, he pointed at Xiahou Lian and said, "Bring a basin of oil and clean his face."
His officers brought tea oil from the kitchen along with towels and a comb. Calmly, Xiahou Lian removed his makeup, wiping his face clean. He even asked for a basin of water afterward to rinse his face thoroughly.
Zhu Shunzi was astonished. He'd never been part of the criminal underworld and had only heard of such masterful disguises in stories. Now that he was seeing one with his own eyes, his jaw dropped so far he could've fit an egg inside it.
When Xiahou Lian finished removing his makeup, he looked at Shen Jue with composure.
Shen Jue stood and walked over. He was so tall that his shadow fell over Xiahou Lian, who still knelt on the ground. Instinctively, Xiahou Lian leaned backward a little. Shen Jue reached out, his fingers searching Xiahou Lian's face as if he was unwilling to give up, determined to find the seam of a mask and tear it away to reveal the truth. But there was nothing.
Shen Jue's heart went cold. He felt ridiculous. Three years had passed since the last Ghost Festival, and he'd sworn to stop thinking about this. Yet here he was, clinging to the faintest sliver of hope. Having encountered someone so skilled at disguise, he couldn't help thinking that there might be a chance. He had needed to grab that chance, refusing to release it, tearing into the truth bit by bit, even if every revelation made his heart bleed. Only when it was raw and exposed would he finally stop.
It wasn't the darkness of a lifetime in the abyss that broke a person—it was a fleeting glimpse of light, the hope of reaching it, and an eventual fall back into the depths that shattered someone completely.
Shen Jue withdrew his hand and turned his back. "Get out," he said hoarsely.
Xiahou Lian froze for a moment, then realized that Shen Jue was addressing him. He rose from the ground and walked out. Shen Jue's officers stopped him outside, directing him to stand beneath the covered walkway with Zhu Shunzi.
Zhu Shunzi reached out and rubbed Xiahou Lian's face, curious, then gave him a thumbs-up. "Impressive. Even my sharp eyes couldn't see through your disguise. Your skills are remarkable."
Xiahou Lian was in a foul mood and only grunted half-heartedly in reply.
The two men squatted under the eaves and faced the courtyard where officers clad in rain capes dug pits to bury the dead.
Zhu Shunzi heaved a sigh. "Poor Yan Xiaobei. So young, yet his life's already over," he lamented. "At this rate, I'm not far behind, either. When I see him again, I won't even know what to say. We'll just sit there in silence with tears streaming down our faces."
Xiahou Lian thought about Yan Xiaobei. In retrospect, the guy's face had been mottled, blood seeping from his mouth and eyes—clear signs of poisoning, likely arsenic or aconite. He'd been so rushed in that moment that he'd failed to examine the body, simply accepting that A-Chu had killed him by accident. Xiahou Lian patted Zhu Shunzi's shoulder, consoling him.
"It's all my own doing," Zhu Shunzi muttered dejectedly, sighing again. "I had a perfectly good chance at the imperial exams—but no, I just had to join the Eastern Depot. Even that wasn't enough—I had to go stick my neck out for that old traitor Wei De. I've finally figured it out. I've got fish for brains; I'd be better off farming than climbing the Eastern Depot's ranks and making a fortune. I should give up on that dream."
He glanced in Shen Jue's direction. "Look over there. Now, he's worth talking about. Everyone thought he was done for, but it turns out he's thriving! He operates in the shadows while Wei De works out in the open. Who'll get the last laugh? I suppose that's still up in the air."
Xiahou Lian followed his gaze. "Who are those two men kneeling over there?" he asked.
"The rounder one is Su Yu, Assistant Director of the Embroidered Uniform Guard. The other one shaking is Li Changyan from the Northern Garrison and Surveillance Bureau," Zhu Shunzi explained.
Shen Jue stared coldly at the two men quivering on the ground and cracked a sinister smile. "Tell me, where are you meeting the prince of Fu?"
Gathering his courage, Su Yu retorted, "Shen Jue, you've got a lot of nerve, massacring an inn to intercept us halfway! You know that if the court indicts you, you won't escape, even if you sprout wings!" His tone softened. "It's not too late to turn back now. I'll advocate for you. And once he's taken your past loyalty into account, Wei-gonggong won't be too hard on you. We can cover this up and ensure that the Censorate and Ministry of Justice hear nothing of it. You can simply continue on to Nanjing—what do you say?"
"Yes, yes!" Li Changyan chimed in desperately. "Turn back while you can, Shen-gonggong! It's the wisest choice!"
"A very nice speech, but I'm afraid I'd be dead before I got there," Shen Jue replied, dusting his robe off as he sat back in his chair. "You two should think about what to do next. You're no strangers to the punishments in the imperial prison. Watching others be flayed and disemboweled must've been quite entertaining, But I wonder how experiencing it personally will feel?"
Both men shuddered violently, and Su Yu stammered, "Torturing imperial officials, Shen Jue…? Do you want to lose your head? Even if you discovered the prince's whereabouts, what could you do? Would the prince listen to a disgrace like you? Or are you planning to kill him too? You—you've really got some nerve!"
"Still unwilling to talk? You've got quite the backbone," Shen Jue sneered. "Before, I'd have put you through every torture I knew, but I'm too pressed for time to waste it on you. Men, prepare to 'pluck the pipa' with them. Make sure the ginseng soup is ready—I want them to savor every moment." He tapped his knee thoughtfully, then turned to Su Yu with a smile. "You're the brave one, so you can go first!"
As Shen Jue finished speaking, several of his officers stepped forward. They dragged Li Changyan to one side, forcing his head down to ensure that he could see every detail. Then they pressed Su Yu to the ground, binding his hands and feet tightly and stripping away his clothing to reveal his chest and abdomen. Su Yu screamed in terror, hurling curses, but his protests were futile.
More agents entered carrying sharp blades, their expressions indifferent and methodical. They were seasoned torturers, well-versed in the darkest prison methods. "Plucking the pipa" was a poetic name, but the act itself was anything but delicate. The victim's ribs served as the "pipa's" strings, and a blade tip as the pick. The blade glided across the ribs, slicing through flesh and drawing blood with every stroke.
Shen Jue's agents were old hands; they knew their craft so well they could "pluck" their victim's ribs three or four times without killing them. If the prisoner fainted, they splashed him with water to rouse him, feeding him ginseng soup to keep him from dying. The victim would linger on death's door, unable to live or perish. Sometimes, the torturers stripped their flesh away entirely, allowing the blade to pluck the exposed ribs—it really could produce some lovely music.
Su Yu passed out twice during the ordeal. Blood poured from his chest and stomach as one officer "played," another forcing soup down his throat. Shen Jue watched impassively, toying with the tassel of a jade ornament at his waist, cold as an ice sculpture. Li Changyan trembled uncontrollably. Unable to bear the sight, he tried to look away, but the officers forced his face back. When Li Chengyan attempted to close his eyes, they pried them open again. There was no escape—he had no choice but to watch Su Yu's torture.
"We're just two nobodies," Zhu Sunzhi whispered miserably to Xiahou Lian. "Shen Jue surely wouldn't bother torturing us like that, right?"
Xiahou Lian, quite shaken himself, reassured Zhu Shunzi as best he could, but he wasn't entirely certain.
From their spot on the walkway, the pair had an unobstructed view of everything happening in the hall. It was Xiahou Lian's first time encountering such vicious methods. As an assassin, his kills had always been swift and decisive, preferably accomplished with a single, clean strike. This dragged-out torture with its elaborate theatrics was foreign to him. Even within the Garden, punishments rarely extended beyond severe lashings. Those were painful, but nothing compared to the horrors of plucking the pipa. For all his experience, Xiahou Lian couldn't help but furrow his brow and avert his gaze.
"He's dead," one agent finally reported to Shen Jue.
Su Yu lay lifeless on the ground, his white ribs exposed to the air, his lungs visible beneath. Li Changyan collapsed to the ground in a heap, his eyes vacant, and Shen Jue's cold gaze fell on him.
"Your turn," he said lightly.
"I'll talk! I'll confess to everything!" Li Changyan sobbed, scrambling to Shen Jue's side. "We've made arrangements! After the prince of Fu heads north from Jiading, we're to meet him in Hejian…in Hejian!"
"And then?"
"And then…then we'll head to the capital together. Wei-gonggong will meet His Highness on the outskirts and secretly escort him to the palace. They plan to force His Majesty to write an edict declaring the prince of Fu the crown prince!" Tears streamed down Li Changyan's face as he began to plead. "Shen Jue, I know you won't let me live, but at least give me a quick death—I beg you!"
"As you wish," Shen Jue replied, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his temple. An officer approached and drew his blade, then grabbed Li Changyan by the hair and slashed his throat. Blood gushed forth, pooling on the ground.
Zhu Shunzi stared, his eyes wide with terror. "We're next. We're next! Shen Jue would never drag two burdens like us all the way to Hejian, and there's no chance he'll leave us alive and risk exposure. We're as good as dead! We're done for!"
Xiahou Lian's heart skipped a beat. Without his saber, he truly was as defenseless as a fish on a chopping board. His eyes darted around, searching for any means of escape, but every door and passageway was heavily guarded. The upper floors might offer a slim chance, but fleeing would still be nearly impossible.
Dying here would be so pointless. Who would've guessed that, after surviving the Garden, Xiahou Lian would meet his fate at Shen Jue's hands? Then again…maybe that wasn't so bad after all. Glancing at the sky, Xiahou Lian managed a faint smile.
The interrogation complete, Shen Jue's officers dragged the corpses of Su Yu and Li Changyan to the courtyard and tossed them into the burial pit. At some point, the rain had stopped, and the green moss covering the stone bricks glistened faintly with water. The wind died down to a whisper and gently stirred the hexagonal lanterns strung from the eaves, splashes of light and shadow flickering over the ground. Shen Jue sat in his chair a while longer before finally rising and heading upstairs. As he turned, his gaze happened to fall upon Xiahou Lian, who crouched on the steps beneath the covered walkway, watching him. The flickering lantern light played across his eyes, shifting between bright and dark.
He was a rough-looking man, gaunt and unassuming. When he wasn't smiling, a lonely, austere expression lingered on his brow. He kept his head lowered and spoke little, offering only occasional faint smiles that never reached his eyes.
He carries himself like a wandering ghost who no longer has a home, Shen Jue suddenly thought. Like a version of Xiahou Lian who has withdrawn his fangs and sheathed his bloodlust.
The man's eyes, especially, were the same shape as Xiahou Lian's. But where Xiahou Lian's eyes had burned with ferocity and bloodlust, the man's eyes looked empty. They were like hollow old wells, still and fathomless.
As Shen Jue turned and approached them, Zhu Shunzi instantly stiffened. He ducked behind Xiahou Lian, whispering, "He's coming! He's coming! The king of hell is here!"
Shen Jue stopped before Xiahou Lian, looking down. "After everything you just witnessed…aren't you afraid?"
Xiahou Lian shook his head.
"Your eyes—they remind me of someone," Shen Jue said.
Xiahou Lian put a hand to them. "Really? Who?"
"They're too similar—too much like Xiahou Lian's," Shen Jue said after a long, scrutinizing stare. "Gouge them out. Put them in a jar for me."
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Xiahou Lian frozen in place. What the hell was that?!
Before he could react, agents moved to seize him. Xiahou Lian spun and bolted, only to find the end of the covered walkway blocked. As he vaulted over the vermilion railing into the courtyard, a blade whistled past his head, the icy wind of its passage raising gooseflesh on his neck. More agents closed in, forcing him to fight. When one swung the flat of his blade at Xiahou Lian, the young man twisted sideways, locked his foe's wrist, and wrenched hard. The arm dislocated with a sickening crack.
Two more agents tackled Xiahou Lian's legs, while a third kicked him from behind. Xiahou Lian hit the ground hard, but he thrashed wildly, clawing forward inch by inch. The courtyard darkened with agents as they swarmed over him—knees pinning his limbs, hands crushing his spine into the dirt, someone grinding his face against the stones.
Through the haze of his pain, Xiahou Lian saw Shen Jue's retreating back growing smaller…and a glinting surgical knife drawing nearer.
Better dead than maimed, he thought, then roared, "Shen Jue! Don't go! I'll bring you to him!"
Shen Jue paused, half-turning. "A lie," he said coldly. "Pluck out his tongue and throw it away!"
"I'm Xiahou Lian!" Xiahou Lian snapped. "It's fucking me! Didn't you want to kill me? Then kill me, Shen Jue!"
Shen Jue ignored him and kept walking.
The knife lifted, its bright edge reflected in Xiahou Lian's eyes, cold as frost. Something within him stretched taut as the knife shining in his pupils got closer and closer.