The night was deep and still; the north wind blew so fiercely that the old window panels creaked and groaned.

Such weather always made one long to burrow beneath the covers—especially when those covers had already been warmed by another body, radiating a tempting heat.

Fan Changyu drew her arms close, leaning against the bedpost with eyes closed in brief rest, though her ears remained sharply attuned to the sounds downstairs.

Once Aunt Zhao and Carpenter Zhao had gone to bed, she had hurried home, fetched the land deed, and returned with her quilt to make a bed on the floor.

Since the accident with Fan Da the day before, she had barely closed her eyes. Her body was truly exhausted, yet her mind remained taut as a drawn bowstring, not daring to relax for even a moment.

The person beside her breathed shallowly. Perhaps because he had eaten a piece of dried tangerine peel candy, Fan Changyu could faintly smell a delicate citrus fragrance clinging to him.

Unconsciously, she thought again of that time in the pine forest—when he had grasped her hand to teach her a move, his breath brushing against her ear as he spoke.

Her ears grew inexplicably warm, though fortunately, under the cover of night, nothing could be seen.

Fan Changyu was about to rub her ear when, without a sound, the man beside her suddenly sat up.

Before she could react, a long, slender finger, carrying a faint trace of warmth, pressed against her lips. His long hair fell forward, brushing over the back of her hand, bringing with it a ticklish chill.

He leaned very close; the scent of tangerine peel on him grew stronger.

Fan Changyu startled slightly. Then, hearing the soft, cat-like footsteps upon the roof tiles, she instantly pricked up her ears.

Seeing this, Xie Zheng said nothing—he merely withdrew the finger resting against her lips.

What brushed the side of his finger was a trace of warmth—soft, tender, moist, like the petal of a flower glistening with morning dew.

He frowned slightly, rubbing his tingling fingertips with a touch of force, suppressing all the strange feelings rising in his chest.

The footsteps upon the roof were light and chaotic, seemingly more than one person. After a moment, some stopped not far away—judging by the distance, at the Fan family’s roof.

Others went farther ahead and halted upon the Zhao family’s roof. Immediately followed the faint sound of roof tiles being moved, and from the gap between them, a thin bamboo tube extended inward, releasing a wisp of bluish smoke.

The two of them covered their mouths and noses with their collars, exchanging a glance in the dim, murky light filtering through the window.

A sound came from the old window—a dark shadow slipped soundlessly inside.

Fan Changyu and Xie Zheng each took a side of the bed curtain, gesturing silently how they might dispatch the intruder once he drew close to the bed without a trace.

But when seven or eight more figures crept in one after another through the same window, all plans were rendered useless.

The room was too small; the enemy would discover them in moments.

Fan Changyu pressed her lips tightly together, expression calm, and quietly drew out the boning knife she always kept hidden on her person.

One of the black-clad men slashed viciously toward the bed. When the blade met only the dull resistance of bedding, his face instantly changed.

“Something’s wrong!”

The next instant, a chill cut across his waist—a shadow darted swiftly from beside the bed curtain, headlong toward the window, with a resounding bang.

Outside, a black-clad man who had just slid down the rope from the rooftop, not yet entered the room, was struck full-force by the figure bursting out from within. Both crashed into the courtyard like thrown bundles of flesh, shattering several of the blue bricks beneath them.

The person quickly rose—it was a woman.

While the fallen black-clad man was still dazed from the impact, she swung a heavy palm across his face.

The man was knocked out cold on the spot, and the woman seized his saber, turned on her heel, and dashed straight for the courtyard gate.

All of this happened in but an instant. The black-clad men inside the room were stunned for a moment before shouting in unison—

“After her!”

One by one, they leapt out of the window like dumplings dropping into boiling water.

Hidden on the other side of the bed curtain, Xie Zheng had not expected Fan Changyu to rush into danger alone. Yet he quickly realized she had done so to draw the assassins away—protecting not only him but also the elderly couple and her younger sister downstairs. A heaviness settled in his chest.

As the last few black-clad men prepared to jump out the window, a crystal-clear piece of dried tangerine candy flicked from between his fingers.

The man who had just leapt out was struck behind the knee; losing balance mid-air, he fell heavily to the ground.

The others heard the commotion behind them and at last realized—someone was still in the room. These were the most elite of the Wei family’s death soldiers; that they had failed to notice another presence for so long was unthinkable. How profound must the other man’s skill in holding his breath be?

No one dared to take him lightly. They turned, blades slicing through the darkness toward him.

Several more tangerine candies shot from between Xie Zheng’s fingers, striking at the crooks of elbows, knees, and abdomens—acupoints that froze movement for the briefest instant.

That single instant was enough.

He seized their weapons and took their lives.

After cutting down two men, he pressed the captured blade against the neck of the one still alive but wounded.

The man clutched his bleeding waist; his hands were slick with blood.

The weapon that had cut him moments before was sharp and slender—not a dagger. He could not tell what it was. Now, with a cold edge biting against his throat, he dared not move.

Xie Zheng was just about to knock the man unconscious—keep one alive for questioning—then go after Fan Changyu, when the street outside the alley suddenly flared with light.

Flames blazed; the thunder of hooves shattered the silence of the night.

The clanging of armor and the pounding of boots wove together like a tightening net. The whistling of arrows sliced through the air, sharp and cold enough to chill the heart.

The black-clad assassins chasing Fan Changyu were instantly turned into human sieves under the rain of arrows.

Xie Zheng frowned slightly, doubt clouding his mind.

There was no stationed garrison in Qingping County—how could government troops have arrived so quickly from the next town over?

Seeing that Fan Changyu was safe, he abandoned the thought of pursuit. With his fingers, he hooked beneath the captive’s jaw, forcing him to spit out the poison capsule hidden between his teeth. Then he pressed the blade downward and asked in a low, frigid voice,

“Who did Wei Yan send you to find?”

The man, seeing that Xie Zheng knew even where the Wei family’s death soldiers hid their poison, studied his voice carefully and said uncertainly, “Marquis…?”

The knife pressed lower. Firelight spilled through the shattered window lattice, catching on the steel and reflecting across Xie Zheng’s face. In the thick, damp darkness, the blade drew a thin arc of light. His slightly lowered lips curved in icy impatience.

“Answer.”

The cold wind swept snowflakes inside, landing upon the man’s neck. Yet colder than the drifting snow was the blade already slicing a thin layer of skin at his throat.

Terror and pressure surged like a rising tide. The black-clad man swallowed hard and pleaded,

“My lord Marquis knows the Prime Minister’s methods—why make things difficult for a lowly man…”

The next moment, the blade plunged straight back into the wound at his waist.

A muffled groan escaped his throat—raw, strangled, filled with unbearable pain—as his whole body convulsed and curled in on itself.

Xie Zheng lowered his gaze. His pale fingers, crusted with dark scabs, twisted the hilt of the blade—grinding it cruelly within the man’s abdomen, wrenching out a clump of flesh and blood. His tone was lazy and cold:

 “Spies caught in the army have mouths far harder than yours. Vice Minister of Justice Zhang Su once witnessed a single interrogation in the military camp—he nearly vomited bile the moment he left, and fell ill for days afterward. Would you like to try the army’s methods yourself?”

Vice Minister Zhang Su of the Ministry of Justice was notorious throughout the court for his severity in torture. It was said that those who fell into his hands, if they did not die, would still be stripped of their skin.

Everyone called him the Living Yama.

The black-clad man could no longer suppress his screams. Cold sweat streamed down his forehead; all his nerves seemed to burn in that mangled, bloody pit of his abdomen. His clothes were drenched—whether in blood or sweat he no longer knew.

He no longer begged to live; he only wished for a quicker death. Breath weak and trembling, he gasped out:

 “A letter… the Prime Minister sent us to look for a letter…”

Xie Zheng’s eyes narrowed slightly.

 “What letter?”

The man only shook his head, collapsing bonelessly to the ground.

 “This lowly one truly doesn’t know…”

The edge of the blade traced his neck—blood spilled and spread across the floor.

A letter?

Xie Zheng frowned. What kind of letter in that woman’s home could make Wei Yan so wary?

He glanced toward the street outside, now bright with torches. The woman stood by the roadside, seemingly explaining the situation to the soldiers. The elderly couple, feeling safer now but still worried about Fan Changyu, had brought the child out to the courtyard gate to watch.

The soldiers were dragging away the corpses of the black-clad men. A few who were still breathing bit through the poison capsules hidden in their teeth and ended their lives swiftly.

From horseback, a general bellowed, “Find one alive and bring him back!”

At first, Xie Zheng cast him only a brief look—but when his eyes focused, his phoenix-shaped eyes narrowed sharply.

Zheng Wenchang?

He was the favored general of He Jingyuan, governor of Jizhou—and He Jingyuan was of the Wei faction.

So tonight—was this a case of the flood washing into the Dragon King’s temple, friend mistaken for foe?

Or was He Jingyuan also searching for that same letter on Wei Yan’s behalf, sending his men to intercept it halfway?

Yet judging from the black-clad assassins’ state, they had clearly found nothing. The Jizhou troops’ sudden arrival was far too coincidental—strangely so.

Xie Zheng suddenly felt that this unremarkable butcher’s family in Lin’an Town might conceal more secrets than he had imagined.

· ─ ·✶· ─ ·

On horseback, the general was still barking orders for his men to collect the corpses when he suddenly felt a cold, piercing gaze fall upon him.

It was the feeling of a lone wolf’s eyes glinting at him from the snowy wilderness—his back straightened instinctively, muscles tensing.

Zheng Wenchang swept his eyes around but found nothing. The gaze was gone.

He noticed the empty attic window of Zhao’s house and asked, “Is there still someone in the attic?”

Earlier, to protect the old Zhao couple and her younger sister, Fan Changyu had leapt out the window, drawing most of the assassins away. She had expected not to return. Who could have guessed that a troop of soldiers would appear in the streets so suddenly?

They claimed to have been dispatched by the magistrate in response to a report of bandit activity in Qingping County, sent to inspect the area.

Their scouts had detected movement at night, and a squad had come to investigate—arriving just in time to save her.

When the officer asked his question now, she immediately thought of Yan Zheng’s injuries.

Not knowing whether any assassins remained inside, she ran anxiously toward the attic.

 “My husband is gravely wounded—he’s still upstairs!”

Zheng Wenchang did not send his men but instead dismounted himself, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, and followed her up the stairs.

 “This general will go take a look as well.”

Fan Changyu burst into the attic holding a torch—only to see corpses strewn across the floor, black-clad men lying in twisted heaps.

Xie Zheng lay among them, half his body drenched in blood. His garments were slashed in several places, and the half of his face turned upward was smeared thick with blood, his features nearly indistinguishable.

Fan Changyu had not expected so many assassins to remain inside. Seeing Xie Zheng’s bloodied form, her heart clenched tight.

She rushed forward, kneeling beside him, voice trembling: “Yan Zheng—how are you?”

In her panic, she reached out to feel beneath his nose—only when she sensed the faint breath of life did she finally exhale in relief.

She turned toward the doorway and shouted, “Uncle Zhao, please come and take a look at Yan Zheng!”

Zheng Wenchang entered the attic with two soldiers in tow.

His eyes swept once over the corpses littering the room, then fixed upon Xie Zheng’s blood-streaked face—half hidden, half obscured by gore—as though trying hard to recognize something.

Frowning, he asked, “These people… were all killed by your husband?”