The autumn of the first year of Zhongping arrived more fiercely than any before.
Thirty li east of Luoyang, by the official road, stood a small shrine to the local earth god, its roof tiles mostly gone, shivering in the wind like a tattered monk's robe. Before it grew a crooked old locust tree, its leaves a sickly yellow, rustling and falling with each gust, dusting the shoulders of a young man squatting beneath it.
He appeared to be in his early twenties, dressed in faded indigo homespun, his sleeves tied tight with hemp cord. On his back was a long object wrapped in coarse cloth; at first glance, it might be a carrying pole, but a closer look revealed the outline of a sword scabbard. He was watching a line of ants on the ground, muttering to himself:
"Three inches to the left, there's grain crumbs. Five steps to the right, a dead bug… Tsk. Stubbornly set on the path to death, you thick-headed bunch."
The ants ignored him.
The young man sighed, took half a hubing flatbread from inside his robe, broke off a fingernail-sized piece, and carefully placed it beside the ant trail. "Fine. Li's first rule for wandering the realm: can't bear to see others go hungry. Doesn't matter if they have six legs or two."
His name was Li Yan, courtesy name Quji, from the Guanzhong region. His master had given him the name. The old man had said, "Illness departs like unwinding silk; chaotic times require patient planning." He always spoke in half-sentences, and the disciple he taught had thus acquired the habit of chattering to ants.
Just then, a low rumble came from the distance—the sound of cartwheels grinding over dry earth.
Three oxcarts creaked and swayed from the north along the road. Long objects wrapped in straw matting lay on the carts, vaguely human-shaped. The drivers, two men dressed as yamen runners, cracked their whips loudly, but the oxen plodded slowly. Their sallow faces held eyes that darted about like frightened rats.
Li Yan narrowed his eyes, tucked the flatbread back into his robe, stood up, and brushed the crumbs from his hands.
"A hard day's work, officers," he said with a smile like a scholar asking directions. "May I ask where you're headed?"
The lead runner glanced sideways at him. "Burying bodies at the mass graves. Unlucky business. Best not to ask."
"Bodies?" Li Yan took two steps closer, his nose twitching almost imperceptibly. "Three per cart, three carts… nine bodies total. Tsk. The smell's off. Dead over three days, right? The Luoyang Capital Administration's office is moving rather slowly these days?"
The runner's face changed abruptly. "Who are you?!"
"A passerby, with some knowledge of examining wounds and corpses." Li Yan pointed at the nearest cart where the straw matting had come loose, revealing a bluish-purple ankle. "See that? Lividity is dark purple, concentrated on the lower back and legs. That means they lay on their backs for at least twelve shichen before being moved. Plus, with this late autumn heat, the rot has a sweet note… been dead at least five days."
The two runners exchanged a look, their hands simultaneously moving to their sword hilts.
Li Yan pretended not to notice and walked around to the back of the cart. Suddenly, he made a surprised sound. "Wait, this one's different."
He pointed vaguely at a gap in the matting. "A tattoo on the back of the neck? It's half-rotted, but the pattern… an old mark from the Northern Army's Five Barracks, disbanded in the first year of Jianning?"
Before the words finished, a cold gleam flashed toward his face!
The saber from the runner on the left was already at his eyes—but it met empty air. Li Yan had somehow retreated three feet, holding a dry branch he'd just snapped from the locust tree.
"Officer, I'm just a curious fellow," he said lightly, using the branch to nudge the blade aside. "Your reaction… well, it makes me even more curious."
The other runner also drew his saber. The two closed in from left and right, their steps forming the simplest pincer movement from military drills.
Li Yan sighed, spinning the branch in his palm. "Really going to fight? My master said fighting hurts harmony, especially with men who eat the official rice—" He paused, the lazy smile fading from the corners of his mouth. "But he also said, if someone tries to silence you, nine times out of ten, they've got a guilty conscience."
The saber gleam flashed again!
This time, Li Yan didn't dodge. The dry branch drifted forward with a light touch, striking precisely the "Shenmen" acupoint on the wrist of the first attacker. The saber clattered to the ground. The man's entire arm went limp, half his body numb, his face filled with shock.
"You—"
"Don't panic. The acupoint is sealed for less than half a shichen. The qi and blood will flow again soon." As Li Yan spoke, the other end of the branch tapped the "Weizhong" acupoint behind the knee of the second runner. The man thudded to his knees, unable to rise despite his efforts.
Li Yan squatted, picked up the fallen saber, and examined the inscription on the blade—official issue, but heavily worn, likely old stock discarded and circulated locally. He looked up, the smile returning. "Can we talk properly now? Where did these corpses come from?"
Half a shichen later, Li Yan sat on the threshold of the earth god shrine, finishing the last of his half-flatbread.
The two runners squatted opposite him, obedient as schoolchildren who couldn't recite their lessons. The older one, with a pained expression, confessed: Over the past three months, the Capital Administration had handled over twenty cases of missing refugees. All were closed as "refugees killing each other, bodies lost." Every few days, runners would "accidentally discover" a few unidentified corpses in the wilderness outside the city. Orders from above were strict: bury upon discovery, no examination, no record.
"Who is 'above'?" Li Yan asked.
They shut their mouths, genuine fear in their eyes.
Li Yan didn't press. He stood and patted his backside. "Alright, I'll go ask at the refugee camp myself." At the shrine entrance, he turned back and winked. "If anyone asks, just say you were beaten by a passing madman. What does the madman look like? Hmm… say he's handsome, dashing, highly skilled in martial arts, and speaks rather eloquently."
The two runners looked on the verge of tears.
An autumn wind blew, swirling a few yellow leaves that fell into the gaps of the straw matting on the carts. Li Yan took a final glance at the exposed ankle—he did recognize the tattoo pattern. Six years ago, every veteran of the famed personal guard battalion under the late General Dou Wu had such a mark on the back of their neck.
Was the matter of the first year of Jianning truly over?
He shouldered his cloth-wrapped longsword and headed east toward the cluster of shanties. Dust rose from the official road. In the distance, the outline of Luoyang shimmered under the autumn sun, a grayish haze like a giant pot with a lid, the fire beneath burning hotter and hotter.
His master always said Luoyang was a pot.
Now, standing at its edge, Li Yan caught the strange odor wafting from within—a mix of rotting flesh and conspiracy.
II. Rootless Duckweed in the Refugee Camp
The refugee camp east of Luoyang lacked any semblance of order.
It was a stretch of barren riverbank, shanties hastily erected, reed mats for walls, thatch for roofs, rattling loudly in the wind. Deep autumn had arrived; the cold crept up from the Luo River. Many men, women, and children in tattered clothes huddled in straw piles, shivering. The air held a mix of mildew, urine, and a faint, cloying stench of decay—a smell Li Yan knew all too well.
Several sallow, skinny children gathered around, hands outstretched, eyes wide but silent.
Li Yan felt inside his robe. The flatbread was gone, only a few worn, shiny wuzhu coins remained. He crouched and pressed the coins into the hand of the eldest child—a boy of eight or nine, fingers thin as twigs.
"Go buy some steamed buns, share them," he said, then paused and added, "Don't spend it all, save a couple for tomorrow… never mind, forget I said that."
The children scattered.
He wandered the camp, helping two older women secure a roof blown askew by the wind, using a mortise-and-tenon technique his master had taught him. A few crossed branches locked tighter than hemp rope. An old man coughed so violently it seemed his lungs would tear. Li Yan went over, took his pulse—the pulse was floating and tight, cold accumulated in the lungs. The medical skills his master taught were broad but not deep, insufficient for serious illness, but enough to relieve symptoms. He took out a small cloth bundle from his leather pouch, selected a few fine needles, and inserted them at the "Feishu" and "Dingchuan" acupoints on the old man's back.
"Bear with it, elder. It'll ease in half a ke."
The old man nodded between gasps, a glimmer of moisture in his cloudy eyes.
As he manipulated the needles, Li Yan asked, "In your area, has anyone gone missing recently?"
The old man rasped, "Plenty… Last month, Pockmarked Wang who lived next to me. The night before, we talked about going for porridge together, the next day he was gone. Widow Zhao from Hebei, with her six-year-old daughter, vanished just like that too."
"No one reported it to the authorities?"
"Reported. The official came, took one look, said maybe they went seeking a better life." The old man scoffed, then coughed again. "Seeking a better life? In these times, where is there to go?"
Li Yan asked about a few more cases. The missing were men, women, old, and young, but shared three traits: they were either alone or recent arrivals, with no kin in the camp; they usually vanished at night; and they always left behind one or two worthless but personal items—half a wooden comb, a polished stone, a faded hair ribbon.
"It's as if…" Li Yan withdrew the needles, frowning slightly, "someone deliberately wanted to leave a memento?"
As the sun began to set, he squatted on a dirt slope at the camp's edge, taking out a palm-sized leather-bound notebook and a charcoal pencil, writing and sketching in the fading light. It was a habit passed down from his master: record everything, no matter how small, then ponder.
The notebook already listed seven or eight points:
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Deceased are all able-bodied, with old military wounds (tattoos as evidence).
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Official cover-up (runners attempted silencing).
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Refugee camp disappearances follow a fixed pattern.
-
Missing persons' personal trinkets are taken.
-
…
As he wrote, a rustling came from behind.
Li Yan didn't turn. "Ma'am, your cough is from accumulated cold. Just ginger soup won't do; you need some dried tangerine peel—surely someone in camp sun-dries orange peels? Boil some in water."
The person behind him paused, then an elderly woman's voice replied, "Young master has sharp ears."
Turning, he saw an old woman leaning on a wooden staff. Her clothes were worn but cleanly laundered, her hair neatly combed and fastened with a wooden pin. Her eyes were somewhat cloudy, but held a piercing sharpness when she looked at him, like an old eagle's.
"This old woman's surname is Zhou, originally from Nanyang," she said, sitting down beside him without ceremony. "I heard the young master is asking about the disappearances?"
Li Yan put away his notebook. "What do you know?"
"Not much, but I saw something once." Granny Zhou spoke slowly, lowering her voice. "Half a month ago, I got up at night. Saw firelight in the woods outside the camp. Moved closer—three men in black, searching a corpse. In the end, they took something from the corpse's clothing, wrapped it in cloth, and left."
"What was it?"
"Too far, couldn't see clearly. But probably… something like a jade pendant. It reflected the moonlight for a moment." Granny Zhou paused, using her staff to draw a pattern in the dirt—not quite a character, not quite a picture, like a half-twisted arrow, its tail end with a small, stylized variation of the character "Wu" (武).
Li Yan's pupils contracted slightly.
He had seen that pattern today on the corpse at the mass graves. Moreover, in an old volume in his master's study, there was a record—it was the exclusive secret mark of the late General Dou Wu's personal guard. When veterans received their tattoos, a tiny, unique variation was added, known only to insiders, to prevent forgery.
"The body?" he asked.
"They buried it, shallow." Granny Zhou's voice dropped even lower. "I went back later and dug it up—a man in his thirties. On the back of his neck… this mark."
Li Yan was silent for a moment, then took out his last two wuzhu coins and pressed them into Granny Zhou's hand. "Thank you. Take this, buy some food."
She didn't refuse, clutching the coins tightly, watching Li Yan. "Young master, heed an old woman's advice: these waters are muddy, don't wade in too deep. Those people… are not ordinary bandits."
"How do you know?"
"The way they buried the body." Granny Zhou spoke slowly. "The depth of the pit, the order of filling the soil… it's the military protocol for handling fallen comrades. Though deliberately disrupted, this old woman saw it in her youth. I recognize it."
Li Yan's heart jolted.
He stood and bowed deeply to Granny Zhou. "This junior will remember."
When he left the refugee camp, dusk was falling. The autumn wind grew stronger, making the shanties rattle like countless people weeping in the dark. Li Yan looked back at that stretch of barren land shrinking in the twilight, suddenly recalling another of his master's sayings:
"In chaotic times, life is cheapest, but also most precious."
He touched the coarse cloth wrapping his sword and headed toward Luoyang. By lamplighting time, the city gates would be closed. He needed to find a place to stay outside the city—not the earth god shrine; those two runners might return with reinforcements.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
More importantly, he needed to think: former soldiers, systemic cover-up, mysterious jade pieces, Dou Wu's secret mark…
Where did these fragments fit together?
III. The Asura's Field in the Night Watch Fog
The third watch, the mass graves.
This desolate land in the marshes southwest of Luoyang was perpetually shrouded in mist. The so-called "hill" was merely a few slightly raised mounds, scattered haphazardly with grave markers, most without even a wooden plaque, hastily buried. The night fog was thick as congee, moonlight seeping through like a pallid veil.
Li Yan lay prone on a horizontal branch of an old locust tree, a mint leaf between his teeth. Another of his master's eccentric habits: mint clears the mind and masks the stench of decay—though here, the odor of death had long since blended with the mist and the smell of earth, becoming the very essence of the place.
"Master, oh master," he mumbled, "if you knew your disciple was running around graveyards in the dead of night, you'd surely scold me for 'not knowing the difference between life and death'—but you also said, 'When it's time to seek death, you must seek it; seeking correctly lets you live longer.'"
Just as he muttered to himself, footsteps sounded in the fog.
Three dark figures approached from the south, all in tight-fitting night clothes, faces covered, but their steps steady and uniform, the distance between each nearly identical. They carried a long object wrapped in straw matting, stopping beside a freshly turned mound—Li Yan remembered this spot; the nine bodies from the carts were buried here today.
The leader made a hand signal—low, but Li Yan saw it clearly: thumb tucked in, four fingers together, slicing forward—the military signal for "silence, move."
The other two began digging. Their movements were deft, the depth of the spade's entry, the arc of the turned soil, all spoke of trained discipline. Not the skill of ordinary grave robbers or assassins.
Halfway through digging, the one who had carried the corpse suddenly made a surprised sound, pulling something from a gap in the matting—half a jade pendant. In the faint moonlight, a chi-dragon pattern was visible, but only half remained, the break showing signs of scorching.
"Another broken piece?" one man said in a low, raspy voice. "How many is this now?"
"The seventh," the leader spoke, his voice like sandpaper on metal. "Secure it. For the handover."
"Boss, what exactly are we looking for? Do these remnants of Dou Wu's faction really hold clues to that thing?"
"Don't ask what you shouldn't." The grating voice turned colder. "Orders from above: all suspected former members of Dou Wu's camp are to be eliminated, personal effects confiscated. As for what we're looking for… when ten pieces are gathered, we'll know."
Ten broken jade pieces. Remnants of Dou Wu's faction.
Li Yan's mind became crystal clear. Six years ago, General Dou Wu and Grand Tutor Chen Fan plotted to purge the eunuchs, failed, and were executed, with widespread repercussions. His personal guard battalion was scattered, some dead, some fled. Who would have thought, after all these years, someone was systematically eliminating them here outside Luoyang?
And seemingly, piecing something together.
As he pondered, the three below finished burying the body and began filling the grave. Suddenly, the leader sharply looked up, staring directly at the locust tree!
"Who's there?!"
Li Yan's heart skipped—such acute perception! He prided himself on his utmost concentration, even slowing his heartbeat.
But he didn't move. His master taught: the more critical the moment, the calmer you must be. It might just be a probe.
Sure enough, the grating voice listened intently for a moment, then waved a hand. "Just the wind. Withdraw."
The three quickly vanished into the thick fog, their steps still orderly, like three ghosts merging with the night.
Li Yan waited another incense stick's time before silently sliding down the tree. He walked to the freshly covered mound, hesitating briefly—disturbing the dead was disrespectful, but he had to confirm.
A short knife left its sheath, plunged into the soil. At about two feet deep, the straw matting appeared. Li Yan pried open a corner, revealing the corpse's neck—sure enough, the same tattooed mark, the stylized "Wu" character identical to Granny Zhou's drawing.
He carefully felt over the body. Aside from a few worn-edged wuzhu coins, nothing. Finally, inside a hidden layer of the inner robe, his fingertips touched a hard sliver.
He pulled it out—half a bamboo tally, three fingers wide, a palm's length, densely carved with symbols, the edges also showing scorch marks. In the moonlight, the symbols weren't seal script or ordinary Taoist charms, but rather resembled some kind of encrypted text arrangement.
"A token?" Li Yan frowned. "Where's the other half?"
Just as he pondered, an extremely faint whistling came from behind—not the wind, but the sharp hiss of a crossbow bolt tearing through air!
He instinctively threw himself forward. A short bolt grazed his ear, thunking into the tree trunk ahead, the shaft vibrating.
Li Yan rolled on the ground, short knife held horizontally before his chest, back against the mound, looking up—
Seven men emerged from the fog.
The leader was the raspy-voiced man in black from earlier, now with his face covering removed, revealing a scarred face in his forties. The scar ran from his left brow bone diagonally to the right corner of his mouth, like a centipede in the moonlight. Behind him, six men fanned out, holding standard ring-pommeled sabers that gleamed coldly in the fog.
"Kid, been watching you for a while," Scarface sneered, the smile twisting his scar grotesquely. "Messed with our business at the shrine this morning, dared to follow us here tonight—tired of living?"
Li Yan slowly stood, brushing dirt from his clothes. "What if I said I was just passing by? Would you believe me?"
"You think?"
"Then let's skip the talk." Li Yan grinned, shifting the short knife in his right hand to a forward grip, his left hand pulling the dry branch from his waist—snapped before climbing the tree. "But before we fight, a question: General Dou Wu died six years ago. You're still hunting his old men. Are you afraid they'll seek revenge, or… afraid they'll reveal some secret?"
Scarface's expression changed drastically, murderous intent blazing in his eyes. "Kill him!"
All seven attacked at once!
Li Yan had been in many fights, but one against seven was a first—especially as these seven clearly had military backgrounds, their coordinated attacks quite methodical. Three pressed head-on, two flanked, and two sealed escape routes, cooperating seamlessly as one.
He fought while retreating, the short knife drawing short, swift arcs in the moonlight, specifically targeting acupoints like the "Neiguan" on wrists, "Quze" at the elbows, "Weizhong" behind knees. This was the "effort-saving fighting style" his master taught: you don't necessarily have to kill, just temporarily disable them, effectively reducing the number of foes.
But there were simply too many; the web of blades was impenetrable.
During the third exchange, an attacker on the left suddenly changed his saber move from a chop to an upward slash. Li Yan dodged sideways, but his right arm was slashed by a horizontal cut from another! Fabric tore, blood instantly welled up, soaking his sleeve.
Li Yan grunted, but his blade moves became faster—he knew showing weakness meant death tonight.
"Form up!" Scarface shouted.
The remaining five instantly shifted positions, forming a simple "Five-Plum-Blossom" formation, trapping Li Yan in the center. Blades wove a tightening net, compressing his room to maneuver.
Sweat beaded on Li Yan's temples. The wound on his left arm burned fiercely, blood dripping down his wrist. His martial skills were good, but his internal energy cultivation was still shallow; prolonged combat wasn't his strength. Just as he considered a breakout, a clear, loud whistle sounded from afar—
"Night patrol! Who dares brawl here?!"
The voice, full of vigor, carried far in the quiet night.
Scarface and his men flinched, the formation faltering for an instant.
Seizing the moment, Li Yan threw his short knife—not at a person, but at the torch held by the man on the far right—their only light source.
Crack! The torch was extinguished.
In the instant of darkness, Li Yan shot forward like lightning, bursting through the gap on the left, grabbing his short knife from the ground, and sprinting headlong into the dense woods without looking back. Curses and pursuing footsteps sounded behind, but he deliberately plunged through thorny bushes, using the terrain to delay them.
The blood kept flowing; his vision began to blur. He knew he couldn't run far like this. Just as anxiety gripped him, a point of light appeared ahead—a dilapidated temple. Not the earth god shrine from daytime, but a more remote mountain god temple, half its wall collapsed, but a battered storm-proof lantern hung from the doorframe, its flame like a bean.
Gritting his teeth, he charged inside.
IV. The Unclear Lamp Under the Broken Temple's Eaves
The temple was empty.
The idol was mottled, most of the painted plaster flaked off, revealing straw and clay beneath. The offering table was thick with dust, the incense burner toppled, burnt remnants scattered. The air held a musty, aged smell, mixed with the metallic scent of Li Yan's blood.
He quickly scanned, spotting a crevice behind the idol just large enough to hide a person. He had just squeezed in when footsteps arrived outside.
"Search separately!" Scarface's voice held suppressed rage. "He's wounded, can't have gone far!"
Li Yan held his breath, right hand tight on the short knife—blood still sticky on the blade. If discovered, it would be a fight to the death.
Footsteps circled the temple twice. Someone kicked over a broken prayer mat, another stabbed at a pile of straw in the corner with his saber, rustling sounds.
"Boss, nothing here."
"Impossible. The blood trail ends here—" Scarface's words cut off abruptly.
Because a strange singing suddenly came from outside the temple.
An old man's voice, the tune wildly off-key, singing a folk ditty: "The crescent moon shines on the Nine Regions, some homes rejoice, some homes grieve… Grieve, oh grieve, grief turns a young man's hair white…"
The singing drew nearer, swaying unsteadily like a drunkard's stagger.
Scarface barked, "Who goes there?!"
The singing stopped.
A moment later, a hunched figure leaning on a cane slowly shuffled through the temple door. An old beggar, hair and beard white, clothes so tattered their original color was lost, face so dirty only his eyes seemed somewhat clear. He carried a shiny, worn-out gourd.
"Oh my, there are people here?" The old beggar squinted, belching with the smell of wine. "Mind if this old man rests his feet?"
"Get lost!"
"Young man, no need for such temper." Instead of leaving, the old beggar plopped down on the threshold, uncorked his gourd, took a big swig, and smacked his lips. "Mmm… good wine! Care for some?"
Scarface's eyes flashed with killing intent. He gestured for his men to act.
Two黑衣人 stepped forward with sabers.
Just then, the old beggar suddenly exclaimed, "Oh dear!" as if losing his balance, his body tilting, the wine gourd flying from his hand—straight into the face of one attacker!
Wine splashed all over the man's face.
Even stranger, the struck man seemed to get drunk instantly, swayed twice, then thudded to the ground, snoring loudly.
"You—!" Scarface was shocked.
The old beggar scrambled to retrieve his gourd. "Sorry, sorry, old arms and legs, not steady… Eh? He fell asleep? Is my wine that strong?"
As he spoke, the other attacker swung his saber!
The old beggar cried "Aiya!" and clumsily rolled aside, his staff "accidentally" sweeping out—
Thump!
The second man was struck on the shin, pitched forward, his forehead hitting the corner of the offering table. He groaned and also fell unconscious.
In the blink of an eye, seven were down to five.
Scarface's face turned livid, his gaze fixed on the old beggar. "Which path do you walk, sir?"
"Path?" The old beggar scratched his messy hair, an innocent expression on his face. "This old beggar walks the path of hunger, the path of begging—gentlemen, be kind, spare some coin for wine?"
He extended a grimy hand.
Scarface gnashed his teeth, struggle flashing in his eyes, finally waving a hand. "Withdraw!"
The remaining five swiftly picked up their unconscious comrades, vanishing into the night as if they'd never been there.
Silence returned to the temple, only the flame in the storm-proof lantern flickering slightly.
The old beggar leisurely picked up his gourd, took another drink, and sighed. "Young people these days, no respect for elders, no care for the young."
Li Yan emerged from behind the idol and bowed deeply. "Many thanks for saving me, elder."
"Save? Who saved whom?" The old beggar rolled his eyes, the whites stark against his dirty face. "I'm just passing through. But you—" He glanced at Li Yan's left arm, half the sleeve soaked in blood. "That wound needs tending, or it'll fester by tomorrow."
With that, he took out an oilpaper packet from his robe and tossed it over.
Li Yan caught it, opened it—some blackish ointment with a pungent herbal smell mixed with alcohol.
"Golden sore medicine, family recipe." The old beggar took another drink. "Apply it. Stops bleeding, promotes healing. But speaking of which, kid, who have you offended? Those fellows had a military air, not ordinary scum."
As he tore open his sleeve to apply the ointment—cooling, the sting immediately lessening—Li Yan briefly recounted the day's events: the floating corpses, tattoos, broken jade, the黑衣men's conversation.
The old beggar listened, gradually stopping his drinking. A faint glint, sharp as a needle tip, flashed in his cloudy eyes, gone in an instant.
"Dou Wu's old men… broken token jade… Heh, interesting," he murmured, voice almost inaudible. "Six years, and someone still remembers that business."
"You know about this, elder?" Li Yan asked.
"Know a bit, not much." The old beggar stood, slapping dust from his backside. Though still hunched, Li Yan noticed his waist and legs didn't tremble at all, steady as pine roots. "A piece of advice: these waters are too deep, your slight frame can't wade through. Leave Luoyang, the farther the better."
Li Yan shook his head, tone calm. "Since I've encountered it, I cannot ignore it."
"Ignore? How will you handle it?" The old beggar scoffed, the laugh holding a hint of mockery, and something else. "The other side can mobilize official runners for cover, can kill and bury bodies silently outside Luoyang—backed by someone with reach to the heavens, at least. You, a wandering knight, what do you have to fight with?"
Li Yan was silent for a moment, then suddenly smiled. The smile was faint, but something lit up in his eyes. "You're right, elder. But my master said, in this world, someone must handle matters. If you can, handle them. If you can't… you still have to try before you know you can't."
The old beggar stared at him for a long while. In the dim lamplight, his dirty face was unreadable. Suddenly, he burst into loud laughter, bending over, tears coming.
"Like! Truly like!" He laughed till tears streamed, wiping his face roughly with a sleeve. "There was a foolish lad back then, just as stubborn as you… Fine, fine."
He took something else from his robe and tossed it to Li Yan.
A palm-sized wooden plaque, grain fine, warm to the touch—good quality boxwood. On the front was carved an ancient character "Medicine" (药). The back held a simplified meridian diagram, lines fluid as if engraved.
"Take this. Go to 'Jishi Tang' in the southern city, find Shopkeeper Sun. Say 'Old Drunkard sent you.' He'll help." The old beggar swayed toward the temple door, pausing at the threshold without turning, just waving a hand. "Remember, you only have one life. Don't throw it away lightly."
Before the words faded, he disappeared into the night outside, footsteps almost inaudible.
Li Yan stood in the temple for a long time, holding the still-warm wooden plaque. The pain in his left arm wound gradually numbed under the medicine's effect, but the string in his heart pulled tighter.
Old Drunkard… Jishi Tang…
He looked down at the "Medicine" character on the plaque and suddenly felt he had no choice but to wade into Luoyang's muddy waters.
V. Luoyang's Pot in the Morning Light
Dawn was breaking when Li Yan awoke.
Pale light filtered through the temple's broken window lattice, dusting the floor with what looked like thin frost. The wound on his left arm had stopped bleeding and scabbed over; the black ointment was truly miraculous, reducing swelling overnight, leaving only a dark red scar.
He moved his arm—still somewhat sore and numb, but mostly fine. After tidying up—wiping the short knife clean and sheathing it, rewrapping the cloth around his longsword, securing the half bamboo tally and the "Medicine" plaque close to his body—he pushed the door open and stepped outside.
Morning mist lingered, distant hills like ink-wash shadows, outlines faint in the haze. The shadow of Luoyang lay to the northeast, the city wall's silhouette like a giant gray seal stamped on the horizon.
Li Yan stood on the dirt slope before the temple, taking a deep breath of the cool dawn air. It held the freshness of grass, the scent of damp earth, and the faint, distant clamor of Luoyang waking—a low hum of cartwheels, hoofbeats, and human voices mingling, like a colossal beast breathing.
He took out the leather notebook, opened to a fresh page in the morning light, the charcoal pencil scratching on rough paper:
"21st Day of the Ninth Month, First Year of Zhongping. Recorded west of Luoyang.
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Confirmed deceased identity: Veterans of Dou Wu's personal guard battalion, tattoo evidence.
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Official involvement: Capital Administration systemic cover-up, runners ordered to silence.
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Perpetrator traits: Black-clad, military background, skilled coordination, take orders from 'above.'
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Motive: Eliminate Dou Wu remnants, collect 'broken token jade' (seventh piece seen), aim to gather ten pieces. Broken jade suspected related to some 'register' or 'clue.'
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Key info: 'Laji Sacrifice to Heaven' (mentioned by perpetrators, warned by Old Drunkard).
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Questions: Why resume purge now? Purpose of assembling jade pieces? Who is 'above'?
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Next step: Go to Jishi Tang, meet Shopkeeper Sun."
Finished, he stared at the words "Laji Sacrifice to Heaven," brow furrowed.
Laji… just over two months away. The Sacrifice to Heaven was the court's most solemn annual ceremony, the Son of Heaven leading officials to pray for favorable weather. But this year, Emperor Ling's health had been poor, he hadn't held court for half a year. Palace rumors said the Sacrifice might be performed by a prince in his stead.
And a prince performing the sacrifice often meant…
Li Yan shook his head, dismissing overly distant speculation. What he needed now was more concrete information.
As he pondered, rapid hoofbeats sounded from the distant official road. A troop of cavalry galloped past, over twenty riders, all in crimson war robes, bows and sabers at their saddles, whips cracking. The leading banner bore a distinct character "Jian" (蹇).
The New Army of the Western Garden, the Son of Heaven's personal troops commanded by the eunuch Jian Shuo.
Li Yan watched the cavalry vanish, dust flying in the morning light. He suddenly recalled another of his master's oft-repeated sayings:
"Luoyang is a pot. The fire beneath burns hotter and hotter, just waiting for the day the lid is lifted."
Now, standing at the pot's edge, he could already feel the scorching heat from below, even hear the gurgling of broth boiling within. Those hastily buried corpses, those missing refugees, those黑衣men searching for broken jade in the dark—they were merely a few grease bubbles floating to the surface.
The real meat wasn't stewed tender yet.
He put away the notebook, tucked it inside his robe, patted dust and grass from his clothes. The wound on his left arm ached faintly with movement, but more than pain, something heavy weighed on his heart—the natural sense of responsibility, or rather, trouble, that came from seeing what one shouldn't.
"Anyway," Li Yan said to himself, the corners of his mouth quirking in that trademark lazy, self-mocking smile, "since I'm here, might as well see what meat is in the pot."
The morning light grew brighter, the mist began to disperse. In the distance, Luoyang's轮廓 grew clearer. The city gates would be opening soon; people would stream in like ants.
Li Yan took a final look westward—toward the mass graves. The mist was still thick there, a vast white expanse, nothing visible. But he knew secrets, lives, and the thread of some vast conspiracy were buried beneath.
He turned his back to the morning light and headed south toward Luoyang.
Jishi Tang, Shopkeeper Sun, Old Drunkard.
This thread he had to grasp. As for when the pot's lid would lift, whether beneath it lay delicacies or poison—
"One step at a time."
Footsteps sounded on the dirt road, startling a few early-rising sparrows from the roadside bushes, fluttering into the gray-white sky.
On this autumn morning, Luoyang slowly awoke in its final moments of calm. Markets would open, cooking smoke would rise, and the court would embark on another day of arguments and schemes.
No one knew that the arrival of this wandering knight, like a stone tossed into this bottomless pot, would stir ripples.
And Li Yan himself didn't know that from this moment on, he was no longer merely a passing observer.
The gears of a chaotic era, the moment he stepped toward Luoyang's gates, silently meshed into their first cog.