Chapter Sixteen: The Six Gates Seek Retribution, A Family Annihilated in the Western City at the Hour of the Sheep

A team of Six Doors constables galloped swiftly through the main avenue of the market, raising a considerable cloud of dust. The horses’ tails flicked, hooves clattered upon the stone. Carts and pedestrians scattered in haste, stirring up no small commotion.

It was the thirteenth year of Jian’an, the fifteenth day of the eighth month, just past the Hour of the Goat.

After a brief disturbance, Darkmoon City quickly returned to its usual state of order. This was, after all, a place accustomed to chaos. The Six Doors, the Five Cities Commandery, and even the Notorious Agents were common sights here. On occasion, one might even catch a fleeting glimpse of the rarely seen, elusive Demon Suppression Bureau.

Today was the Lantern Festival. The city’s markets had been stocked early with sought-after foreign wares: wind-dried beef and mutton, snow-white woolen blankets, fragrant spices to flavor broths, all manner of exotic dresses for women—most eye-catching of all were the emeralds, agates, and Hetian jade.

Many women, hair adorned with spring ornaments, strolled the markets with their white-robed escorts, picking out small trinkets; the streets teemed with dockyard scoundrels. These men bought nothing, but eyed the women, making lewd comments with a pretense of business.

That girl’s figure is exquisite...
This lady’s waist is as slender as a snake...
Tsk, tsk.
All rogues and reprobates.

The Six Doors constables came in a rush and left just as quickly; soon, their presence faded from Darkmoon City.

…

Just past the Hour of the Goat.

East Market, South Bay Ward, Brocade Alley.

South Bay Ward was laid out quite unlike the other wards of the East Market. Though it ran north to south, it had but a single entrance at the southern end. No vendors lined the ward’s gate; what was sold within was of a more bewitching nature.

Within the ward, three winding alleys stretched east to west: Jade Alley, Fragrant Alley, and Brocade Alley, set side by side. Carved beams and painted pillars, silks and satins on either side, pale walls and fair faces, three and a half moon-shaped arches stood in close proximity.

In this five-li expanse, music floated on the air—luxurious melodies that tugged at the heartstrings, instruments of every kind; from time to time, a singer’s lingering notes would echo, winding around the beams, each performance a marvel.

Even at this hour, the place was already so lively—by nightfall, it would surely become a paradise of earthly delights.

A lone figure approached from afar, hair unbound in a carefree manner, face handsome as carved jade—a true libertine. A strange bird perched upon his shoulder; it was Mi Zigé.

The ward bustled with carriages. Now and then, one could catch a glimpse of richly dressed beauties within, brows delicately arched behind fans, dazzling in their colored sashes and floral scarves. Even the wheel ruts seemed to carry the scent of rouge.

Tonight was the Lantern Festival. Strolling with lanterns, appreciating the displays, and sipping wine—all the fashionably inclined needed a proper female companion, so many arrived early to avoid missing out.

South Bay Ward’s three alleys—Jade, Fragrant, and Brocade—were distinctly stratified. Jade Alley was lined with pavilions, garden chambers, and brothels where the official courtesans were often ladies fallen from noble families: skilled in music, lovely in appearance, and possessed of rare wit, their patrons the scions of noble houses and high officials.

Fragrant Alley was home to secluded mansions and red-blossomed gardens, where the singing girls were versed in zither, chess, poetry, and painting, as well as theater; here, wealthy merchants and extravagant gentry spent their fortunes with abandon.

Only Brocade Alley, with its mix of colorful, towering buildings, was frequented by common folk and scholars come to the capital for exams. The women here, though beautiful and made up, could not entirely conceal their coarseness.

Mi Zigé walked on, eyes fixed ahead, striding deep into Brocade Alley.

Above, songstresses leaned from balconies, half-clad, displaying provocative glimpses of their charms as they beckoned to patrons.

Mi Zigé ventured further, then turned left into a narrow lane, weaving through twists and turns until he reached a cluster of wooden shacks.

A battered bamboo curtain hung before a low wooden door. Mi Zigé stepped forward and knocked lightly.

A woman’s voice called from within: “Where has the steppe eagle landed?”

Mi Zigé replied in a deep voice, “Beneath Amuqi’s drawn bow.”

The wooden bolt was pulled aside; Mi Zigé pushed open the door and entered.

…

Ancient courtyard, mossy terrace, old trees with entwined roots.

In the Six Doors’ private manor, a stone table and stools sat beneath the phoenix tree.

“So this is the register from Changning County’s waystation?” Lord Zhuge Changqing gazed at the ledger spread before him.

Tang Yi was about to remind him of something, but Zhuge Changqing had already picked up the ledger and was paging through it.

Tang Yi’s expression flickered with discomfort but quickly smoothed over. The truth was, the register had been found in an outhouse in Darkmoon City—Old Wu, that wretch, truly deserved his fate for using an official document as scrap paper. Fortunately, he died before he could put it to such use.

Thinking the Lord Prefect was unaware, Tang Yi kept this detail to himself. Out of sight, out of mind.

It wasn’t long before Zhuge Changqing found the mark left by Zhang Wei, the Notorious Marshal of Changning County.

“Does the medicine include any cold-weather garments?” Zhuge Changqing asked, pointing to a vermilion-circled entry in the register.

Tang Yi frowned. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

Zhuge Changqing mused, “It’s time to pay the Mi family a visit.”

Tang Yi nodded, hesitated, then added, “There’s someone who might be able to help.”

…

South of the city.

Embalming Room Number Seven.

Song Mo was hurriedly packing his meager belongings. The situation in Jian’an was growing dire. Leaving now would be too late; he had to run.

Following the principle that even steamed buns count as provisions, Song Mo pocketed the mercy tablet from the floor, stuffing it into his bundle.

A man has to eat—what’s there to beg for?

He took up a fresh spirit tablet, ink still wet, and was about to leave when someone crashed in from outside, sending him sprawling against the door.

He groaned. “You bastard—” He looked up, recognizing the intruder.

It was Li Zheng from Embalming Room Six next door.

“Fox... fox... so beautiful,” Li Zheng said with a simple, silly grin.

Song Mo remembered that this one was a bit touched in the head. Clearly, he’d just awoken from a pleasant spring dream and had lost control; Song Mo decided not to fuss with him. Fools are easily handled. After a few perfunctory words, he watched as Li Zheng trotted back to his own room.

Fate is what it is; each man has his allotted share.

But for this brief delay, Song Mo happened to look up and spotted Tang Yi approaching.

“Tang, would you believe me if I said I was just out for a stroll?” Song Mo managed a wry smile.

“…”

Two figures slipped, one after another, into a teahouse by the street, blending with the hurried passersby.

Within, a storyteller snapped his fan shut and announced, “Picking up where we left off, let us continue…”

Just after noon.

West City, Clear Heart Teahouse—across the street, the Mi Residence.

From a third-floor private room overlooking the street, Tang Yi frowned at the two black-clad constables in the room.

Manpower was short; the situation was thorny.

“Has anyone of unknown identity entered?” Tang Yi asked.

The constable clasped his hands and replied, “No, sir.”

Song Mo glanced at the tea-drinkers and hawkers in the street below, then at the silent Mi Residence across the way—quiet as a fortress, not a soul to be seen.

Something felt amiss. Song Mo watched a while longer, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.

Forgetting his place, Song Mo asked in a low voice, “Has anyone left the Mi Residence?”

Both constables were taken aback, then their faces turned ashen. “N-no, sir.”

But today was the Lantern Festival, with foreign merchants selling goods, the Mi family’s stewards buying supplies, medicine being dispensed—surely someone should have come or gone. Clearly, something was wrong.

“Idiots.” Tang Yi realized at once and leapt from the window, using lightness skill to land soundlessly within the Mi Residence.

Song Mo and the two chastened constables rushed after him, barging into the compound.

No sooner had they entered than a thick stench of blood assaulted their senses. Corpses lay everywhere, their bellies torn open, while scorpions and centipedes crawled about.

Tang Yi stood in the main courtyard, his face ashen.

“Any survivors?” Song Mo whispered.

Tang Yi shook his head.

All one hundred and thirty-two souls of the Mi Residence were dead, victims of venomous insects.

…

In Brocade Alley, slender girls in diaphanous gowns hailed passing carriages.

On the Lantern Festival, new patrons liked to ride through the alley, admiring lanterns and guessing riddles—a far more enjoyable pastime than sitting through incense ceremonies.

A cloaked figure with a wooden chest on his back threaded through the alley, not pausing until he reached its depths.

Just after noon.

East Market, South Bay Ward, deep within Brocade Alley, in a shanty.

As soon as Zhao Nu entered, Mi Zigé caught the acrid scent of blood on him.

“What have you done?” Mi Zigé’s heart filled with dread.

Zhao Nu set down his chest, removed his hat, revealing his foreign features. He licked his lips and said nonchalantly, “I took care of some dead weight for you.”

“Courting death.” Mi Zigé’s eyes blazed red as he pressed a curved blade to Zhao Nu’s throat.

A thin line of blood welled up.

Zhao Nu sneered, “Do you really believe you’re Mi Zigé?”

After three breaths, the blade slowly lowered.