Chapter Twenty-Three: Storms Rise in Jian'an Capital; Within the Prison, an Enemy Is Lured to Speak

The lanterns of Qingyue shone all night, illuminating every inch of the city as shoulders brushed past beauty amid the crowd. The lingering fragrance of silk still held its charm, and as the night deepened, lanterns were lit again and again to brighten the streets.

The Watch Command scoured the city markets along the official canals, searching idle warehouses for any sign of trouble. Enforcers were summoned back at once to investigate rumors of Turkic agents. The Jinwu Guard exchanged shifts before the palace gates, while the Travelers’ Legion combed the market for suspicious foreigners.

Crowds surged everywhere, all drawn to admire the lanterns. Harmony reigned, with lanterns hanging from tall bamboo platforms throughout the capital. On the market’s watchtower, officers in black waved signal flags, sending messages swiftly from block to block, weaving a dense net of information. The seventy-two city districts lay arranged like a chessboard; above, the moon was bright as a crown, stars scattered like a wash of light, and a lone eagle soared, surveying the whole of Jian’an.

On the fifteenth day of the eighth month, thirteenth year of Jian’an, behind the Six Gates Office.

At the hour of the Dog.

Song Mo sat idly on a stone bench, the scent of osmanthus wafting from the tree behind him. He felt no desire to enjoy the scene tonight. The talisman horse he’d drawn was still tucked inside his coat. He hesitated, wondering whether to use his swift movement spell to slip away, when a figure approached.

Tang Yi had changed into a clean white robe. Though the poison was dispelled, his face remained deathly pale—clearly from blood loss.

“Let’s go,” Tang Yi said, his voice weak but as resolute as ever.

“Where?” Song Mo asked.

“The daughter of Ma Sihu, the Governor of the Northern Desert, has been abducted. We should go investigate,” Tang Yi replied bluntly. He hesitated, then asked, “You know the art of swift movement, don’t you?”

Song Mo was startled, then realized Tang Yi meant his magical ‘Talisman Horse’ technique.

Tang Yi had saved his life once; if not for him taking the blow from the venomous bug, Song Mo would have been the one wounded.

“I do know a little magic, but I can’t help you,” Song Mo said quietly, meeting Tang Yi’s gaze.

“Why not?” Tang Yi’s expression darkened.

“Because I don’t want to see you throw your life away,” Song Mo said, raising his voice. One bug master, Zhao Nu, had been hard enough to deal with, and Tang Yi was badly injured—if he faced the Turks, he’d be walking into the lion’s den.

Precisely because Tang Yi had saved him, Song Mo didn’t want to see him rush to his death.

Tang Yi looked at Song Mo in surprise, then said in a low voice, “It’s none of your concern. I know my limits.”

Seeing Tang Yi’s stubbornness, Song Mo turned away, refusing to argue further. Tang Yi didn’t insist either, unwilling to linger in stalemate, and turned to leave.

“Must you catch the Turks no matter what?” Song Mo asked, watching Tang Yi stagger away, frustrated.

“It’s my duty,” Tang Yi replied firmly.

Song Mo slapped his forehead and sighed, “I surrender—I’ll help you find the Turks, as long as you promise not to go looking for death.”

Tang Yi regarded the thin, frail undertaker with suspicion. “I don’t have time for your jokes.”

Song Mo asked seriously, “Have you noticed something?”

“What?” Tang Yi frowned.

“Haven’t you realized you’re always being led by the nose by the Turks?” Song Mo said solemnly.

Tang Yi nodded; Song Mo was right. Since the beginning, the Six Gates had always been a step behind.

But it wasn’t that the Turks had spies among the Six Gates; they had simply planned for a long time, understanding the Six Gates, the seventy-two districts, and even the entire capital inside and out—always staying ahead.

“Believe me, if you keep chasing after the Turks like this, you’ll never stop anything,” Song Mo said bluntly.

Tang Yi pondered for a moment, staring into Song Mo’s eyes. “So what’s your plan?”

Song Mo tapped the stone table. “Only the one who tied the knot can untie it.”

Tang Yi’s eyes brightened. “Come with me to the prison.”

Song Mo breathed a quiet sigh of relief. At least he’d convinced Tang Yi. Perhaps now, a life had been exchanged for a life.

On the way to the prison, Tang Yi recalled the conversation. “By the way, what did you mean by ‘I服了YOU’?”

Song Mo forced back a smile, answering gravely, “It’s a phrase from the West—it means you’re a genius.”

Tang Yi nodded. “It’s clever, thinking to approach the knot-tiers. You’re a genius.”

Well, he’d dug his own pit and fallen right into it.

...

Inside the Six Gates prison, hot oil burned in the lamp niches on the stone walls, casting a dim glow.

A junior constable carried a lantern, unlocking iron doors one by one. Song Mo and Tang Yi walked across uneven stone slabs toward the deepest cells.

The slabs, once smooth, had lost their color; the black-red stains were not mere spots but soaked into the stone like splashes of ink. Who knew how much blood had been spilled here?

The pungent smell of blood made Song Mo wrinkle his nose. Tang Yi’s face was grim, lost in thought.

In a cell deep within the prison, a man was bound tightly to the pillar of judgment; iron hooks pierced his shoulder bones, and black blood oozed from the wounds.

It was the Turkic bug master, Zhao Nu.

His skin was almost entirely flayed; his upper garments stripped off, his chest carved with a steel blade countless times—bloody and terrifying.

Three constables sat around a filthy table, drinking. A stove nearby