Chapter Seven: In the Morgue—The True and False Song Mo, Enjoy the Show as the Spring Breeze Delights

The hour of the Dog.
Song Mo tossed and turned on the cold pallet, his gaze drifting time and again toward Tang Yi.
“Can’t you just settle down?” Tang Yi, draped in Song Mo’s coarse hemp outer garment, frowned slightly.
Song Mo retorted irritably, “With a thief in the house, do you think the master can sleep?”
Tang Yi’s eyes flashed coldly. “You’re calling me a thief?”
Song Mo quickly fell silent, but his eyes betrayed his thoughts.
After all, someone had entered his home and, without a word, stripped the host’s clothes—what else could that be but a thief?
Song Mo was convinced: this man was a thief in official’s clothing, a wolf in sheep’s skin!
Tang Yi kept dusting off the hemp robe, his nostrils flaring as if suppressing some unpleasant smell.
It was Song Mo’s usual attire when preparing corpses; though often washed, it inevitably carried a faint odor of death.
Watching, Song Mo chuckled to himself. The lofty officials of the Six Gates had probably never suffered such indignities—truly, a rare sight.
Tang Yi clearly noticed and snorted, “This garment reeks. Did you toss it in a latrine?”
Song Mo pursed his lips, “Of course. I often hang it above the privy.”
“Courting death.” Tang Yi’s face darkened, and a flash of silver shot from his hand.
Song Mo dodged just in time to see a two-inch-long flying needle pinning itself into the bed board between his legs.
Had it landed an inch higher, the consequences would have been dire…
That put an end to Song Mo’s restlessness.
Moonlight spilled over the Orchid Pavilion; the wind swept through the night sky.
The bronze Soul-Calming Lantern sat on the table, illuminating Tang Yi’s space. The willow-leaf blade was stowed beneath the table, but his idle hand toyed with the lantern flame, stretching its bean-sized fire into a slender thread.
Crows settled on old branches, clouds concealed the wild geese—midnight had come and gone.
Tang Yi glanced back at the peacefully sleeping Song Mo—a slender, clean figure, far more agreeable than his sharp tongue.
Seeing Song Mo’s steady breathing, Tang Yi hesitated for a fraction of a second, then quietly peeled the disguise from his face…
…
The night passed without incident. At dawn, as the fifth watch sounded, Song Mo awoke to find Tang Yi gone; the hemp garment was folded neatly on the table.
Good— the fiend had left, and his “second brother” was safe.
Throwing open the door, Song Mo strode outside.
Far off, Swallow spotted him—Song Mo, with a look of lazy ease.
She was rather curious about him; the other morticians who came for breakfast were usually dull and lifeless, except for the occasional crude joke, but Song Mo’s eyes always held something unfathomable.
“One fried dough stick, one bowl of rice porridge,” Song Mo called out to Swallow with a smile.
“Coming right up,” Swallow answered cheerfully.

Soon enough, the food arrived.
The rice porridge was sweet—Song Mo looked up in surprise. Swallow winked at him.
Clearly, she had slipped him a little extra.
Song Mo ate his porridge quietly, but his gaze kept drifting toward Swallow.
She was growing more radiant by the day; even the coarse fabric of her dress could not hide her graceful figure.
His eyes dipped lower, and Song Mo hastily took a sip of porridge.
So shapely—surely the type to bear sons…
After finishing, he wiped his mouth, slapped two copper coins onto the table, and turned to leave.
Suddenly, he spotted a familiar figure beneath the old parasol tree on the main street.
Tang Yi.
Today, Tang Yi had shed the purple uniform of the Six Gates, wearing instead a green brocade robe, a white jade pendant at his waist, a belt of black jade and deerskin encircling him. In his hand, not the willow-leaf blade but a white folding fan; his jet-black hair was pinned up with a small peachwood hairpin—a perfect image of the romantic swordsman.
Song Mo quickly looked away, pretending not to notice, but it was too late—Tang Yi was already beckoning him over.
It’s said people fear the present magistrate, not the distant one; but Tang Yi was both—a current official and the immediate authority. Song Mo dared not defy him.
After all, rumor had it that the Six Gates’ prison wardens were even more fearsome than those of the Ministry of Justice. If Tang Yi decided to “give him a massage,” a little blood was nothing, but if he crushed a bone or two, that would be a problem.
“Does your lordship require something of this humble one?” Song Mo asked, neither servile nor overbearing.
Tang Yi gave Song Mo a once-over. “Get changed. I’m taking you to the theater.”
Song Mo understood at once—he was being looked down upon for his shabby attire.
Half an hour later, Tang Yi led Song Mo to Spring Breeze Felicity Pavilion in the west market.
The Spring Breeze Felicity Pavilion was famous in Jian’an’s capital: there were opera performers, storytellers, acrobats—
In short, a paradise for pleasure-seekers.
Song Mo followed Tang Yi inside. The attendant ignored Song Mo and hurried over to Tang Yi, asking eagerly, “Would you like a table in the main hall, or a private box?”
Song Mo knew: “a table in the main hall” meant sitting with other patrons before the stage, while a “private box” meant enjoying the show from an elegant, secluded suite circling the stage.
The hall was lively and cheap; the box was private, with a clear view and room for other amusements—at a steep price.
Tang Yi didn’t answer immediately but asked, “Is Master Kang the headliner today?”
The attendant nodded, “Indeed, Master Kang will be telling stories.”
Tang Yi flicked five taels of silver his way. “Box number one, a pot of Cloud Mountain Silverspike tea—the rest is your tip.”
The attendant’s face lit up. “Right away, sir! Box number one—please, this way!”
Third floor, Box Number One.
The room exuded antique charm; golden incense beasts breathed out a delicate fragrance, subtle yet invigorating.

The finest dustwood formed the walls, ensuring silence; the corridor was empty, all guards hidden in the shadows.
With floor-to-ceiling windows and silk curtains for listening to opera, one could see the stage below clearly while remaining unseen from outside—a perfect hideaway.
By the window stood a carved redwood table, the openwork patterns exquisitely beautiful.
On the table, six porcelain plates: three with melon seeds, dried fruits, and candied treats; three with fresh seasonal fruit—a fine way to pass the time.
Soon, the attendant returned, tray in hand, and set a steaming teapot on the table, arranging two lovely plum-blossom cups as usual.
“Leave us. He will pour the tea,” Tang Yi said, gesturing to Song Mo.
The attendant, who had wondered at Song Mo’s shabby dress, now looked down on him with contempt—just a servant, then.
“Glutton,” Song Mo muttered under his breath as the attendant left.
“What did you say?” Tang Yi caught him off-guard.
Song Mo tossed a nut into his mouth. “The Six Gates’ salary isn’t low, but it’s not exactly high either, is it?”
Tang Yi ignored him, pouring his own tea.
From the stage came the singsong strains of opera. Song Mo didn’t understand the lyrics, but this box offered a perfect view; the performer’s graceful movements were clear as day.
Hmm, this leading lady is well-endowed.
Wow, that actress in blue has long legs.
At first, Song Mo amused himself with these observations, but soon he realized something was wrong.
He was just a mortician—why would a Six Gates constable invite him to the theater?
Could it be guilt over nearly injuring his “second brother” last night, making amends with a show?
He quickly dismissed that idea.
Suddenly, Song Mo recalled the mortician’s brutal death in Room Eighteen.
It hit him—Tang Yi was fishing.
And the bait was none other than Song Mo himself!
With that realization, any interest in the beauties on stage vanished.
He stole a glance at Tang Yi, his heart sinking.
Tang Yi’s expression was grave, his gaze entirely fixed not on the stage but scanning the audience below.
Song Mo cursed inwardly; all thoughts of the performance gone, he could only think of escape—if only he could run for his life!