Chapter Eight: Song Mo Skillfully Uses Disguise, and the Scabbed Head Exposes the Thin Pass

Watching Tang Yi, who was sipping his tea in leisure, Song Mo’s mind raced rapidly. First, Zhang Wei, the Unsavory Commander of Changning County, had died a grisly death, followed immediately by the brutal demise of Corpse Attendant Number Eighteen, who had prepared Zhang’s body. Evidently, there was an extraordinary secret hidden within the Death Registry, one grave enough to threaten the very existence of the Turks. The Turks, desperate to find it, had risked exposure by killing two people in quick succession, while the Six Gates were clearly aware of its importance and were searching for the Death Registry as well.

Corpse Attendant Number Eighteen had died miserably, and the Death Registry was not found on Zhang Wei’s corpse. It seemed that neither the Turks nor the Six Gates had managed to obtain it. The trail ended abruptly here.

No, that’s not right.

If the trail truly ended here, the disappearance of the Death Registry would be highly advantageous to the Turks. After all, with the secret buried along with the dead, no one could ever retrieve it. The Six Gates knew this, so they deliberately laid a trap to lure the Turks into revealing themselves.

They intentionally put forth a decoy, exposing someone who appeared to possess the Death Registry.

In this way, the Turks, unable to decide and unwilling to gamble, would be compelled to eliminate the trouble and seize the registry—exactly what the Six Gates wanted.

This realization sent a chill down Song Mo’s spine. He had been the last one to prepare Zhang Wei’s body, making him the most likely candidate to have taken the Death Registry. He was the decoy crafted by the Six Gates, the pawn pushed from the shadows to the forefront.

And pawns, by nature, could be discarded at any time.

At this thought, Song Mo calmly peeled a dried fruit and popped it into his mouth, chewing as he carefully reviewed his deductions in his mind.

Ordinarily, to protect a witness, the Six Gates would have found a secluded villa, shrouded in layer upon layer of security, or at the very least enlisted the aid of the City Watch. Why, then, would Tang Yi bring someone into the Spring Breeze Pavilion in such an exposed manner?

Wasn’t this akin to an old man hanging himself—courting death out of sheer impatience?

The more he considered it, the more uneasy he felt. Song Mo muttered inwardly, “The wind’s getting fierce—time to slip away.”

Having made up his mind to escape, he stood up and headed for the door.

Song Mo only hoped Tang Yi would not call after him, but fate rarely aligns with one’s wishes. Before he reached the door, Tang Yi noticed him.

“What are you doing?” Tang Yi set down his teacup, frowning slightly.

“Taking a piss,” Song Mo replied crudely on purpose, hoping to arouse Tang Yi’s disgust and be left alone.

As expected, Tang Yi shot him a look of disdain, withdrew his gaze, and snorted, “Get lost.”

Stepping out of the Number One Heavenly Suite, Song Mo finally breathed a sigh of relief.

The tiger returns to the mountain, the bird to the forest.

The fish sinks into the sea, and the dragon soars to the heavens.

Afraid Tang Yi would sense something amiss, Song Mo waited until he had descended to the third floor before making a brisk exit.

Outside the Spring Breeze Pavilion, several ragged little beggars were singing a folk tune, pestering a dejected middle-aged man for coins.

Song Mo emerged from the pavilion, head lowered in haste, but when he glanced up, he stopped in his tracks.

The man wore a blue long jacket over a white linen shirt. His hair was streaked with gray, his brows tightly knit, and his face wore an expression of seven parts disappointment and two parts sorrow.

Song Mo recognized him at once: it was Ma Mingde, the leader of the Defeng Opera Troupe.

Since Sai Meixiang’s death, the Defeng Troupe had lost its star performer and its fame had waned. The scandal of a death further tainted their reputation, so few came to watch their shows—nine seats out of ten were empty. Now, they could not even afford the stage rental fee at the Spring Breeze Pavilion.

The stage rental was the payment required for a troupe to perform on someone else’s grounds.

At this moment, Ma Mingde was trying to negotiate a delay in the payment, but evidently, the pavilion’s management had refused.

Ma Mingde fished out two copper coins and tossed them into a beggar’s bowl to rid himself of their pestering.

Seeing Ma Mingde enter a nearby alley, Song Mo glanced around—finding no one watching him, he quickly followed.

The alley was deserted. Song Mo caught up to Ma Mingde and patted him on the shoulder.

Ma Mingde turned, startled, to see Song Mo’s harmless, smiling face.

“Do you know me?” Song Mo asked quietly.

“No. Who are you?” Ma Mingde clearly had no recollection of this mortician who had prepared Sai Meihua’s corpse.

“No? Then listen well. My name is Tang Yi—Tang Yi of the Six Gates,” Song Mo replied with a smile.

“I don’t care who you—” Ma Mingde never finished his sentence. His eyes rolled back as Song Mo struck him deftly on the back of the neck, rendering him unconscious.

Moments later, a man in a blue long jacket walked out of the alley.

Upon closer inspection, beneath the jacket was a rough linen shirt.

“Looks like the disguise technique from the Soul Guide Record is reliable—not a cheap fraud. Impressive!”

It was, in fact, Song Mo in disguise.

Returning to Mortuary Room Seven was out of the question. After a moment’s thought, he headed straight for the Western Market.

…

Spring Breeze Pavilion, Number One Heavenly Suite.

“The drums thunder, the horns blare—a call to arms that stirs my soul and rekindles my ambition to break through Heaven’s Gate. In those years, atop my horse beneath the peach blossoms, my glory was unmatched, enemy blood splashing upon my silken skirts. While I draw breath, I must fulfill my duty—no inch of land shall belong to others! Barbarian kings and petty clowns are nothing; with my sword, I can fend off a hundred thousand men!”

Onstage, the warrior-dan struck a bold and heroic pose, his costume resplendent, twirling an apricot-yellow finger-whip as a makeshift steed with effortless grace. The audience below erupted in cheers.

Tang Yi’s gaze wandered across the crowd. They all seemed to be people of the Great Zhou; disappointment flickered across his face as he withdrew his eyes.

Half an incense stick’s time passed—Song Mo did not return.

A whole incense stick passed—still no sign of Song Mo.

“Could that brat have gotten into trouble?” Tang Yi’s face darkened as he left the room, but there was no trace of Song Mo in the backyard latrine.

“Damn it—cursed Song Mo!” Tang Yi realized he had been duped, but it was too late.

“Achoo!” Song Mo rubbed his nose, wondering which fool was cursing him behind his back.

…

Western Market, Darkmoon City.

Darkmoon City was not a city within a city, but rather a unique enclave within the Western Market—a haven for refugees, most of whom, lacking identification passes or tokens, could not secure proper employment in Jian’an’s capital.

Law and order in Darkmoon City was abysmal. Its affairs were dominated by the Canal Gang, the Salt Gang, and local thugs who held sway over everything. Neither the City Watch, the Imperial Guards, nor even the all-powerful Six Gates wished to intervene here.

Ordinarily, Song Mo would never have waded into such a mire, but to evade both the Six Gates and the Turks, Darkmoon City was now the safest refuge.

In Darkmoon City, every kind of shop could be found—grain stores, ironmongers, silk merchants, porcelain dealers, jewelers—but far more prevalent were the smoke-filled opium dens and gambling houses marked by blue curtains.

There—a flat-headed, mangy gambler was skulking his way into a gambling den.

Song Mo’s gaze happened to fall upon the gambler, noting a book sticking out from his coat.

How odd—why would a gambler carry a ledger?

Could it be The Complete Book of Gambling Tricks?

Finding it amusing, Song Mo looked more closely, and when he caught sight of the cover, he froze.

It was the Death Registry.