Bang! Bang! Bang!
Heavy, ragged breaths accompanied the howling wind as snow battered the door, shaking it violently on its hinges.
Qingque’s eyes sharpened. She instantly drew the short blade at her waist, moved swiftly to the side of the door, and yanked open the bolt.
A gust of frigid air rushed in.
Lao Sun, wrapped in a battered sheepskin coat, stumbled and rolled through the doorway. The lieutenant behind him, Zhao Heng, wore a look of sheer terror on his face.
“My lord!” Lao Sun didn’t even bother to get up. He held a yellow-paged ledger, its corners soaked and stained by snowmelt, high above his head with both hands.
His lips, purple from the cold, trembled violently as he roared, “Something’s happened! In the death prison… something terrible has happened!”
Xu Qinghuan rose abruptly from her armchair.
She didn’t ask what was wrong. Instead, she walked straight down the steps and snatched the ledger from Lao Sun’s shaking, sieve-like hands.
She opened the first page.
The ink was still slightly smudged.
It was densely filled with records of death-row inmates’ medical cases: Cell Nine—mania, vomiting blood.
Cell Eleven—yellow pustules on the arms, flesh rotting and sloughing off; Cell Sixteen—collapsed in agony, unconscious.
Xu Qinghuan flipped through the pages rapidly, the paper rustling loudly. Dozens of entries in a row all described the same fatal outcome: poison entering the organs, beyond any remedy. Her gaze turned colder as she continued.
Until she reached a blank space near the final pages. Her finger stopped.
That line of record was brief: Cell Nine, the shyster lawyer. Wound shows no pustules, already scabbed over. Pulse deep and slow, steady and strong.
Xu Qinghuan’s eyes locked on those three words—“already scabbed over”—for a full three breaths. She snapped the ledger shut and lifted her head, fixing her stare on Lao Sun, who was still kneeling on the ground.
“That prisoner in Cell Nine—how deep did you cut him? How much corpse salve did you apply?”
Xu Qinghuan spoke rapidly.
“I swear my head on it, my lord! The depth of the wound, the amount of salve—absolutely identical to every other prisoner!”
Lao Sun looked up, his eyes filled with terror and confusion.
“My lord, that’s a lethal poison from the southern frontier! The strong men in the neighboring cells all had their guts rot through—but this scoundrel is perfectly fine! It’s like a miracle from the gods…”
“There are no gods in this world. Only cause and effect.”
Xu Qinghuan cut him off, dismissing his talk of divine intervention.
She clutched the ledger and paced back and forth across the hall: “Did you question him closely? Before he was imprisoned, did he consume anything extraordinary—or suffer any severe illness?”
“I did! The scoundrel said he hadn’t eaten a proper meal of rice in six months.”
“But the year before last, he claimed he caught a terrible fever—nearly died from it—and somehow survived it on his own.”
Lao Sun caught his breath and answered rapidly.
Xu Qinghuan stopped in her tracks.
A terrible fever? Survived on his own?
A clear chain of reasoning snapped into place in her mind.
She strode quickly to the long desk, her eyes blazing, “That shyster crawled back from death’s door through that fever. His vital energies were tempered in that deadly crisis, forged into a hardened soldier within him.”
“Now this corpse salve enters his body—but before the poison can take hold, those hardened energies within him seize it and utterly annihilate it.”
“That scab on his wound is the battlefield remnant of that clash!”
Xu Qinghuan’s tone was resolute.
“That scab is the ripe graft—purged of the lethal poison, retaining the poison-killing power!”
Lao Sun slumped to the floor, jaw hanging open.
Decades of medical knowledge shattered in that single instant.
Yet following that line of reasoning, everything clicked into place like parting clouds revealing the sun.
Xu Qinghuan gave him no time to gape. She snatched the command token from the desk and hurled it into Zhao Heng’s arms.
“General Zhao, take your men back to the death prison immediately.”
“Pull that shyster out and put him in the cleanest cell you can find. Post ten of your most reliable men to guard him around the clock.”
“No one gets in except you and Lao Sun—not even a fly. If he loses a single hair, I’ll hold you personally responsible!”
“Understood!” Zhao Heng clenched the token and saluted with both fists.
Xu Qinghuan turned her gaze back to Lao Sun.
“Lao Sun, go back at once. Using a silver blade, scrape every last bit of dry scab off that shyster’s wound—not a speck less!”
“Grind it into the finest powder, seal it in a porcelain vial, and rush it back to headquarters!”
Xu Qinghuan’s face was grim, but a fleeting thought raced through her mind.
Let’s just hope that street loafer hasn’t been visiting brothels and picked up some filthy venereal disease—otherwise this life-saving remedy can’t be grafted onto any healthy person.
Heavy footsteps sounded in the snow outside.
The commander of the Northern Pass garrison, Tie Lanshan, strode into the hall.
The hem of his cloak was still stained with dark, half-dried blood.
Clearly, he had just finished executing another batch of plague-stricken soldiers at the northern wall.
Tie Lanshan halted, sweeping his gaze over Lao Sun on the floor and Zhao Heng about to leave, before settling on Xu Qinghuan’s face.
“Lord Xu,” Tie Lanshan said, his voice booming, “I heard everything outside the door. If that shyster’s scab is truly a ripe graft, then someone must test the medicine first.”
Before Xu Qinghuan could respond, Tie Lanshan spun toward the door and barked into the storm.
“Men outside! Pick five who aren’t afraid to die—get in here!”
The clatter of armor sounded.
Five burly, weathered veterans of the personal guard strode into the hall.
They moved in perfect unison, dropping to one knee with heads bowed and fists raised.
Tie Lanshan looked down at these five old soldiers who had followed him for years.
“This will plant the rotting flesh poison into your bodies.”
Tie Lanshan’s voice was calm: “If it works, you live. If not, within half an hour you’ll have rotting guts and melt into a pool of yellow water.”
The five veterans didn’t even blink. The lead sergeant looked up with a grin.
“Commander, our lives died five years ago in that pile of corpses. If we can carve a path to survival for the city’s soldiers and civilians, it’s worth it!”
Tie Lanshan closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and swung his hand.
“Zhao Heng, Lao Sun—take them below. If this is done, I’ll pour the drinks myself!”
...
The view swept north, past the towering walls of the Northern Pass, all the way to the Helian Central Army camp fifty miles away.
The wind seemed to lose some of its bite here.
Inside the largest command tent, dozens of blazing charcoal braziers drove away all trace of cold.
Fat from a roasted whole lamb dripped onto the coals, sending up wisps of white smoke and rich, savory aroma.
The strategist Chen Changfeng sat comfortably on a wide white-tiger-skin couch.
Today he had changed into a brand-new blue brocade robe, and in his hand he held a delicate Xuan kiln porcelain cup. The drink inside was not mare’s milk wine, but fine Junshan silver needle tea plundered from the Great Qian Empire.
His gaze rested on the tea leaves unfurling in the water, a self-satisfied smile curving at the corners of his lips.
His fingers tapped lightly on the table.
Three days.
It had been exactly three days since that plague-infested corpse, carrying a hundred-year-old epidemic trigger, had been thrown into the Northern Pass.
The corpse salve’s poison acted fast, and with the water supply contaminated, the Northern Pass must now be a howling city of misery—a cursed ghost town that the living fled.
Xu Qinghuan? Tie Lanshan?
Against true lethal poison, all military strategy and iron discipline were jokes.
Swords and spears couldn’t stop a plague, and quicklime couldn’t fill the chasm of panic in people’s hearts.
“Master Chen!”
At the head of the table, the Left Luli King, Ashina Dubi, raised his gold-inlaid ox-horn cup, his face ruddy with drink, his voice booming through the spacious royal tent.
“That scheme of yours to cut off their every escape — truly a masterstroke that costs not a single soldier! These past few nights, I’ve slept sound as stone, and even in my dreams I can hear those Southerners screaming inside Zhenbei Pass!”
The assembled Hu generals below, who had once questioned and distrusted him, now showed not a trace of their former doubt.
The newly promoted deputy commander, Batu, rose to his feet and slammed a small carving knife onto the table.
“Master Chen’s brain works better than the sky-eagle of the Eternal Heaven! All we have to do now is wait for those Southerners in the city to die off, then ride straight in to scoop up their weapons and count their silver!”
Chen Changfeng set down his teacup and stood.
He clasped his hands in a modest bow, his expression humble — yet the arrogance in his eyes could barely be contained.
“The King flatters me! I merely borrowed the favor of heaven and earth.”
“Zhenbei Pass will hold out for at most two more days before its gates fall on their own. The King need only keep the warriors well-rested, and we shall await the recovery of this northern gateway.”
Ashina Dubi burst into laughter and drained his cup in one long swallow.
“Excellent! Pass my order — tonight, every camp slaughters sheep and sets out wine, and all rewards of women are released in full! We celebrate the taking of Zhenbei early!”
The tent erupted in a wild, beastly roar — coarse laughter mingling with the startled cries of dragged female slaves.
The atmosphere burned with feverish excitement!
But Chen Changfeng watched only for a moment before finding the stench of perfume, wine, and rank meat too cloying.
He clasped his hands behind his back, pushed aside the thick felt curtain, and stepped out of the great tent alone.
The wind and snow stung his face. Chen Changfeng drew in a deep breath of icy air.
He gazed into the distance, toward the direction of Zhenbei Pass.
Xu Qinghuan, oh Xu Qinghuan — what does it matter if you’re clever as a fox?
In the end, you’re nothing but a woman!
That fine intellect of yours, against this century-old lethal poison capable of destroying heaven and earth, is nothing more than a mantis trying to stop a chariot.
How do you intend to break it?
Just as Chen Changfeng was lost in dreams of noble rank and royal favor, a sudden flurry of wings sounded from the heavens above.
A pure-white carrier pigeon, its feathers tipped with distinctive black speckles, broke through the blinding snow and landed precisely on the leather gauntlet of a guard standing watch outside the tent.
The guard deftly seized the pigeon, untied the small copper tube lashed to its leg, and strode quickly to Chen Changfeng, dropping to one knee to present it.
“My lord, an urgent letter from the west.”
Chen Changfeng’s gaze landed on the golden pattern etched into the copper tube. His brow lifted, then the smile in his eyes burst open wide.
“Oh? This is the personal messenger pigeon of the Great King, Ashina Gudu.” He took the tube, spun it twice in his hand, and turned to call out toward the tent with a hearty laugh.
“The Great King commands the western front himself. By my reckoning, this must be the good news of a breached city.”
He muttered to himself, his tone dripping with barely contained eagerness: “Finally, a report of victory! The left wing taken, Zhenbei captured — two blessings at once!”
Chen Changfeng turned and strode back into the royal tent, the copper tube in hand.
The noise inside gradually died down as he entered.
Ashina Dubi pushed the slave girl from his lap, leaned forward, and stared hungrily at the copper tube in Chen Changfeng’s grasp.
“A letter from the Great King? Open it at once — has the western front already fallen?” Ashina Dubi could barely contain himself.
“In reply to the King, yes it has.”
Chen Changfeng stood at the center of the tent, and before all the Hu generals, he moved with perfect, unhurried grace.
With a crisp snap, he broke the red wax seal and slid out the tightly rolled sheepskin scroll.
He slowly unrolled the parchment, his gaze drifting carelessly to the first line of the letter.
The next instant.
The smile on Chen Changfeng’s face froze as though struck by the coldest frost — stiffening into place on that scholarly, composed face.
Deep in his pupils, the blood-soaked words on the scroll were reflected back at him.
