Chapter 19: Murder Under the New Moon

Old Wang’s words did indeed catch him off guard for a moment. But upon reflection, he found it understandable. To be able to hold great power in a place for years, to navigate the treacherous waters of officialdom without a single stain, how could someone manage that without profound cunning and scheming? As for the incident with the Heart-Shattering Palm, he had mostly fallen into the trap by his own miscalculation—though Old Wang’s instigation had certainly played a significant role. As long as Old Wang had no designs on him, he couldn't care less what storms the man stirred up elsewhere.

Outwardly, however, he gave nothing away. Old Wang’s advice was for his own good, and had indeed been helpful. Without Old Wang’s forceful argument on his behalf, he would never have gained the benefits he enjoyed now. This thought made him unconsciously squeeze the hilt of his sword, Blood Reaper, hanging at his waist.

“Thank you, Uncle Wang, for your guidance. I’ll be much more careful from now on,” he said.

After chatting a while longer, they left the armory, finding four men already waiting for them outside—all bodyguards in the magistrate’s employ. Yao Qian didn’t stand on ceremony, directing the men to carry out the chosen armor and shields, as well as the few mechanical crossbows they’d selected. As for the magistrate himself, he was nowhere to be seen—perhaps he couldn’t bear the thought of witnessing Old Wang’s handiwork.

In the blink of an eye, evening came. Yao Qian returned from outside, his expression somewhat grim.

That afternoon he had paid a visit to Chen Can’s home. He and the two brothers no longer had dealings, but now that one was dead, whether out of respect for his predecessor or for future considerations, he couldn’t avoid offering condolences—lest he be thought cold-hearted.

He had also seen Chen Wu’s body. The palm print on the chest, over the heart, was crimson as blood; even the ribs beneath the heart were shattered. One could only imagine the force behind that blow. This gave him a rough measure of the Heart-Shattering Palm’s power, confirming his suspicion that the man had truly cultivated internal martial arts—not only had he not declined with age, but his strength had reached new heights.

This realization darkened his mood. The man’s power clearly exceeded his own; even with his Iron Shirt technique just taking shape, one misstep would mean instant death under such a blow.

Yet, was life and death ever merely a contest of strength or cultivation? If that were so, why bother with bloody battles—just compare strength, and the weaker party could kill themselves.

Come evening, he dined with Old Wang in the rear yamen, the meal naturally paid for by the magistrate—a customary gesture of encouragement before a journey, though he doubted the magistrate truly meant to inspire them.

As night fell and darkness deepened, Yao Qian followed Old Wang out of the hall, still pondering the man’s twisted sense of humor—he always chose the night for action.

“We’re supposed to be the side of justice, aren’t we?” he grumbled inwardly.

By now, they had reached the rear courtyard, where nearly ten men dressed in black stood waiting. The courtyard was brightly lit, making the faces of several men instantly recognizable to Yao Qian. After Old Wang exchanged a few words with the group, the team began to prepare for their mission.

Half an hour later, a dozen or so of them lay hidden in the darkness not far from a desolate courtyard in the city’s southern quarter, silently observing.

Though Yao Qian had almost no experience and could discern nothing, Old Wang’s severe expression suggested he had noticed something amiss.

Seeing Old Wang’s face, Yao Qian had no doubt—the rundown residence before them was no open invitation for just anyone to stroll in. Old Wang gestured, and two men came over, received instructions, and disappeared into the night.

They waited for the time it takes an incense stick to burn before the two men returned, panting, and quietly gave directions to Old Wang before melting back into the group.

Yao Qian understood: the house was well-guarded, with both open and hidden sentries. Clearly, Chen Shanqi was a startled bird after all. Yet, it was evident that this bird still couldn’t escape the hunter’s vigilance.

“Yuanzhen, go deal with all the sentries quietly. Don’t let them raise an alarm and startle Old Chen,” Old Wang whispered in his ear.

Yao Qian nodded. Old Wang’s expertise in such matters was far beyond his own. Memorizing the positions, he slipped into the darkness.

Tonight, with no moon, was destined to be a night for killing.

He moved swiftly towards the east side of the residence, creeping around a corner, where he spotted a figure perched in a tree. Gauging his timing, he waited for the sentry to turn away, then lunged, springing off the ground. A flash of cold steel—Blood Reaper unsheathed—and he slashed the man’s throat.

A flick of the blade, a spray of blood—so quick the man couldn’t even cry out before his eyes dimmed. Yao Qian caught the body, propped it against the tree as if the man were merely dozing, and slipped back down.

He dispatched the sentry without the slightest change in his expression, already accustomed to the metallic tang of blood in the air. He continued, silently taking out the rest of the sentries—whether by luck or skill, not a sound escaped to alert those inside.

The entire estate was as silent as a graveyard.

Returning to Old Wang, he nodded and whispered, “It’s done.”

A hint of satisfaction flickered across Old Wang’s face. He nodded. “Good. With the nails pulled, it’s time to go catch the tiger.”

With that, he strode forward, swiftly reaching the courtyard wall. With a lizard-like agility, he climbed over without a sound. Yao Qian followed suit.

Landing inside, they found the grounds overrun with wild, withered vegetation, the original layout lost to neglect. Yao Qian crept to the main door, where the faint odor of blood drifted to his nose—two bodies lay still warm on the ground, while Old Wang worked at the door.

As the main doors swung open, a shout came from behind: “Who’s there?”

Yao Qian tensed, but Old Wang didn’t flinch, shoving the doors wide. Instantly, armored guards—who had evidently been outside donning their gear—pushed in.

As the dozen or so men rushed inside, the man who’d shouted realized the jig was up, his face draining of color as he shouted in alarm.

“Not good—”

Before he could finish, Yao Qian had already closed the distance. Ten paces away, his mechanical crossbow was fired with a hiss—the black bolt streaked like a phantom into the man’s throat, blood spraying as the man clutched the bolt, eyes wide in disbelief, and fell.

Yao Qian was momentarily stunned—he’d aimed for the man’s head, after all!

But the commotion, brief as it was, had alerted the rest. Soon, men poured out of the ramshackle rear rooms—dozens of them, surging toward Yao Qian’s group like a flood.

“As expected, they were well prepared.” The sight of so many coming at once made even Old Wang’s face darken. Now he understood why everything had seemed so easy at first—it had been bait, a trap to lure them in.

As he realized this, the mob was already in the courtyard.

Old Wang shouted, “Everyone, form a circle and tighten up! Shields up—hold them off!”

After giving orders to the guards, Old Wang hurried to Yao Qian’s side.

By now, Yao Qian realized he’d walked into a trap, his face grim, but he showed no panic. Despite their numbers, he knew that if he truly wished to escape, they couldn’t stop him.

“Uncle Wang, what do we do now?”

Old Wang, with more than twenty years in the yamen and a history of investigating strange cases in his youth, was not easily rattled. Though surprised, he remained calm.

“That depends on what you want to do,” he replied.

“What do you mean?” Yao Qian asked, puzzled.

Old Wang gave him a strange look. “The Heart-Shattering Palm is past fifty, yet his strength hasn’t declined—he’s only grown stronger. He must have had some extraordinary encounter…”