The crowd was stunned for a moment, then erupted into thunderous laughter. Pounding on their tables, they roared, “Wrong door? Was the Young Master Heir drunk out of his mind?”
“Drunk? I think he was blinded by lust,” the bearded man said, his face beet-red as he poured himself another drink. “The most ridiculous part is yet to come. He climbed over the wall into a matchmaker’s house. In the pitch black, he mistook the pockmarked old matchmaker for a top-tier courtesan. He lunged at her and tried to embrace her! And get this—the woman is over fifty! She started screaming, grabbed a feather duster, and chased him for three whole streets!”
“Oh my god! If word of this gets out, where is the Duke of Zhen going to hide his face?”
“Hide his face? Forget it!” a pale-faced scholar at another table interjected, waving his fan slowly. “I heard from a butler in their estate that early this morning, the Duke of Zhen hung the Heir in the ancestral hall and beat him until he broke three whips. They say the Heir was crying for his parents and begging for mercy until his voice went hoarse. The entire circle of nobles in the capital is gossiping about it; everyone is just waiting to see the Duke of Zhen’s estate fall into further disgrace.”
“There’s more!” another patron chimed in. “I heard that in an attempt to protect her son, the Duchess of Zhen insisted that the Heir was out surveying the welfare of the people at night and accidentally tripped into Matchmaker Alley. But as soon as she said it, people dug up the fact that the house next to the matchmaker’s is a gambling den—and the Heir had lost thousands of taels of silver there just a while ago!”
Another round of uproarious laughter filled the room. The talk turned to a cacophony of scandals: how the Heir of the Duke of Zhen squandered the family fortune on gambling and cockfighting; how the Duchess of Zhen cheated her step-daughter out of her inheritance; how the Duke of Zhen skimped on military provisions to curry favor with the Crown Prince. Each story was more scandalous than the last.
Shen Qinghuan’s hand, holding the wine cup, trembled slightly, and a playful smile tugged at the corner of her lips. This farce at the Duke of Zhen’s estate is far more interesting than Shen Cong’an’s petty schemes. It seems the waters of the capital are even muddier than I imagined.
Just as she was listening intently, Xiao Sanzi leaned in close. “Guest, don’t listen to their nonsense. The affairs of the Duke of Zhen’s estate are no joke. I heard the Duke was so angry he fell ill today. They’ve tripled the guards in the estate; anyone caught wagging their tongue about this will likely face a grim fate.”
Shen Qinghuan glanced at him and replied calmly, “Ah, thank you for the warning.”
Xiao Sanzi chuckled, wanting to say more, but he was called away by customers at the other end of the lobby.
Shen Qinghuan set down her cup and looked out at the dark night through the window. The direction of the Minister of Personnel’s residence was hidden in the dim lights, like a dormant beast. She looked up—it was the third watch; the faint sound of the night watchman’s wooden clapper echoed in the distance.
The night deepened. It was time for the show to begin.
Shen Qinghuan put down the cup and extinguished the candle on the table with her fingertips. Rising silently, her navy-blue martial attire brushed against the stool without making a sound. She strolled back to her room on the second floor, slid the bolt shut, and wedged the door frame with a wooden stool to ensure stability before relaxing her tense posture.
The room was lit only by a dim oil lamp. She sat on the edge of the bed. In her mind, the hundred-year-old ganoderma beside the spiritual spring in her space glowed with a moist luster; the dew droplets on its leaves fell onto the green stone, splashing into tiny halos of light.
In her storage compartment, the soft armor, sleeping drugs, and silver needles were neatly organized, and even the fire starter she had swiped earlier was arranged by size. Her fingertips brushed over the gleaming hidden weapons—triangular darts, bone-piercing nails, and a sleeve sword—each one tipped with a paralyzing agent refined from the spiritual spring water.
The chill in her eyes condensed. The fatigue from days of travel dissolved under the nourishment of the spiritual energy, replaced by a keen, ready-to-strike sharpness. Even the callouses on her fingertips seemed to pulse with potential power.
Outside the window, the sky shifted from ink-blue to pitch-black, as if someone had spilled a jar of ink, wrapping the entire capital in thick darkness. The noise in the inn’s lobby faded; the shouts of gambling and the calls of the waiter died down, leaving only the sound of the night watchman’s clapper, echoing with a sense of loneliness in the alley.
It was the third watch.
Shen Qinghuan opened her eyes abruptly, a cold glint in them sharper than the moonlight outside. She stood up nimbly and tied her long hair into a high ponytail with a black ribbon. As she moved, her hair brushed across her shoulders, stirring a breeze. She fastened a hidden pouch around her waist, pulling the drawstring tight with a soft snap. Finally, she checked the soft armor on her palms and her gloves, confirming everything was perfect.
With a light tap of her toes, her body moved like a civet cat, darting to the window. Pushing it open, the night breeze rushed in, carrying the scent of gardenias. She tilted her head slightly and leaped out.
The night was the best cover. Clad in her dark martial attire, she blended into the inkiness, her lithe figure moving across the roof tiles—a light touch, and she was dozens of feet away.
Within moments, she reached the rear wall of the Minister’s residence. The top of the wall was lined with dense, sharp caltrops, glinting like dormant poison thorns in the moonlight. For anyone else, this would require a ladder or a dangerous, forceful climb.
But Shen Qinghuan’s eyes only flickered. With a thought, a pair of gloves as thin as cicada wings appeared on her hands. The inside was lined with silk soaked in spiritual spring water, while the exterior was made of a specialized anti-slip material. It didn’t matter if it were caltrops or even sword blades—they couldn’t pierce it.
She placed her hand on the iron spikes. She felt a slight coolness in her palm, but she wasn’t scratched at all; she could even feel the texture of the spikes.
Before leaping down, she took out a palm-sized sachet and shook it gently around the courtyard wall. It was a specialized sleep-inducing drug from her space—colorless and odorless. Mingled with the scent of gardenias, it would cause anyone within thirty feet to fall into an instant, deep slumber, one from which they wouldn’t wake until dawn.
Sure enough, the two servants standing guard beneath the wall—one mid-yawn, the other kicking a stone—didn’t even have time to grunt before they slumped to the ground. The lanterns they held crashed to the floor, the flames flickering twice before being extinguished by the night breeze.
Shen Qinghuan landed with a cat-like grace, her pant cuffs brushing against the gardenias in the corner. The dew on the petals left a fresh, sweet scent on her clothes—a jarring contrast to the icy aura she exuded. Yet, she didn’t even blink.
Following the fragmented memories of the original owner, she moved silently toward the path the patrol guards were destined to take.