After cautious verification, the next step was a thunderous strike.
“Yes! I will see to it myself!” Advisor Fang accepted the order and hurried away.
At this moment, the Third Prince’s earlier frustration was swept aside.
Though Zhaohua’s rejection had angered him, the unexpected lead of the Youzhou military funds offered him a far more direct and deadly chance to strike at the Crown Prince.
An uncontrollable Zhaohua was troublesome, but if he could seize the Crown Prince’s core evidence, marginalizing her would be no problem.
“Zhaohua, since you’ve chosen to fight alone, don’t blame me… for seizing the advantage first.” The Third Prince gazed toward the Princess’s manor, his eyes complex, finally hardening into cold resolve.
If the alliance failed, then each would rely on its own strength. In the struggle for the throne, there were never eternal allies—only eternal interests.
In the days that followed, the Princess’s manor remained tightly shut, silent as stone.
Baili Jun spent her time reading and practicing calligraphy, waiting patiently for the right moment.
Rumors in the capital about the “witch princess” grew louder, bizarre tales spreading like wildfire. She ignored them all.
Some officials tentatively sent letters, rare herbs, and words of concern.
She returned them untouched, citing: “I am reflecting in seclusion, and dare not neglect His Majesty’s will.”
Meanwhile, a thousand miles away in Youzhou, a silent but brutal clash unfolded.
Just as Baili Jun had foreseen, the Crown Prince’s elite and the Third Prince’s top fighters had both set their sights on the convoy secretly moving the stolen silver.
The two sides met head‑on along the hidden waterways leading to Blackwater Pool.
Blackwater Pool lay on the border between Youzhou and a neighboring prefecture—a desolate stretch of water. Its channels spread like a spider’s web, thick with reeds, rarely visited by man. It was the perfect place to hide and transfer contraband.
Several sturdy grain barges lay moored in a concealed river fork, their hulls sunk deep with heavy cargo. On shore, dozens of men in plain garb but sharp‑eyed vigilance patrolled. They were the Crown Prince’s trusted guards, led by his old retainer, “Old Ghost.” They awaited the convoy that would carry the silver chests deeper into Blackwater Pool’s hidden stronghold.
Old Ghost paced uneasily. The Crown Prince’s orders were strict: the transfer must be swift. He dared not slacken. Yet a nameless dread gnawed at him. The place was too quiet—eerily so.
Suddenly—
“Whizz, whizz, whizz…!”
Sharp whistles tore through the night.
A storm of arrows rained down from every direction, loosed from the darkness of reeds and waterways!
“Enemy attack!!” The alarm was drowned in screams.
The guards on shore fell in droves, caught unprepared. On the boats, arrows thudded into planks, sailors crying out in panic.
“Form ranks! Protect the silver ships!” Old Ghost roared, eyes bloodshot, blade drawn.
The surviving guards pulled back, using the boats and riverside rocks as cover. But the attackers were clearly prepared—and numerous.
“Kill!!” The shout shook the heavens.
Countless shadows surged forth from the reeds and nearby skiffs.
Their clothes were ragged, weapons varied, but their movements were swift and deadly. They were the outlaws and river bandits the Third Prince had bought, hardened men of the greenwood. At their head stood none other than Advisor Fang, leading the Third Prince’s elite death‑soldiers.
The battle blazed white‑hot in an instant. Blades flashed, blood sprayed!
The Third Prince’s men had a clear target, hurling themselves fearlessly at the barges laden with silver chests.
“Stop them! Don’t let them board!” Old Ghost, drenched in blood, fought like a mad tiger. He knew—if the silver was lost, both the Crown Prince and he were doomed. But the Third Prince’s side had long prepared. Their numbers and momentum gave them an overwhelming advantage.
The elite death‑soldiers were like spearpoints, tearing open the guards’ defenses by sheer force.
Boom! One ship’s cabin door was smashed open.
“The silver’s here!” came the cry of triumph.
Old Ghost saw the line collapse, the silver ships about to fall. A flash of desperate madness lit his eyes. “Set fire! Burn the ships! They must not get the silver!”
He meant to perish together.
Several loyal guards instantly pulled out fire‑sticks, rushing toward the cabins.
But Advisor Fang had anticipated this. He shouted sharply: “Stop them!”
Death‑soldiers shadowed them like wraiths. Steel flashed, and the would‑be arsonists fell dead one by one.
Thud! A cold dagger pierced Old Ghost’s chest from behind. He turned with difficulty, seeing Advisor Fang’s indifferent face.
“You… you are… the Third—” Old Ghost’s words never finished. He collapsed lifeless.
With their leader slain, the remaining guards were quickly slaughtered.
The Third Prince’s men seized control of all the barges.
“Quick! Count the silver chests! Bring the lead boatman here!” Advisor Fang ordered urgently, his face alight with barely contained excitement.
Looking at the stacked, heavy chests sealed with blurred stamps, he knew—the great task was accomplished.
Meanwhile, as killing cries and faint firelight rose from Blackwater Pool’s river forks, far above, deep within a dense, lightless bed of reeds, several pairs of eyes watched silently through special long‑range scopes.
“Chief, the Third Prince’s men have succeeded. The Crown Prince’s men are wiped out. Old Ghost is dead too,” whispered a shadow‑guard, camouflaged in reeds, blending into the night.
Their leader was Qinglan, deputy commander of the Crimson Feather Guard. He lowered the scope, his face calm, expressionless.
“Did you see clearly the route they’re taking with the silver chests? Where are they heading?” Qinglan’s voice was low and steady.
“Yes. They’re loading the chests onto carts disguised as grain wagons. The direction is east, toward Luoyan Slope. The terrain there is complex, with several abandoned mines. Likely their chosen temporary hiding place,” another scout reported swiftly.
“Good.” Qinglan nodded. “Leave two teams—one to keep distant watch on Luoyan Slope, one to erase all traces of our presence. The rest, withdraw with me.”
“Chief, shouldn’t we…” A young guard looked unwillingly toward the silver being carried away.
Qinglan’s cold glance silenced him. “Our mistress does not want us to snatch a few chests now and alert them. What she wants is to know where the silver is ultimately hidden, whose hands it passes through, and…”
His eyes flashed with icy light. “…at the right moment, to expose this blood‑stained silver—along with both its new master and its old master—to the full light of day!”
“To act now would only alert both the Third Prince and the Crown Prince, benefiting someone else. Let them carry it. Let them hide it.”
Qinglan cast one last look at the chaotic battlefield below and the departing convoy. Then he turned decisively, his figure melting into the deeper reeds, as if he had never been there.
“Mark the location. Track their movements. Our mission is to be our mistress’s most hidden eyes, her most patient hunters. Move!”
Several shadows slipped away under the deepest darkness before dawn, leaving not a trace behind.