After a long while, Feng Qinghe tilted her head slightly, a sly smile playing on her lips, her eyes, which shone brightly in the darkness, fixed intently on Ah Chen: “Ten years…
Okay, I’ve got it.” She lightly brushed aside the heavy answer, her tone shifting abruptly like a knife’s edge, becoming lighter yet carrying a deeper probing.
What if it’s urgently needed?
Ah Chen glanced at Feng Qinghe thoughtfully, a look that seemed to mock the idea of “eagerness for quick success and instant benefits.” “There are readily available options,” he replied, his tone as flat as if he were talking about the weather.
“But they are more expensive and riskier.” His words hinted at another, faster, and darker path—recruiting or controlling those already established lone wolves or sects that operate in the shadows.
But this requires stronger control and a higher “price.” There is no shortage of such assassins or sects in the martial arts world.
Feng Qinghe smiled dismissively and casually and said, “Brother Ah Chen, while the moonlight is still bright tonight, shall we play another riddle?
Use your ‘eagle-like’ eyes to guess—” She paused deliberately, her gaze sweeping over the Eighth City beneath her feet, her voice lowered: “Right now, at this very moment, in this Eighth City, how many ‘shadows’ like you and me, or rather, secret agents, are there in total?” Ah Chen stood as steady as a pillar, the fluttering of his clothes seemingly following a certain rhythm.
He did not answer immediately, nor did he look at Feng Qinghe’s provocative gaze.
Instead, he slowly, extremely slowly turned his neck, his unfathomable pupils once again sweeping over the city beneath his feet.
His gaze swept across the rows of rooftops, through the seemingly quiet alleyways, past the scattered flickering lights, and even lingered briefly in a few specific shadowy corners.
Throughout this, his face remained expressionless, and his breathing was so steady it was almost imperceptible.
Time passed slowly, but Feng Qinghe did not urge him.
She just watched him with great interest, as if she were admiring the operation of a sophisticated machine.
After a long while, Ah Chen withdrew his gaze and met Feng Qinghe’s expectant eyes again.
His thin lips parted slightly, and the numbers he uttered were still concise and without the slightest hesitation: “Twenty-two.” This number is exactly the same as the total number of spies that Xie Daoan pointed out and Feng Qinghe admitted to himself at Zuixianlou!
After Ah Chen finished saying “twenty-two,” Feng Qinghe did not respond immediately.
She stared at him intently for a few seconds, her sharp eyes seeming to churn with a stormy wind.
Then, as if she had heard the most absurd yet hilarious joke in the world, she suddenly threw her head back and burst into laughter.
The laughter was no longer laced with calculation or hearty merriment but rather filled with an indescribable, almost ironic, exhilaration, echoing in the silent Wangbei Pavilion, striking the stone pillars, and then being torn apart by the night wind and scattered into the sky.
“Hahaha…
Good!
Twenty-two is a good one!” She laughed so hard she could barely breathe and even raised her hand to wipe away nonexistent tears from the corners of her eyes before finally stopping her laughter.
When she looked at Ah Chen again, her eyes held a strange light, a mixture of novelty, curiosity, and pity.
“Brother Ah Chen,” she shook her head, her tone filled with the amazement of someone who had discovered a rare animal, “I’m starting to like your… naiveté.” The word “naiveté” sounded particularly jarring and out of place when it came from her mouth, especially when applied to Ah Chen.
But this was indeed Feng Qinghe’s truest feeling at that moment—a kind of “naiveté” that came from a higher dimension, looking down on something pure and sharp, yet unable to see the big picture because of being too focused on one point.
As the laughter faded, all emotions vanished from Feng Qinghe’s face, like the receding tide revealing a hard reef.
She took a step forward, almost touching Achen’s toes, and looked up at him, so close that they could see the faintest reflection in each other’s pupils.
She stopped laughing, her tone becoming unusually calm, even carrying a calmness as if stating a fact, but every word was as heavy as an iron plate, striking Ah Chen’s heart: “I’m telling you, Brother Chen.” “In this eighth city, there are a total of 3,250 registered soldiers, officials, and permanent residents.” She paused slightly, letting the number settle in the cold air, and then, clearly and deliberately, said: “The total number of spies in this city is 3,250.” Three thousand two hundred and fifty people!
The number struck Ah Chen like a thunderbolt!
Ah Chen’s first reaction was—this was absolutely impossible.
Feng Qinghe didn’t give Achen any time to process the terrifying fact that “everyone in the Eighth City is a spy.” She shifted her feet, leaned against the railing, her back to Ah Chen, her tone as calm as if she were reciting a dry military rations ledger, but every word was like an icicle, piercing Ah Chen’s defenses: “One city, 2,590 registered people.
Two thousand five hundred and ninety spies.” “Two cities, two thousand three hundred and forty men.
Two thousand three hundred and forty spies.” “Three cities, 1,900 people.
1,900 spies.” “Four cities, 3,275 people.
Three thousand two hundred and seventy-five spies.” “Five cities, two thousand and five people.
Two thousand and five spies.” “Six cities, 3,100 people.
Three thousand one hundred spies.” “Seven cities, two thousand seven hundred and sixty people.
Two thousand seven hundred and sixty spies.” With each number she uttered, the chill around Ah Chen intensified.
These numbers weren’t abstract concepts; they represented tens of thousands of living, breathing people—all of whom were Feng Qinghe’s spies!
This wasn’t just a net; it was an impenetrable fortress, a living prison forged from flesh and blood, loyalty, and fear!
The Thirteen Alliances were essentially a massive intelligence machine, with each individual a cog in its machine!
After reporting the data for the Seventh City, Feng Qinghe finally stopped.
She didn’t turn around, only slightly turning her face.
The night wind ruffled the hair at her temples.
Her voice remained calm, yet carried a suffocating sense of oppression: Do you want me to continue?
“Nine cities, ten cities… all the way to the farthest thirteen cities.” “And then there are the patrolling cavalry outside the city, the caravans deep in the grasslands, and even…
the companions of several disgruntled princes in the Houxia royal court…” She chuckled softly, a laugh devoid of smugness, only a weary sense of having been in control of everything: “Brother Ah Chen, do you still think that discovering twenty-two hidden agents is something remarkable?” She finally turned around and faced Achen directly.
In the moonlight, her eyes were as deep as an ancient well, bottomless, filled only with endless darkness.
“Here, there are no civilians, only soldiers.
There are no secrets, only news I haven’t heard yet.” “The oversight you think you’ve seen might just be what I want you to see.
The safe corner you think you’re in might be being watched by countless eyes.” “This is the Thirteen Alliances.” “Now, do you still think that your ‘shadow’ theory will work in my impregnable Thirteen Alliances?” “What are your so-called ‘decade-long weapons’ compared to the overwhelming force of my city mobilized for war?” Ah Chen stood frozen in place, his face deathly pale.
He had been arrogant all his life, believing in absolute power and personal strength, but what Feng Qinghe was displaying now was a kind of “power” he had never imagined.
In the face of this power, personal bravery, even that of the most elite assassins, seemed so insignificant and laughable.
“…Everyone’s a spy?” Ah Chen’s voice was dry, filled with disbelief, as if he were denying the absurdity of what he had heard.
“Impossible.
People are all different; there will always be oversights.
How can such a vast network ensure that everyone is your eyes and ears?
And how can you ensure that they won’t become someone else’s eyes and ears, or…
be watching you from the other side?” He tried to dismantle this terrifying concept using his understanding of logic, a struggle to maintain his instinct for thinking amidst his inner turmoil.
Seeing the near-collapse in his eyes, Feng Qinghe didn’t directly answer his question.
Instead, she tilted her head slightly, revealing a pure, inquisitive expression, and asked in return, “Ah Chen, you travel the world without leaving a trace, like walking on snow or crossing water.
Have you ever noticed the color of the soil where you step?
Did any birds perch on the treetops you passed last night?
Is the arrangement of the pebbles by the stream you drank from different three days ago?” She paused, her tone gentle yet each word clear: “Of course you wouldn’t notice.
For you, it’s just ‘passing by.’ But for those who have lived and grown up here for generations, seeing, touching, and hearing all this every day, any ‘difference’—like an unwanted mark on the soil, a feather from a foreign bird remaining on a treetop, or pebbles hastily kicked across the stream—is like a splatter of ink on white paper, glaringly obvious.
They don’t need to understand what a ‘spy’ is; they only need to know that speaking out about the ‘differences’ they see might earn them a bag of salt, a piece of cloth, or…avoid a disaster.” Ah Chen frowned.
Feng Qinghe’s words were like a key, trying to open a door he had never imagined, but he still resisted the scene behind the door.
“What about trust?
What about loyalty?
What you maintain by enticing and intimidating will collapse in an instant once the benefits are exhausted and the power is weakened.” “Bribery?
Intimidation?” Feng Qinghe smiled softly, a smile that was unfathomable.
“No, what I give them is ‘order.’ An ‘order’ for striving to live on this land and being able to anticipate how tomorrow will bring.
Outsiders who disrupt this order are what make them different.
Protecting this order is protecting the food in their own bowls and the warmth on their beds.
This is more solid than any oath of loyalty.” Ah Chen felt a chill deeper than any sword or blade creeping up from the soles of his feet.
His unwavering belief in personal martial prowess cracked faintly before this net.
“It’s getting windy; let’s go back.” She said casually.
Ah Chen stood in the lonely Wangbei Pavilion, facing the city below that seemed calm but was actually filled with eyes on every inch of land and the wasteland in his heart where his understanding of power and authority had been completely overturned.
After tonight, the world in his eyes will never be the same again, and Feng Qinghe’s goal seems to have been achieved—she not only intimidated this lone wolf but also planted a seed in his heart called “despair” or “submission.” “Okay, okay, I’ll teach you how to do it another day, how to play this game.” Feng Qinghe’s tone was as light as if she were soothing a sulking child, yet it carried a condescending, unquestionable sense of control.
After she finished speaking, she even reached out, as if she had naturally wanted to pat Achen’s shoulder, as if she had done this action countless times before.
But this time, her hand froze in midair.
Because Ah Chen moved.
He didn’t retreat or block; he simply turned his head slightly, his unfathomable eyes meeting Feng Qinghe’s gaze clearly and without hindrance.
There was no anger, no fear, not even the shock from before; only a calmness remained, and beneath that calmness, a surging, untamed wildness.
He just looked at her without saying a word.
Feng Qinghe’s hand froze in mid-air, and the lazy smile on her face also slightly froze.
She read something in that look—it wasn’t submission or surrender, but a kind of…lock.
It was as if everything she had just displayed—the enormous numbers, the suffocating control—had not made him back down but instead made him truly see the outline of his “prey.” An extremely subtle and dangerous atmosphere permeated the two of them, so much so that even the howling north wind seemed to hold its breath.
After a moment of deathly silence, Feng Qinghe slowly withdrew her hand, the smile returning to her face, but this time it held less casualness and more of an indescribable depth.
She nodded, her tone still relaxed, but each word seemed carefully considered: “Good, that’s got guts.
Well then…
I’ll wait and see.” Without saying another word, she turned around and took the lead in walking down the narrow stone steps of Wangbei Pavilion, her figure quickly disappearing into the darkness below.
Inside the pavilion, only Ah Chen remained.
He kept his head slightly turned to the side, gazing in the direction where Feng Qinghe had disappeared for a long, long time.
Only when the wind on the horizon grew stronger did he slowly turn his stiff neck, his joints making a slight cracking sound.
He looked down at his outstretched palm; in the moonlight, the lines on his palm were as clear as if carved by a knife.
Then, he slowly clenched his fist, his knuckles turning white from the force.
“A game…?” He uttered a few almost inaudible syllables into the air.
Feng Qinghe thought she was showing a despair-inducing iron wall, but in Achen’s eyes, it was perhaps just a whetstone that was big and hard enough.
He turned around and walked down from Wangbei Pavilion, his steps steady, his back view lonely and desolate.
When Ah Chen returned to the inn in the Eighth City, it was already late at night.
In the simple guest room of the inn, only a small oil lamp was lit, its dim light barely dispelling the darkness in a corner.
Gu Anqi and Achen sat facing each other across a square table, on which sat a half-cold pot of coarse tea.
Outside the window, all was quiet, except for the occasional sound of the night watchman’s clapper, reminding me that the city was not truly asleep.
Gu Anqi took the teapot and refilled the two teacups with cold tea.
His movements were still composed, but there was an inescapable solemnity between his brows.
He gently blew away the foam but did not drink it.
His gaze fell on the flickering lamplight, as if he could see the turmoil that had just occurred.
“Ah Chen,” he spoke first, his voice calm, breaking the silence in the room, “Just now at Zuixianlou, after Commander Feng and Mr.
Xie exposed those ‘twenty-two pairs of eyes,’ you left with Commander Feng…did you go to the ‘Wangbei Pavilion’?” Achen sat upright opposite him, his back as straight as a pine tree, maintaining an instinctive alertness even in this private space.
Hearing the voice, he raised his eyelids, his gaze sweeping over Gu Anqi.
He didn’t answer immediately, but instead squeezed out a short, firm syllable from his throat: “Um.” Gu Anqi pondered for a moment, then continued, “The wind is strong in the pavilion, so the view must be excellent.
Commander Feng, what did she say to you?” He asked tactfully, but his meaning was clear: he wanted to know what Feng Qinghe had said to Achen when she took him away alone.
Ah Chen remained silent, the dim light casting a deep shadow on his angular face.
He seemed to be weighing his options, or perhaps recalling something.
After a long while, he slowly spoke, his voice low and hoarse.
He recounted Feng Qinghe’s words in the pavilion, especially the astonishingly consistent figures regarding the population and number of spies in each city, and the final invitation to the “game,” in the most concise and direct way.
He added no personal emotion, merely stating the facts, yet every word carried a heavy weight.
Gu Anqi listened quietly, his gentle expression gradually replaced by shock.
When he heard “3,250 people in eight cities, and 3,250 spies,” his hand trembled, and the cold tea in his cup rippled.
After Achen finished speaking, the guest room fell into an even longer silence.
“The whole city is a soldier…
the entire population is a spy…” Gu Anqi repeated these words in a low voice, his eyes filled with disbelief and horror.
“This is no longer a simple method of managing subordinates.
This is…
turning the entire city, and even the entire Thirteen Alliances, into a massive war machine, where everyone is a cog in the machine, with no privacy or individuality whatsoever…” He looked up at Achen, his gaze complex: “No wonder she dared to gamble with a city to capture Xia Jiyuan alive.
She wasn’t betting on military strength but on her absolute and all-encompassing control over this land.
This…
is simply unheard of.” Ah Chen snorted coldly, his eyes surging with provoked anger and excitement: “She thought this was an impenetrable fortress.” Gu Anqi keenly grasped the deeper meaning in his words and pressed further, “And what do you think?” Ah Chen turned his head and looked out at the thick night, as if he could penetrate the wall and see the Wangbei Pavilion and Feng Qinghe’s arrogant figure: “Even an iron bucket has cracks.” He paused, his voice even colder, “Moreover, she puts herself on too high a pedestal.” Too high, and you’ll easily become a target of everyone, and you’ll also easily…
not be able to see the shadows beneath your feet.
This is a judgment that A-Chen has made based on his assassin instincts.
“That’s why she said… she wanted to teach you how to play the ‘game.'” Gu Anqi said thoughtfully, “She was trying to intimidate you but also… testing you, and perhaps even trying to bring this uncontrollable ‘sharp blade’ into her possession.” “That depends on whether she has the teeth.” Looking at the undisguised arrogance and fighting spirit in Ah Chen’s eyes, Gu Anqi sighed softly.
He knew that a silent contest between Feng Qinghe and A-Chen, based on completely different perceptions of power, had already begun.
And he himself, caught in the center of this vortex, was wondering how he should conduct himself.
“Ah Chen,” Gu Anqi said with a more serious tone, “whatever your plans, remember this man is unfathomable; his heart is as deep as the sea.
Dealing with him is like walking on the edge of an abyss; one wrong step and you’re doomed.” Ah Chen turned his gaze away from the window and looked directly at Gu Anqi.
His eyes remained the same, but they were much closer than before: “I know.” These three short words were a response to Gu Anqi’s concern and also showed that he knew how to conduct himself appropriately.
The two fell silent, each lost in thought.
The wick of the oil lamp crackled softly, producing a single spark before extinguishing.
The room was plunged into complete darkness, save for the faint, cool moonlight filtering through the windowpanes.