50: Chapter 50: The Mansion of King Yong

Prince Yong's Mansion was situated in the northern part of Yongzhou City, occupying a larger area than any residence Jiang Yan had ever seen in the Jin Kingdom.

The vermilion gates were studded with brass nails as large as bowls, and two stone lions stood before the entrance, baring their fangs and brandishing their claws, yet their bodies were covered in dust, with withered leaves stuffed between their claws.

Hanging above the lintel was an imperial plaque, the three gilded characters for "Prince Yong's Mansion" shimmering dimly under the moonlight.

The courtyard walls were over two zhang high, embedded with broken porcelain shards and iron caltrops that looked intimidating, yet the corners were overgrown with moss, and in several places, the wall plaster had peeled away, revealing the mottled rammed earth beneath.

Jiang Yan crouched on the roof of a three-story pavilion opposite the mansion, his cloak pressed against his body by the night wind.

He spread out his Divine Sense, and the distribution of auras throughout the entire mansion was laid bare before him.

There were two trails of True Qi, one in the front courtyard's guest quarters and the other in the main courtyard's study.

The one in the front courtyard was scattered and unfocused, at the Early Xiantian stage, while the one in the main courtyard was much more concentrated, barely reaching the Middle Stage Innate.

Apart from that, there were no fluctuations of Spiritual Qi. The core defense of the entire mansion consisted of only these two Mortal Martial Artists.

He moved silently across the roof ridge, stepping on the tiles as he vaulted over the back courtyard wall.

A row of old locust trees was planted at the base of the wall, their withered branches swaying in the wind, shattering the moonlight into fragments.

When he landed, his boots pressed against the gravel ground, grinding out a faint creak; the tethered yellow dog in the adjacent courtyard lifted its head, perked up its ears, and then lay back down.

Lights were on in the main room of the third courtyard in the back.

The candlelight shone through the window paper, casting two blurry silhouettes.

One was sitting, bloated in figure, leaning against a grand armchair, holding a teacup in one hand while pointing at an account book with the other.

The other was standing, lean in figure, with a narrow-bladed sword hanging at his waist, standing ramrod straight.

Jiang Yan vaulted over the corridor railing, and the moment he landed, three gold needles flew from his sleeves.

The needles silently pierced through the window paper. The standing man reacted extremely quickly—the instant before the needle tips pierced his nape, his right hand had already gripped the hilt, drawing the blade half an inch out of its scabbard and flashing a cold light under the candlelight.

Then, the paralysis Restriction was activated, and his entire body stiffened in place; his fingers loosened from the hilt, and the waist sword slid back into the scabbard with a soft click.

His body fell straight backward, his shoulder striking the corner of the desk, the dull thud accompanied by the crisp sound of bone hitting hard wood.

The bloated figure sitting down stood up abruptly, the teacup slipping from his hand and shattering into pieces on the blue brick floor, tea splashing everywhere.

He opened his mouth to shout, but the moment his mouth opened, two gold needles simultaneously pierced his mute acupoint and Jianjing acupoint.

The shout was blocked in his throat, his corpulent body swayed, and he fell back onto the grand armchair with a thud.

The grand armchair let out a creaking wail, its four legs scraping against the blue brick floor with a piercing sound.

Jiang Yan pushed open the door and first took down the few guards patrolling the courtyard with gold needles—two at the corner of the corridor, one in front of the moon gate, and one by the flower bed.

Then he closed the door, latched it again, and turned around.

The candlelight flickered, casting his shadow onto the wall.

Prince Yong slumped in the grand armchair, his rolls of fat trembling beneath his brocade robe.

He was about fifty years old, his face as round as over-risen dough, the flesh on his cheeks sagging to cover his neck, leaving only a slit, his well-maintained, fair skin glistening with oil under the candlelight.

His lips were purple, and beads of sweat popped out on his forehead one after another, trickling down his temples and into his collar.

He wanted to speak, but only a wheezing, muffled sound came from his throat, like a goose with its neck being strangled.

Jiang Yan walked up to him and flicked a strand of spiritual power through the air, sealing all his Meridians.

Prince Yong's face turned from white to red and then to purple, his eyeballs bulging as if they were about to pop out, his lips trembling for a long time, but he couldn't spit out a single word.

Then Jiang Yan began to search the study.

He scanned the walls, bookshelves, antique shelves, desk, chairs, and every single blue brick on the floor inch by inch with his Divine Sense.

His fingers fished out a few account books from a carved secret compartment under the desk; he flipped through two pages and tossed them aside—field deeds, annual tribute lists, recorded densely but all accounts between Mortals.

On the antique shelf sat porcelain vases from the previous dynasty's imperial kiln and several Duan inkstones, polished to a shine, clearly handled often.

The books on the bookshelf, however, were covered in dust, having not been flipped through for a long time.

He walked to the innermost part of the study and found a blue brick on the wall behind the antique shelf that sounded wrong.

He tapped it with his finger; it was hollow.

Tapping the brick surface lightly with spiritual power, the blue brick silently recessed, and a three-foot-high secret door slid open in the wall.

The secret room was about a zhang square, with several night-luminescent pearls embedded in the walls, their eerie green light illuminating the entire space as if it were submerged underwater.

On the stone platform in the center sat a purple sandalwood box.

He opened it, and inside was only a Spirit Medicine of a ganoderma with less than a hundred years of medicinal power; the cap didn't even have a decent ring pattern, and beside it were scattered a few low-grade spirit jades, their Spiritual Qi so weak that his Divine Sense could barely detect them.

In the corner were piled several iron chests; he lifted the lids—gleaming white silver ingots were stacked neatly, at least tens of thousands of taels.

Apart from this, there was nothing else.

Jiang Yan placed the wooden box back on the stone platform and straightened up.

His gaze swept around the secret room, and his brows furrowed slightly.

There wasn't much gold or silver, and the cultivation resources were also scarce. This wasn't right.

General Jiang Ce's Generals Mansion had red blood ganoderma, star grass, and a fire copper long spear.

Marquis Zhennan's heir Zhao Xuancheng's Storage Pouch contained Spirit Stones, Talismans, Magical Artifacts, and Spirit Medicine, with seven or eighty Spirit Stones alone.

Even in the secret room of an ordinary high-ranking official, calligraphy, paintings, and antiques could fill half the room.

Who was Prince Yong? The current Emperor's own uncle, the second legitimate son of the Grand Ancestor.

Although his fiefdom wasn't large, in terms of rank and status, few in the entire Jin Kingdom were more noble than him.

In the secret room of such a person, there was only one ganoderma with less than a hundred years of medicinal power and a few low-grade spirit jades?

Since he had the awareness to hide treasure and the secret room was built quite covertly, it was impossible for there to be only these few things.

Jiang Yan turned and exited the secret room. His boots stepped on the blue bricks as he walked step by step to Prince Yong.

The old prince was still slumped in the grand armchair, his rolls of fat no longer trembling, replaced by a stiff tension.

He saw the expression on this square-faced man as he emerged from the secret room—in those eyes beneath the cloak's hood, there was no emotion, no anger, no greed, no threat, just a calm assessment.

Like a butcher assessing pork on a chopping block, considering which joint to cut into.

Jiang Yan retracted the gold needle sealing the mute acupoint.

"Where are the things hidden?"

As soon as Prince Yong's mouth could move, he stammered, his voice hurried and fragmented: "Hero—Hero, spare my life! You found the secret room, and there are only these things inside. This Prince—this Prince only has this much family property—"

Jiang Yan flicked his finger.

A tiny strand of spiritual power pierced into the meridian node under the third rib on the left side of Prince Yong's spine.

The old prince sprang up on the grand armchair.

His body arched like a bow, mouth wide open but unable to emit any sound, the layers of fat on his face twitching violently all at once, like hundreds of earthworms wriggling under his skin.

Beads of sweat rolled down from his forehead into his eyes and flowed out again, indistinguishable as sweat or tears.

He endured for ten breaths. The purple on his lips spread to his entire face, his fingers clawing ten white marks into the armrests of the grand armchair, blood seeping from under his fingernails.

By the fifteenth breath, his right hand finally lifted, clawing wildly in the air.

The action was like a drowning person grabbing for a straw, his five fingers splayed to the maximum, the flesh in his palms trembling.

Jiang Yan retracted his spiritual power.

Prince Yong went limp, slumping in the grand armchair and gasping for air.

The purple on his lips hadn't faded, his brocade robe was already soaked through and clinging to his body, and through the robe, one could see the outline of those rolls of fat trembling with every gasp.

"I'll talk—" his voice was as hoarse as sandpaper grinding against sheet metal, "I have another secret room—under the ancestral hall—I'll tell you the location, please spare me—"

Jiang Yan grabbed him by the nape of his neck.

The old prince weighed at least over two hundred jin; the collar of his brocade robe dug into the fat under his chin, and when he was lifted up, his toes dragged twice on the ground, his boots scraping against the blue bricks with a squeaking sound.

Jiang Yan cast an invisibility spell, carried him out of the study, passed through the corridor, and walked along the gravel-paved path toward the depths of the back courtyard.

The night wind blew into the corridor, causing the lanterns hanging under the eaves to sway back and forth, the candlelight flickering on and off inside the gauze covers.