8: Chapter 8 The Underground Chamber

Moonlight shone on the stone path of the West Cross Courtyard, casting two confronting silhouettes.

Jiang Yan looked at the young man in front of him, his gaze sweeping over the ring of white scars on his wrist, his expression unchanging.

In the three hundred years of his previous life, he had traveled far enough on the path of cultivation, having seen too many people like this—those trampled into the mud, those with broken spines, those treated as playthings, who eventually sharpened their knives in the shadows and bit back, piece by piece.

Lin Ke was merely one of them.

He had no interest in knowing Lin Ke's story.

Whether it was the humiliation of being exiled, sold, or serving Zhou Mubai—none of this had anything to do with him.

He only needed to confirm one thing.

Whether Zhou Mubai was truly dead.

"Lead the way," Jiang Yan said.

Lin Ke didn't say much either, turning and walking away.

His moon-white long robe fluttered in the night breeze; his pace was neither fast nor slow, his back held straight.

He didn't look like someone going to verify evidence of his own murder, but rather like someone guiding a guest on a tour of the courtyard.

Jiang Yan followed behind him, his right hand resting on the hilt of his blade.

His fingers touched the cloth wrapped around the hilt, the fabric slightly warmed by the heat of his palm.

The two passed through the moon gate of the West Cross Courtyard, walking along a secluded path for about the time it takes to drink half a cup of tea.

The commotion from the front courtyard, separated by several walls, had become muffled by the time it reached here.

The sounds of gongs, shouting, and footsteps were mixed together, like a pot of boiling porridge with the lid on, churning dully.

Lin Ke stopped in front of a remote courtyard.

This courtyard seemed to be a different world from the bustle of the rest of the Zhou Residence.

The front courtyard was brightly lit and teeming with people, but here it was pitch black; not even a single lantern was hung.

A few clumps of withered grass grew from the cracks in the blue bricks of the courtyard wall, shivering in the wind.

Lin Ke pushed open the courtyard gate, the hinges emitting a dry groan.

There was a row of servant rooms in the courtyard; he walked to the last room and pushed the door open.

The room was pitch black, unable to see one's own fingers.

Lin Ke fished out a fire starter and struck it with a hiss.

The dim yellow light spread through the room, illuminating the simple furnishings—a wooden table, two chairs, and a few old trunks piled in the corner.

He walked to the corner and crouched down.

Jiang Yan watched his fingers hook into the edge of the floor tiles.

Those fingers were slender and steady, the knuckles turning slightly white when the fingertips exerted force.

Lin Ke lifted it gently, the floor tile being pried open to reveal an iron ring handle beneath.

He grasped the ring and pulled it upward.

A dull sound of a mechanism came from beneath the ground, like an old man's cough, but the sound was extremely faint.

The ground in the corner slowly cracked open, revealing stone steps extending downward.

The stone steps were narrow enough for only one person to pass; water stains seeped from the walls on both sides, and the air was mixed with the smell of blood.

Lin Ke went down first. Jiang Yan followed behind, his boot soles making a rustling friction sound on the stone steps.

The walls were very cold; even through his clothes, he could feel that chill drilling into the gaps of his bones.

The secret room was not large, about twenty feet square.

An oil lamp was embedded in the wall; Lin Ke lit it with the fire starter, the flame flickering a few times before stabilizing.

Zhou Mubai's corpse lay on the ground, face up.

A man in his forties, his features were six or seven parts similar to that body double, but his cheekbones were higher and his eye sockets deeper.

His lips were slightly parted, revealing blackened gums inside.

The fatal wound was at the heart—a dagger had been stabbed obliquely between the left ribs, the blade completely submerged in the chest cavity, leaving only the hilt outside.

But this was not the only wound.

There were deep ligature marks on his wrists and ankles, the skin abraded to reveal the dark red flesh beneath.

The skin at the edges of the ligature marks had curled up, having dried into a dark brown hard crust.

The tips of his ten fingers were ten black-red bloody holes; his nails had been pulled out, and the finger bones were vaguely visible.

His kneecaps were shattered, and his legs were twisted outward at an unnatural angle, as if they had been smashed inch by inch with a blunt object.

There were several crisscrossing knife marks on his face, the flesh rolled back, crusted with black blood scabs.

The knife marks were very shallow and none were fatal. Every cut had avoided vital points; every cut had made him fully experience pain before he died.

Torture wounds.

Jiang Yan crouched down, reached out to pinch the corpse's jaw, and turned that face toward the direction of the oil lamp.

The skin his fingertips touched was cold and stiff, with a slippery sensation like corpse wax.

He carefully examined the ear roots and hairline—there was no human skin mask; it was real.

He let go and lowered his head to examine the fatal wound.

The angle at which the dagger was stabbed was from top to bottom, slightly to the left, the tip of the blade accurately piercing the heart.

Given Lin Ke's height and position, this angle was just right.

The rigidity of the corpse had reached its peak, and dark green putrefactive spots had appeared on the skin of the abdomen, which no longer indented when pressed with a finger.

The time of death was about two days, which matched the time Lin Ke had stated.

Zhou Mubai was dead.

Dead as could be.

Jiang Yan stood up and wiped his fingers on his robe hem.

The light of the oil lamp flickered on his face, making his eyes look like two deep wells.

"Does the Zhou Family have a treasure room?" he asked.

Lin Ke did not hesitate: "Yes. Beneath the floor of a side room in the courtyard next to the main house."

When he said this, his tone was the same as before, neither light nor heavy, as if he were answering what was for dinner tonight.

The two exited the secret room. Lin Ke closed the floor tile, restoring the mechanism.

The brick seams were tight and seamless; if one didn't crouch down to look carefully, one could never tell that a gap had once opened here.

When he performed these actions, his fingers remained steady, unhurried, as if he were tidying up his own study.

The commotion outside had grown louder.

Someone was shouting "Protect the master," someone was shouting "The assassin ran that way," and the footsteps were as chaotic as a pot of porridge.

The light of torches swayed between the courtyard walls, making the tree branches protruding over the wall flicker in and out of the light.

Jiang Yan walked back along the way he came. Lin Ke followed behind him, his footsteps neither fast nor slow.

A person rushed out from the corner of the corridor.

Dressed as a servant, clutching a wooden club in his hand, the expression on his face appeared both shocked and angry in the semi-dark, semi-lit firelight.

He saw Jiang Yan and opened his mouth to shout.

Jiang Yan turned sideways, letting the club that was swung down pass by.

The club grazed his lapel, stirring up a gust of wind.

He reached out with his right hand, gripped the man's wrist, and flipped it outward—the bones in the wrist made a slight clicking sound under his palm, and the club slipped from his hand.

Immediately following, his elbow struck the man's temple, the force neither light nor heavy, just enough to make his eyes roll back and his body go limp.

The servant collapsed to the ground like a sack of rice.

Jiang Yan stepped over him.

Slight footsteps came from behind—Lin Ke walked around the servant on the ground, his stride unchanged.

The side room in the courtyard next to the main house was another study.

The bookshelves were filled with classics and histories, the gold-stamped characters on the spines reflecting slightly in the darkness.

The four treasures of the study were all present on the desk, and a few used brushes hung on the brush rack, the ink on the tips already dried and cracked.

Lin Ke walked to the bookshelf.

His fingers slid across the spines on the third shelf, stopping at a book titled "Geography of the Jin Kingdom".

The book was pulled out halfway, making a soft sound.

The bookshelf slid silently to the left.

The secret door behind the wall was revealed, with almost no gap between the door frame and the wall.

A gust of dry air surged from inside, carrying the scent of paper, wood, and metal.

The second secret room was several times larger than the first, at least fifty feet square.

Several eternal oil lamps were embedded in the walls; after Lin Ke lit them, the entire secret room was as bright as day.