Chapter 171 Intercepting the Boat at Willow Crossing, Blades Gleaming on the Water

Night had fallen.

When the guard at the South City Gate pulled the bolt from the inside, he rubbed his fingers against the iron bar twice and glanced outside.

There were eight people, no torches lit, weapons strapped to their backs; the sound of their footsteps stepping over the threshold was light and fast.

The leader had a blade hanging at his waist, its bronze fitting reflecting a sliver of light in the darkness.

The guard's mouth opened slightly.

He recognized that flash of bronze.

Inspector.

The gate closed behind them, the iron bolt dropping into the wooden groove, the sound swallowed by the night wind.

The road outside the South City Gate turned east twice before the decent stone slabs disappeared, leaving only a dirt path worn down by footsteps.

Zhao Gang walked at the very back, his waist-blade slung over his shoulder, a dry grass stalk plucked from the entrance of the Archives Room hanging from his mouth; he chewed it twice, but it had no taste.

His gaze swept forward.

Lin Chen walked at the very front, his pace neither fast nor slow, his boot soles grinding against the muddy road with almost no sound.

Pei Yan followed half a step behind Lin Chen to the right.

The hem of his washed-out grey-green robe was lifted and then fell back down by the wind, and the cloth pouch at his waist clung to his hip, swaying gently with his steps.

Zhao Gang stared at Pei Yan's back for a while.

The way this man walked was not right.

It wasn't the strolling gait of a civil official, nor the deliberate, restrained steadiness of a Martial Artist.

When he walked, the distance between his feet remained identical, and his shoulders did not sway.

He was even steadier than Zhou Tie.

Zhao Gang pulled the grass stalk from his mouth and tossed it to the side of the road.

Up ahead, Lin Chen spoke.

"How many years have you been in the Censorate?"

Pei Yan's pace did not change.

"Six years."

"How deep are the Pei family's roots in the Censorate?"

Pei Yan was silent for two steps.

The sound of boot soles crushing gravel on the dirt road filled the silence.

"Deep enough."

Lin Chen did not press further.

Zhao Gang couldn't help himself from behind.

"People from the Censorate coming to Nanyang Prefecture—how many in the capital know about it?"

Pei Yan did not turn his head.

"Those who know I am here can be counted on one hand."

Zhao Gang muttered.

"One hand? Then if you die here, there won't even be anyone to collect your corpse."

Pei Yan's voice drifted back from the front, as flat and even as the night.

"If I die, it counts as dying in the line of duty, and the Censorate will send a pension to my family."

Zhao Gang was choked by these words and swallowed the follow-up question he had in his mouth.

He looked at Lin Chen's back, then at Pei Yan's.

The two men's walking rhythms were similar, as if they were in sync.

Zhao Gang cursed inwardly and quickened his pace to catch up.

Half an hour later.

On the east bank of the ferry crossing.

Lin Chen lay in the reeds on the bank, his hands pressed into the wet mud; his palms were pricked by reed roots, but he paid no mind.

The moonlight leaked out from behind the clouds, illuminating the surface of the river.

The water shimmered with a cold, dark iron-like light.

The bend of Liucha Estuary was five miles downstream.

The river was wide, and the current pushed floating grass downstream, moving with an agonizing slowness.

A large cargo ship was anchored in the bend.

No lanterns hung from the mast.

The hull was pitch black against the water, sitting low, clearly laden with cargo.

No figures could be seen on the deck.

But the cabin door on the right side of the gunwale was half-open.

There was light inside.

Extremely faint.

The wick was turned down to the lowest point, flickering once, then again.

Pei Yan lay less than half an arm's length to Lin Chen's left.

He lifted his chin, pointing toward the abandoned fishing shed at the ferry crossing.

"There are two small boats behind the fishing shed."

His voice was lowered so only Lin Chen could hear.

"It was the same last time in Jiangnan; they used small boats at night to ferry people from the shore to the big ship, and the big ship would leave before dawn."

Lin Chen looked at the position of the small boats.

Two black-awning boats were moored on the shallows behind the fishing shed, their bows tied to wooden stakes on the bank with hemp ropes.

"How many people are by the small boats?"

A very low reply came from the reeds behind them.

It was the lookout Sun Qi had sent ahead.

"Three. The highest aura is at the Late Stage of the Meridian Opening Realm."

Lin Chen lifted his fingers from the wet mud and wiped them on the reed roots.

He turned his head to look at Zhao Gang.

"Take three men, circle around from the west side of the fishing shed, and take down the three people by the small boats."

Zhao Gang's canine teeth glinted in the moonlight.

"Dead or alive?"

"Alive if possible."

Zhao Gang acknowledged, backed out of the reeds, and led three brothers, crouching low, toward the fishing shed.

Lin Chen turned to look at Pei Yan.

"You come into the water with me, swim over from the east bank, and enter through the cabin door on the gunwale."

Pei Yan nodded, his hands already undoing his outer robe.

He took off the grey-green robe, folded it twice, and stuffed it into the base of the reeds.

Underneath was a tight-fitting short shirt, the fabric clinging to his body, revealing his lean and long silhouette.

Three iron needles were wrapped around his waist, and a thin cord was tied around his wrist.

Lin Chen glanced at the three iron needles.

The blue-black needle bodies glimmered coldly in the moonlight.

Pei Yan noticed his gaze.

"Rest assured, there will be no friendly fire."

Lin Chen did not reply, untied the black abyss blade from his waist, wrapped it tightly in oilcloth, and strapped it to his back, tying the knots twice to secure it firmly.

"The signal."

He glanced toward the fishing shed.

"Once Zhao Gang makes his move, light a fire on the roof of the fishing shed. Zhou Tie's men will come from upstream to block the stern. Move when you see the fire."

The two brothers following them into the water answered in low voices.

Lin Chen slid into the water from the edge of the reeds.

The river water was colder than expected.

As the night wind swept across the surface of the water, the temperature on his skin dropped.

Pei Yan followed him into the water immediately.

His entry into the water was cleaner than Lin Chen had expected.

The moment his body sank, his hands entered first, his feet kicked back, and his entire body dove in, skimming the waterline.

The water only rippled slightly, the sound so faint it was drowned out by the river's murmur.

Lin Chen glanced at him.

Pei Yan swam close to the surface.

His arm strokes were small in amplitude but high in frequency, his head remained an inch above the waterline, and he breathed through his nose, not his mouth.

This was not the swimming style of a civil official.

The four men swam toward the big ship, sticking to the shadows on the east bank of the river channel.

The current helped, pushing them downstream.

They swam the five-mile distance in less than the time it takes to brew a pot of tea.

The big ship's hull was three feet above the water level.

After getting close, that sense of oppression emanated from the ship's hull.

The deep-draft hull floated on the water, a pitch-black mass, the wooden planks covered in water weeds and barnacles, giving off a damp, rotting smell.

Lin Chen moved toward the cabin door, clinging to the ship's hull.

His fingers hooked into the gaps between the planks, his nails embedding into the wet wood, his fingertips pricked by wood splinters.

The cabin door was less than two feet from the water.

It was half-open.

The light inside was closer now.

He stopped.

He listened, pressed against the hull.

There were footsteps inside the cabin.

Heavy, one person.

The intervals between steps on the planks were even; it didn't sound like patrolling, but more like pacing back and forth.

There was another sound.

Chains dragging on the planks.

Intermittent, as if something was struggling, unable to break free, stopping, then struggling again after a while.

Lin Chen's nails dug into the gaps in the hull, the muscles in his arms tensing.

Pei Yan floated to his right, eyes fixed on the cabin door.

He heard it too.

Their gazes met in the darkness.

No words were spoken.

Waiting.

Waiting for Zhao Gang's signal.

It was quiet on the water for a while.

The river water surged past the ship's bottom, pushing floating grass in circles.

Frogs croaked on the distant bank, a low sound that called twice and then stopped.

Then, movement came from the direction of the fishing shed.

Short and sharp.

Metal clinked twice—not the crisp sound of blades clashing, but more like a scabbard knocking against some iron object.

Immediately followed by a muffled groan, mouth covered, almost inaudible.

Less than ten breaths.

A spark of fire lit up on the roof of the fishing shed.

It flashed and went out.

Lin Chen's arm pushed up from the hull, and he vaulted onto the gunwale.

His boot soles stepped on the wooden strip at the edge of the deck, water streaming down from his pant legs.

He untied the oilcloth on his back and gripped the black abyss blade in his hand.

Pei Yan vaulted up behind him, landing on the deck with extreme lightness.

Water droplets dripped from his short shirt, hitting the planks one by one.

The iron needle in his right hand was already drawn from his waist.

The needle body was clamped between his index and middle fingers, tip pointing forward, the blue-black color almost invisible in the darkness.

The two brothers who followed them up hugged the inner side of the gunwale, blades half-drawn, silent.

Lin Chen turned sideways and squeezed into the cabin door.

The light source inside the cabin was an oil lamp placed on a wooden crate.

The wick was turned down to the very end, the flame so low it was about to go out, illuminating an area of no more than three paces.

The corridor was narrow, with cargo crates stacked half a person's height high on both sides.

The wooden crates were painted with tung oil, the nails were rusted, and strips of paper were pasted on the lids, marked as "High-Quality Porcelain."

When he reached the partition at the end, Lin Chen stopped.

Footsteps came from behind the partition.

And the sound of chains.

And a cry.

Soft and muffled, as if the mouth was covered by something, the sound squeezed out from the nasal cavity, intermittent.

It was a child's.

Lin Chen's hand tightened on the hilt of his blade.

Pei Yan, behind him, held his breath for a beat.

The footsteps behind the partition suddenly stopped.

A man in black turned out from the corner of the partition.

He was holding a ring-pommel blade in his hand.

There were dark red stains on the blade, dried and crusted over.

He saw Lin Chen.

He slashed with the blade.

No probing, no calling out.

He slashed the moment he saw him.

The aura of the Late Stage of the Meridian Opening Realm tore through the stuffy air of the cabin, True Qi infused into the blade, the edge glowing with a white light.

Lin Chen drew his blade.

The black abyss blade and the ring-pommel blade collided.

Clang.

It shook the entire ship.

The oil lamp on the wooden crate was knocked over by the force, wax oil spilled onto the crate surface, and the flame flickered onto the side of the cargo crate, licking it twice.

A vibration traveled through the web of Lin Chen's thumb.

The opponent's strength wasn't great, but his Blade Intent was vicious, every strike aiming for the joints of his wrist.

The man in black's second strike followed immediately, sweeping horizontally from the right, aiming for the waist.

Lin Chen stepped back and held his blade vertically to block the horizontal slash.

At the very moment the two blades were pressed against each other, Pei Yan flashed out from Lin Chen's side.

His figure slipped through the gap between the cargo crates on the left, moving so fast that the man in black only had time to roll his eyes in that direction.

The iron needle shot out from his sleeve.

Not from the front.

Not for the chest or abdomen.

The needle tip hugged the ship's wall, stabbing upward in an arc, aiming for the inner wrist of the man in black's sword hand.

The man in black's reaction was half a beat faster than Lin Chen had estimated.

The blade flipped, edge facing down, blocking the needle's path with the spine.

Ding.

The iron needle was deflected.

The needle tip slid over the spine of the blade, grazing the outside of the man in black's wrist bone.

The wound was not deep.

The skin peeled back slightly, and a string of blood beads seeped out.

But the blue-black potion on the needle tip had already seeped into the flesh.

The man in black's wrist began to stiffen within three breaths.

His fingers were still gripping the hilt, but the strength in his knuckles was fading.

Lin Chen didn't give him time.

He slashed down with his second strike.

The momentum of the Shadowless Thunder Blade, coming from above, crushed down with the True Qi of Core Formation on the blade surface.

The man in black raised his blade with one arm to block.

The strength was unequal.

The ring-pommel blade was knocked out of his hand, flying off and slamming into the cargo crate on the right, embedding into the wood with a humming sound.

The man in black retreated two steps, his back slamming into the partition.

His right hand fumbled for a bronze whistle at his waist and shoved it into his mouth.

His cheeks puffed out slightly.

Lin Chen kicked him in the chest.

His boot sole ground against his ribs as he pushed forward, the force kicking him right through the partition.

The bronze whistle flew out of his mouth, bounced on the floor, and rolled twice.

The partition split down the middle, wood splinters flying in both directions.

The man in black curled up on the ground, his right hand supporting him as he tried to get up, but his wrist went limp, and he collapsed again.

Pei Yan's poison had already reached his elbow.

The East Courtyard brothers following behind walked up, one stepped on the man in black's spine, and threw chains to secure his wrists.

"Stop struggling."

The man in black's face pressed against the planks; he groaned muffledly and stopped moving.

Lin Chen stepped over the broken wooden planks and walked two steps behind the partition.

Then he stopped.

Seven children.

From five or six to ten-something years old, huddled in a space less than two zhang wide at the bottom of the ship's cabin.

Their hands and feet were locked by iron chains to iron rings on the ship's planks.

The iron rings were embedded in the wood, rusted, the rust stains seeping into the planks, forming a dark circle.

There were bruises on their faces.

Their clothes were torn, so dirty the original color was unrecognizable.

Their eyes were wide open in the faint light remaining after the oil lamp was knocked over.

No one made a sound.

The smallest one huddled in the corner, a chain wrapped around their ankle.

The chain link dug into the skin, the skin on the ankle worn raw, blood seeping out, drying, then seeping again, forming a layer of dark red crust.

Lin Chen squatted down.

He reached out, grabbed the chain, and pulled it out a bit.

The chain loosened by half an inch.

The child flinched, curling their whole body toward the corner.

Lin Chen didn't move again.

He just squatted there, hands resting on his knees, not touching the child, nor speaking.

Pei Yan stood behind him.

His feet nailed to the spot, he did not move forward.

He had spent a year flipping through case files at the Censorate.

The number four hundred had been written on paper countless times.

It had never been this close.

It had never turned into these bruised faces, the chains digging into flesh, the eyes that dared not make a sound.

His fingers gripped the iron needle, his knuckles turning tight.

Footsteps came from the top of the cabin.

Not one person.

On the deck, several pairs of boot soles stepped down at the same time, the wooden planks creaking underfoot.

Someone was shouting.

The voice was coarse, unclear what was being said, scattered by the wind.

Immediately following, the sound of iron spears clashing came from the direction of the stern.

Dull, metal hitting metal, every strike bringing a vibration.

Zhou Tie had arrived.

Zhao Gang's voice drifted from the direction of the fishing shed, across the water, a few scattered words floating into the cabin.

"...Everyone stay down and don't move..."

The entire ship began to sway.

It wasn't pushed by the current; someone was moving the ship.

Lin Chen stood up, his boot soles on the planks, feeling the wood beneath his feet tilting to one side.

"Someone is cutting the anchor cable."

Pei Yan's voice came from behind, short and sharp.

A heavy, dull footstep came from the deck toward the bow.

Unlike the others.

With this step, the wooden planks of the entire ship groaned, as if something had walked out from the ship's tower, its weight so heavy that the hull sank by half an inch.

An aura spread down from above the deck.

Thick.

Heavy.

Hot.

The kind of heat that burns against the bones.

In Lin Chen's Dantian, the dark golden ring of the Golden Core, not yet fully healed, trembled slightly.