Chapter 360: He Is a Very Good Citizen

"Your Majesty, please take care of your health!"

Qiu Defu cautiously advised, "Your Majesty, aren't you going to refine pills tonight? Several Daoists are already prepared and await only your command."

The old emperor snorted coldly, "That old bastard Wei Wubing is deliberately opposing me—what should I do about him?"

Qiu Defu screamed inwardly: This is death! That's Wei Eunuch, Wei Lao—a Grandmaster! What could he do? He could only lie flat and watch.

On one side was the old emperor; on the other, Wei Wubing—he dared not offend either.

"Your Majesty, Wei Eunuch is only responsible for protecting Prince Zhong's safety."

The implication: as long as Prince Zhong remained unharmed, Wei Wubing would not intervene. During the coup that deposed the Crown Prince, Wei Wubing had done the same—never officially appeared.

Yet he knew only half the story.

The old emperor had always feared Wei Wubing; during the coup to depose the Crown Prince, he had strictly held back, refusing to send troops to attack the Eastern Palace, refusing to "confirm" the Eastern Palace's rebellion—precisely because Wei Wubing had guarded the Eastern Palace and protected Prince Zhong's life.

The result? An awkward mess. Now, the old emperor bore all the blame.

Originally, the old emperor had planned to send troops to attack the Eastern Palace, provoking its three thousand personal guards into rebellion. Once fighting broke out, all blame would fall on the Eastern Palace—no one would dare object to the accusation of treason.

His coup to depose the Crown Prince was a reluctant act! After all, the Eastern Palace had committed treason first—he had no choice but to use military force.

Father killing son—I couldn't bear it. I'll spare the deposed Crown Prince's life.

He had the ending all planned out, but because Wei Wubing stood guard at the Eastern Palace, the old emperor hesitated, never daring to take that step. Now he was trapped in a passive position—even Prince Chu dared raise rebellion.

The old emperor had clearly tied himself in knots.

Every time he thought of this, a stifling rage built in his chest, with no outlet. He still had to feign generosity toward Prince Zhong. Still, this move at least salvaged a sliver of his reputation.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Another round of furious smashing.

As the emperor's top confidant, Qiu Defu now couldn't fathom the source of the emperor's rage. The emperor seemed increasingly inscrutable, unfathomably deep.

"Your Majesty, please calm down!" he could only dutifully plead, "It's not worth damaging your health over irrelevant people."

The old emperor roared, "Go summon Wei Wubing. I'll ask him myself—what is his intent? Is he deliberately opposing me?"

Qiu Defu: …

I'm dead. I'm dead. I'm dead. I feel my time is short.

He cautiously probed, "Your Majesty, are you certain you wish to summon Wei Eunuch for questioning?"

The old emperor whirled around, fixing him with a deadly stare. Qiu Defu dropped to his knees instantly. "Your servant is guilty! Your servant is guilty!"

"You're right. What use is summoning that old bastard? It only angers me. Forget it. Forget it. I'm not particularly eager to see that old bastard anyway."

Qiu Defu died and came back to life, drenched in sweat. Before he could even catch his breath, the old emperor ordered again: "When Prince Zhong arrives, make him kneel outside the palace gate and reflect deeply. Only when he realizes his error will you call him up."

Qiu Defu stared blankly.

The old emperor offered no explanation, turning away toward the side hall to prepare for pill-refining with the Daoists.

…

Deep night.

Chen Guanlou staggered out of Flower Street, shuffled to a corner, unfastened his belt, and urinated against the wall.

Flower Street bordered a river; at midnight, the croaking of frogs drowned out even the noises from within the buildings. The night wind, thick with summer heat, blew against his face, leaving him sticky and damp.

A cat leapt onto the roof, its glassy eyes scanning left and right, then vanished into the distance.

A few houses still emitted faint sounds—likely someone rising in the night to relieve himself.

Chen Guanlou swayed toward the back alley leading to his home, weaving through streets and alleys, perhaps to cut a corner, deliberately slipping into secluded side lanes.

He was a grown man—he wasn't afraid.

The stars were hidden by clouds; the moon had vanished. In the darkness, a flash of cold steel lunged at him.

I'm dead!

The black-clad assassin who had been tailing him thought, as he drew his blade: This mission is too easy. A mere jailer? I was overly cautious before—made me seem weak.

Clang!

The sound of metal striking metal!

Huh?

Why couldn't his blade move?

Why had his blade stopped, frozen just before the jailer's forehead, unable to advance an inch?

What?

What did he see?

The tiny jailer had pinched his killing strike between two fingers. The clang came from the iron thimble on the jailer's fingers.

"You—"

Who is this mighty warrior, disguised as a lowly jailer? What does he want? Surely not two taels of silver?

But the moment he spat out the word "You," he could speak no more. His blade snapped. A hand gripped his throat—a hand ready to take his life at any moment.

The black-clad man's eyes widened in horror.

This man was no ordinary jailer, not as described in the dossier.

He refused to believe a jailer could block his killing strike.

"Who are you? Who sent you?"

Chen Guanlou was genuinely curious.

Peace had reigned for a long time—his last encounter with a stalker or assassin had been… last time.

He'd been extremely well-behaved lately: no trouble with powerful figures, faithfully visiting brothels, diligently practicing martial arts and cultivation.

Who the hell was stupid enough to send a fourth-rank assassin to kill him?

"Who are you?" the black-clad man countered.

Chen Guanlou reached out and tore off the assassin's face mask—revealing a face utterly ordinary, forgettable, lost in any crowd.

"Now it's my turn to ask questions. Understand your situation. Who sent you?"

"I—I—pfft—"

Blood gushed forth.

Chen Guanlou leapt back instantly—barely avoiding the spray.

The black-clad man was dead. Utterly, irrevocably dead.

A death-servant.

He had swallowed poison before carrying out the mission.

Chen Guanlou stared blankly.

He was just a jailer! True, he held the rank of jail official—but to the world, he was still just a jailer.

What virtue or merit did he have that someone would send a fourth-rank death-servant to kill him?

Is this really necessary?

Is this even logical?

I'm a thoroughly good citizen. In all of Jingcheng, no one is better than me.

I show up for duty on time, enjoy myself when I can, spend money when I have it—never a miser. I've contributed significantly to the Great Qian's GDP.

A thoroughly good citizen like me is targeted by death-servants? Is there no justice? No law?

Dog barks!

The Patrol Bureau's night guards had smelled the blood and arrived!

Wind's up—run!

The path home that had taken him so long before now flew by in an instant.

Back home, he took a cold shower, then sat in the courtyard drinking tea to sober up.

Qi Wuxiu climbed over the wall at midnight and saw this scene: a shirtless man sitting beneath a peach tree, thinking of women.

He immediately said, "You should get married."

Chen Guanlou gave him the middle finger in return.