Chapter 48

Before he knew it, the New Year had arrived.

The calendar had entered the forty-sixth year of Taixing.

In early spring, the weather in the capital was still chilly despite fleeting warmth; people still wore thick winter clothes, living day by day at the mercy of the heavens.

Chen Guanlou finally completed the first chapter of the Sheng Tian Lu and began practicing the second chapter.

Then he understood what it meant to make explosive progress, what it meant to achieve a qualitative leap. His advancement was visible to the naked eye—literally a thousand li in a single day.

The joy and sense of accomplishment from his rapid power increase swept away the gloom of serving in the Tianlao.

If practicing the first chapter of the Sheng Tian Lu was like climbing snow-capped mountains on a high plateau, where death felt ever near, then practicing the second chapter was like strolling leisurely along a flat, open road—calm and free.

Because the Immortal Fruit masked the Sheng Tian Lu, others saw him only as an ordinary martial man, utterly unaware he harbored an internal cultivation technique.

With his strength increased, he felt eager to test himself, impatient to find someone to spar with and gauge his true level.

At midnight, he disguised himself as a middle-aged rough martial man; staring into the mirror, no one would link the middle-aged figure to the young Chen Guanlou.

Masked, he scaled the wall and left, heading for the path Liu Guanshi always took when returning home.

He had already confirmed: Liu Guanshi drank outside and returned home late at night, always taking the shortcut.

Liu Guanshi was a Rank One martial artist; they knew each other only by name, not personally. Whether he won or lost, he had no fear of being recognized.

Lying in wait in the alley, he sprang out the moment Liu Guanshi’s carriage arrived, knocking out the driver and servant before charging into the carriage to attack Liu Guanshi.

Damn, there were two people inside the carriage.

Too bad—no time to care.

Liu Guanshi, caught off guard, reacted instantly with a block, parrying the first slash aimed at him. As a Rank One martial artist unleashing his full power, he clashed with the assassin in the dim alley; only a single lantern, fallen into the corner, cast a faint glow upon the darkness.

The surrounding households seemed dead—no doors opened, not even a single eye peered through a crack.

After ten moves, Chen Guanlou broke off decisively and leapt away.

No need to keep fighting.

He already had absolute confidence of victory.

To him, a Rank One martial artist was no longer a threat. He had had the chance to kill Liu Guanshi on the seventh move, to sever his arm on the eighth, to stab his abdomen on the ninth, and to feint and retreat on the tenth.

Having proven himself, he left without hesitation.

As for Liu Guanshi, left bewildered in the wind, overthinking the assassination, Chen Guanlou naturally did not care.

He was exhilarated!

Back home, he restored his appearance, gripped the knife in his hand, trembling with excitement, savoring the supreme pleasure.

“It’s time to get a new weapon.”

The knife in his hand was too ordinary, mass-produced junk. Against a true divine weapon, it would snap in a single clash.

With money in hand, the next day he went to the blacksmith’s shop and commissioned him to forge a weapon suited to his hand. Price was negotiable—the key was using the finest materials.

The blacksmith took the deposit and told him to return in a month to collect it.

After finishing his personal matters, Chen Guanlou reported for duty at the Tianlao.

This month’s night shift.

Night shifts were easy as long as nothing happened—when sleepy, he could sleep soundly in the dormitory behind the guard room.

The guard room of the Jia-sized prison became a gambling den at night; gamblers from the Yi-sized and Bing-sized prisons all came.

He even saw Lu Datou.

After the New Year, Lu Datou’s head seemed even larger, his face jiggling with fat, though his expression still looked honest.

The two exchanged greetings. Lu Datou, busy with gambling, soon lost himself entirely in the game.

Where there was a big game, there were small ones too.

Qian Fugui and the others, after finishing their patrol, joined the lively small-stakes game.

Everyone warmly invited Chen Guanlou to join in a few rounds.

Chen Guanlou waved them off with a smile, politely declining.

In his life, he was sworn enemies with gambling and drugs.

Besides, the stench clinging to the old gamblers was nauseating—no one knew how many days they’d gone without washing.

Yu Zhaoan had been thrown into the Tianlao; for so long, he had not been summoned for interrogation nor received a single inquiry, as if forgotten. Fortunately, his family occasionally sent money, so his treatment remained unchanged—he had a bed, bedding, a clean chamber pot, edible meals, and books to read.

He had requested writing materials several times, but Chen Guanlou bluntly refused.

His only reason: “The Tianlao strictly forbids ink, brush, paper, and inkstone—unless the prisoner is about to be taken to execution or ordered by superiors.”

He followed the official rules strictly; no one could fault him.

Besides, Yu Zhaoan was imprisoned because he had angered the old Emperor. If he were given writing materials and wrote something slanderous against the Emperor, what then? Everyone would be held responsible.

Danger must be crushed in the cradle.

Denied his request, Yu Zhaoan spent his days with a long face, treating every jailer with cold hostility—he was truly a stinking, stubborn stone in the latrine.

He had assumed this situation would last a long time.

Suddenly, in March, the Censorate sent someone.

Seeing the censor enter the Tianlao, Chen Guanlou was internally startled.

The second man in Liu Guanshi’s carriage that night was this very censor.

Censor? Liu Guanshi of the Hou Fu?

How had these two connected?

Why were they riding in the same carriage at midnight?

Did the Hou Fu have ties to Yu Zhaoan’s case? Were they trying to protect him?

He knew only that Yu Zhaoan’s wife was related to the Hou Fu—but the Hou Fu was no charity, and would not intervene merely because of kinship.

Besides, Prince Jin was Yu Zhaoan’s patron; if anyone were to help, it would be him, not the Hou Fu.

He instructed Xiao Jin: “Take Commissioner Su to see Yu Zhaoan. Watch their interaction closely.”

Of his four jailers, Xiao Jin was the most adaptable—though a greasy middle-aged man, he was reliable in execution.

Xiao Jin nodded and departed.

Chen Guanlou waited for news.

Only after Commissioner Su left did he summon Xiao Jin: “Did you hear what they said?”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Chen Tou—Yu Zhaoan forbade me from approaching the cell, so I couldn’t hear their conversation. But they ended up arguing. I saw Yu Zhaoan fly into a rage and punch the wall. Commissioner Su’s expression was also unpleasant. It seems their conflict runs deep.”

Chen Guanlou had never entered officialdom; all his judgments came from the information overload of his past life—countless films, novels, and dramas—allowing him to stand on the shoulders of giants and analyze the situation as an outsider.

But this time, he was uncertain.

Still, he could ask.

In the vast Tianlao, who knew Yu Zhaoan best? None other than Jin my lord.