Chapter 892

The Ministry of Justice’s official precinct, the prison dungeon.

The interrogation chamber reeked of acrid blood, chilling to the bone, mingled with the heavy aroma of ginseng decoction.

The two odors blended into an eerie, terrifying horror, leaving one suspended between life and death—death preferable to life, life worse than death.

Duan Chunjiang endured brutal torture; whenever he neared death, his vitality ebbing away, the jailers would halt the punishment and force-feed him ginseng decoction.

They used only genuine old ginseng, never substitutes; the decoction also contained other drugs that instantly stimulated the suspect’s blood and qi.

This strange life-sustaining ginseng decoction was a secret prison formula, its potency fierce—no matter how severely tortured, a few sips could restore vitality.

But for condemned prisoners under torture, this decoction was anything but beneficial, for the best outcome for such prisoners was to lose consciousness.

Unconsciousness could sever the agony of the flesh, granting the body respite—but this peculiar decoction prevented the tortured from fainting.

Even under the harshest tortures, a single cup of this decoction would revive the prisoner fully, restoring blood and qi, sharpening every sensation of pain.

The endless torment inflicted by punishment was amplified vividly upon the flesh; for the condemned, this decoction was more terrifying than any instrument of torture…

…

Duan Chunjiang was forced to drink the decoction; moments later, his dazed consciousness ignited like oil catching fire, blazing clear and sharp, his entire body wracked with agony, life worse than death.

His hearing became acute—he heard every word Yang Hongbin spoke, without omission.

When Duan Chunjiang heard his own secrets revealed to Yang Hongbin, his weak eyes flickered with terror, sharply caught by Yang Hongbin.

Yang Hongbin continued: “Any spy, in every action, every word, lives on the edge of life and death; their daily gestures and speech are never without purpose.

To gather intelligence or transmit secrets, one person alone can never succeed.

Connecting accomplices, relaying orders up and down, forming alliances left and right, weaving networks—these are daily necessities.

In this world, anything you have ever done, no matter how carefully you concealed it, leaves traces; with diligence, they can be traced back.

Just now, someone spoke of your trivial affairs; though fragmented, I discerned much of your background.

For instance, on Lotus Street in the southern city, there’s a grain merchant named Ma Bai; all your grain comes from him.

Even when other grain merchants in the city tried to bribe you for business, you refused outright, sticking only to Ma Bai.

You frequently meet Ma Bai to settle payments; you owe him four hundred taels for grain, still unpaid, yet he never presses you for repayment.

On Chunhe Street, there’s a five-fortune tavern, open barely a year; rumor says its food and wine are delicious, and you often go there for a drink.

Moreover, you’re close with the tavern’s shopkeeper, for he too is from Datong—familiarity among fellow provincials is understandable.

Even when you visit Hui Niang’s home, you often have the tavern send wine and dishes; this shopkeeper knows you inside and out.

On Yongcun Street, there’s a roadside eatery selling fried and roasted yellow cakes stuffed with premium pork sauce; you buy two pork cakes there every morning for breakfast.

But when you were in Datong, you ate only mutton or beef, never pork, deeming it foul-smelling, low-grade, inferior meat.

Human tastes are formed over long years and rarely change; why, after arriving in the Divine Capital, did your palate suddenly shift so drastically?

There are many such things I know; each of these individuals has, for various reasons, maintained close ties with you.

If you were an ordinary person, such matters would be commonplace; but as a Mongol spy, they are extraordinary, warranting thorough investigation.

You’ve been here less than half a day; your accomplices haven’t yet noticed—you’re merely said to be out arranging business.

I still have ample time to apprehend and interrogate them; determining whether they’re your accomplices won’t be too difficult.

A simple check of their records—when they came to the Divine Capital to make a living—if their arrival dates closely match yours, then suspicion is strong…”

…

Yang Hongbin spoke slowly, radiating confidence and certainty, his eyes calm and steady as he observed Duan Chunjiang’s shifting expression.

As he spoke, Duan Chunjiang’s gaze flickered, his chest rising and falling slightly—his composure already fraying.

Yang Hongbin’s lips twitched slightly, his gaze growing brighter…

He continued: “I will interrogate these people with torture; I don’t believe their bones are as hard as yours!

I can be certain: among these people, there must be your accomplices; once one breaks under torture, they’ll confess everything.

Once I capture one, they’ll name more; eventually, I’ll trace the vine to its root and uncover all your accomplices.

Once one confesses, a second, then a third will follow; I’ll learn everything I want to know, down to the smallest detail, without omission.

The palace has already issued an edict: with the war situation urgent, starting today, all nine gates of the Divine Capital are sealed—you won’t escape, not one of you.

Whether you speak or not is irrelevant to me; your refusal to confess, even unto death, is merely a joke…”

…

Hearing this, Duan Chunjiang’s bound body, though covered in wounds, instinctively twisted slightly, his eyes flashing anger and panic.

Yang Hongbin’s gaze held contempt and cruelty as he continued: “If your accomplices confess honestly, I’ll let them die quickly, leave them whole.

But for you, it’s different—you think refusing to confess lets you slip away? Do you imagine death alone will end it? How naive.

The Three Judicial Offices must jointly adjudicate such major cases; procedures are complex, documents and approvals take years.

To reach the autumn execution date, it’ll take at least half a year; if delayed, a year is common.

During that year, I won’t let you rest—you’re the principal culprit in the military grain leak case; eight hundred soldiers of Donggang Garrison, forty thousand innocent souls of Xuanfu Garrison.

No matter how I torment you, I’ll feel perfectly at ease; the senior officials of the Three Judicial Offices will turn a blind eye.

I’ll subject you to torture daily, feed you premium ginseng decoction daily to keep you alive; to prevent suicide, I’ll sever your hand and foot tendons, cut out your tongue.

We’ll make you endure every torment, make you wish you’d never been born, make you regret ever coming into this world.

Make you pay the price for your deeds—and your foolish stubbornness!”

…

Yang Hongbin’s words, calm and quiet, echoed through the interrogation chamber, carrying bone-chilling cruelty that left all present shivering.

Even the embroidered uniform guards, hardened torturers themselves, felt a chill in their chests; Duan Chunjiang’s broken body on the rack trembled uncontrollably.

Duan Chunjiang shattered instantly, beginning to curse: “You’re a high-ranking official of the court—how can you be so cruel? You’re worse than an animal!”

Seeing Duan Chunjiang finally speak, Yang Hongbin smiled triumphantly.

He spoke coldly: “Do you expect me to observe human decency toward a beast like you? You refuse a merciful death—I’ll grant you a glorious one!”

He continued: “Even if you survive until autumn execution, hoping for a quick death is a daydream.

You, a traitor of grave state crimes, burdened with too much blood debt, so stubborn and unyielding—don’t dream of a single sword to the neck; you don’t even deserve beheading.

I’ll petition the Three Judicial Offices for the ultimate punishment: lingchi—three thousand six hundred cuts before death, your bones ground to dust, your spirit never reborn…”

The nearby embroidered uniform guards, though accustomed to cruelty and bloodshed, shuddered at the mention of lingchi.

For they understood better than others what lingchi meant—it ranged from eight to three thousand six hundred cuts, a horror beyond words.

In nearly ninety years since the Great Zhou’s founding, only a handful of criminals have received lingchi—all monstrous in their crimes.

Yang Hongbin’s reference to three thousand six hundred cuts meant the ultimate lingchi, requiring three days to complete.

Even after the final cut, the condemned wouldn’t die immediately; save for the internal organs, the body would be little more than a skeleton, finally beheaded—its brutality indescribable…

…

After speaking, Yang Hongbin rose slowly; as he reached the chamber door, he said: “Continue the torture—use all your skills; just don’t let him die!”

The embroidered uniform guards nodded hastily in response; once Yang Hongbin exited, they all exhaled in unison.

One said to the lead guard: “Brother, this Yang Wen is refined, looks like a scholar—how can he be more cruel than us?”

“Just now, my legs went weak. The Ministry of Justice has a monster like him—why do we still have to play the villain?”

The lead guard replied: “You ignorant fool—he’s a scholar, so he doesn’t dirty his own hands—he makes others do it.

When scholars turn cruel, they’re a hundred times more heartless than us; our idea of tormenting people is laughable compared to this man.

The more they read, the colder and blacker their hearts become; their methods of torment are endlessly inventive—we couldn’t dream them up.

We only know brute force; look at his methods—truly eye-opening.

I truly admire how Yang Wen tortures people—I just can’t learn it.

My life’s been wasted—if I ever fell into his hands, I’d slit my throat without hesitation, rather than be slowly carved to death.”

As the guard spoke, he glanced back at Duan Chunjiang, his eyes filled with contempt.

He sneered loudly: “This beast walked straight into the blade—trying to play hero before Yang Wen? He’s asking for a slow death.

Keep up the tough act—keep resisting—let me see three thousand six hundred cuts, three days and nights of torment.

If I could witness it once, I’d die content.”

…

Another guard said: “Brother, your taste is too dark—what’s so interesting about that? So foul.”

The lead guard cursed: “You worthless piece of shit—we’re in this line of work.

Without Yang Wen’s brains and methods, we’re stuck relying on our own skills—three thousand six hundred cuts without death—how skilled must that be? Not watching would be a crime.”

On the rack, Duan Chunjiang had lost all courage to curse; his body trembled uncontrollably, his groin soaked through—all his defiance vanished.

He could no longer suppress his boundless terror; his mental defenses shattered—he screamed incoherently: “I confess, I confess everything…”

The embroidered uniform guards, though cruel by nature, felt a chill at Duan Chunjiang’s plea, thinking of Yang Hongbin’s methods.

They had used all their strength to torture the prisoner, yet failed to break his silence.

Yang Hongbin merely opened his mouth—and the prisoner wet himself, sobbing and begging to confess—this Yang was truly horrifying…

…

In the dungeon corridor, Yang Hongbin paced slowly, appearing leisurely, as if strolling through a tranquil garden.