Chapter 13: The Truth Lies Beneath Spear and Club

Zhao Ti also stepped down from the carriage, his face dark as he strode over to the group of guards and palace servants.

“My Lord Wang, it’s, it’s Prince Duan…”

“Hmm?” Zhao Ti let out a cold laugh.

“Go on! What about Prince Duan?” Su Da stamped his foot in agitation.

“Prince Duan came with men to seek My Lord Wang. We told him My Lord Wang was not here, but he tried to force his way in. We blocked him, and his men beat us senseless.”

“And then?” Bai Zhan pressed.

“We dared not fight back. They shouted and made a huge commotion. When Prince Duan saw no one came out, he guessed My Lord Wang truly wasn’t here, said a few words, and left.”

Bai Zhan and the others turned to Zhao Ti. Zhao Ti spoke with icy tone: “What did he say?”

The guard, his face swollen like a peach, mumbled: “I dare not say…”

“I pardon you.”

“Prince Duan said… he said… that this brute, besides waving spears and clubs, beating people in the street like a bandit, knows nothing else? It’s a disgrace to civilization!”

Everyone turned to look at Zhao Ti.

Zhao Ti sneered: “Brute? Bandit? Does he even know what a brute is? Then I’ll make this eleventh brother understand—what a true brute is. The truth lies beneath spear and club; order rests in the hands of bandits!”

“My Lord, shall we call men from the building?” Bai Zhan whispered.

While still in the palace, Zhao Ti secretly formed a small lodge outside, housing all manner of riffraff—gamblers, thieves, and outlaws.

Some were brothers and friends introduced by his personal guards; others were upright men he met in the alleys for standing up for the oppressed; still others were innocent victims he’d freed from wrongful imprisonment in the magistrate’s office.

Their skills weren’t exceptional, but they were loyal, full of blood and fire, and unafraid of injury or death.

After leaving the palace for a year, the lodge had grown stronger. He named it the Golden Wind and Fine Rain Pavilion.

As for funding, it began with imperial gifts—from Empress Dowager Gao Taotao, from Emperor Shenzong, from his mother, Imperial Consort Xing. Consort Xing had borne four sons; the first three died young, so she doted on him, her only surviving son, pouring out all her private wealth to support him.

As the lodge expanded, feeding men and horses, daily expenses grew heavy. When funds ran thin, they turned to black-on-black dealings.

In Dongjing, the underworld had seven gangs and eight associations: seven inside the inner city, eight outside.

Dongjing was prosperous; the Song encouraged trade, waterways thrived with grain transport, ten thousand kinds of commerce flowed from four hundred prefectures. These underworld groups grew fat and bloated, bullying merchants, extorting common folk. Zhao Ti showed them no mercy.

From bloody battles at the start, he now controlled half the underworld’s power, ran his own businesses, and had already secured his dominance—unifying Dongjing’s underworld was merely a matter of time.

These days, the Pavilion is locked in a standoff with the Tiger Gang and the Green Robe Society—we can’t spare any men. Besides, apart from Tian Qi and three others, the rest have no connection to Yan Wang’s mansion. We must avoid any link to the princely residence.” Zhao Ti shook his head. “What elite warriors could Prince Duan possibly have? Li Yan and a few eunuchs? His guards are all former Imperial Army soldiers—just as many as mine, and just as skilled.”

The Golden Wind and Fine Rain Pavilion was managed by four others he brought from the Imperial Surveillance Office.

Their leader was Shang Qi. Since the Surveillance Office used the order Tian, Di, Yuan, Huang, he was Tian Zi Qi Hao, so everyone called him Tian Qi.

“My Lord’s words are spot on,” Bai Zhan said.

Zhao Ti said coolly: “They’ve come to our door. Not repaying them would be unthinkable. Gather the men. Carry the lightly wounded. Now, head straight to Prince Duan’s mansion. Let this eleventh brother see what a true brute is!”

Moments later, twenty to thirty men emerged from the mansion—imperial guards assigned to the Prince’s household. Several more carriages were summoned, and they set off for Prince Duan’s mansion.

Unlike all previous dynasties, the Song did not enforce night curfews in the capital. Evenings grew livelier, especially around Zhouqiao and Panlou Street, where night markets thrived. In spring, lanterns blazed bright; in midsummer, the noise and revelry reached fever pitch.

The carriage procession was loud. On the way, they encountered night patrols from the Two Offices and Three Departments. Once their identity was revealed, the patrols bowed and let them pass. Soon, they arrived before Prince Duan’s mansion.

Prince Duan’s mansion was roughly the same size as Yan Wang’s, but far more luxurious.

Zhao Ji was a man of literary talent and fine brushwork, fond of comfort, extravagance, and grandeur. He loved gold, jade, glitter, and glory. Though young now, his nature was already set—and would never change.

The carriage halted. Prince Duan’s guards peered out curiously. Normally, common folk lingering here would be shouted at and driven off—no tolerance for delay.

But these carriages were solemn, their design unmistakably imperial. None dared speak up.

Su Da leapt down first and bellowed at the gate: “Is Prince Duan home?”

The guards didn’t drive them off, but such disrespect was unheard of. They instantly grew angry: “Who are you, brute? How dare you speak like that? Think you want twenty strokes of the killing stick?”

The killing stick for exiled soldiers often meant fifty or a hundred blows, but most ordinary men couldn’t survive twenty—they’d die. Even the strongest barely endured that number.

Zhao Ti now stepped down from the carriage. Bai Zhan stepped forward: “Yan Wang is here to see Prince Duan. Don’t you dare fail to greet him.”

The guards froze. They knew full well what had happened today—after all, they guarded the gate. To not know was impossible.

Two princes had clashed, ordered their men to fight, and the suffering fell on them—the lowly guards. They bore the beatings, the deaths. The princes sat safe, watching the storm rise and fall.

The lead guard forced a smile: “Yan, Yan Wang, allow this servant to announce you. Please wait a moment.”

Su Da glared: “You dare make my Lord wait outside? Do you want to die?”

The lead guard’s eyes darted. He saw Su Da’s brutish, ready-to-strike demeanor. His heart jumped. Damn it, this is hopeless. He gritted his teeth, made a sudden stumble, cried “Oh!” and tumbled down the steps, then lay writhing, clutching his leg and screaming in pain.

Su Da blinked: “What the hell are you doing? I haven’t even hit you yet…”

The guard captain ignored him, rolling on the ground. Yu Er said: “Clever bastard. Forget him.”

The two walked up the steps. The remaining guards stared dumbfounded. Some slipped aside; others stammered: “My Lord, my Lord, I’ll go report now.”

Others blocked the gate, but Su Da and Yu Er punched and kicked them aside. They dared not draw blades or spears—instead, they scattered like birds and beasts.

Su Da and Yu Er cleared the way. Zhao Ti, with Zhou Dong and Bai Zhan, walked in the center. Behind them, twenty to thirty men carried the injured Yan Wang guards—straight into the mansion.