Chapter 52

Zhao Ti couldn’t help narrowing his eyes—where could these two be going at this hour?

The Imperial City Bureau wasn’t forbidden from patrolling at night, but since Zhao Xu ascended the throne, its authority had almost entirely fallen into Gao Taotao’s hands; Gao Taotao rarely summoned the Bureau, so its night duties were few, and nighttime deployments even rarer.

Zhao Ti pondered silently, following slowly from behind.

At first, the two walked slowly, as if strolling, but after passing the Ministry of Personnel, their pace quickened sharply, heading straight west.

Southwest of Dongjing’s inner city lay Kaifeng Prefecture; directly west stood Taiping Xingguo Temple. The two reached the woods behind the temple and vanished inside; Zhao Ti followed immediately.

The western city was quiet at night; most people went to Zhouqiao or Xiangguo Temple to view the night market, or else headed east to the main inns for wine—no one walked here now.

The woods behind Xingguo Temple were small; Zhao Ti slipped in soundlessly and saw the two rapidly changing clothes, revealing plain robes beneath.

The crimson sleeve he’d seen earlier was still worn underneath—the one man had it on, and so did the other; now they were less cautious, no longer carefully concealing it.

Then the two exited the woods to the north, moving swiftly toward Qishengyuan.

The sky was now fully dark; the western city was not bustling, so lanterns were sparse—the two figures moved like shadows ahead, and Zhao Ti’s face remained expressionless; their martial skill far exceeded his expectations.

Earlier, their light, steady breathing had suggested they were merely inferior to Bai Sheng and Su Da—but now, observing their footwork’s rhythm, he realized they surpassed Bai Zhan and Su Da by an incalculable margin.

When had the Imperial City Bureau acquired such skilled hands? Zhao Ti’s mind brimmed with suspicion; had his own martial arts not advanced so greatly, he’d never have noticed this.

When the two reached the side of Qishengyuan, they swiftly turned into a western alley—he knew this alley; its sides held idle imperial residences, neglected due to their western location, never granted to commoners.

The street was silent; no lanterns hung from any house—but since Mid-Autumn was near, the frosty moon shone bright enough to discern shapes.

Zhao Ti moved like a wisp of light and smoke, gliding along wall shadows, watching as the two arrived at the largest house within, knocked five light, four heavy taps on the door, then, before anyone opened it, scanned the surroundings for a few breaths before leaping over the wall and vanishing inside.

Zhao Ti stood in the shadows, his expression shifting—what were these two’s true identities?

If they were spies infiltrating the Imperial City, that seemed unlikely; the Bureau’s recruitment screening was extremely strict, tracing lineage back to the Five Dynasties and Spring and Autumn era.

Moreover, Imperial City Bureau personnel carried the additional status of Jingji Imperial Guards—some were descendants of soldiers who had fought alongside Emperor Taizu; unlike border troops’ hereditary households, these were pure-blooded imperial guard families, making espionage highly improbable.

Then… could there be some hidden bureau outside the Imperial City Bureau?

If it was concealed from all outsiders, who controlled it? No court official would—this was an Anwei , a secret guard—could it be directly commanded by the Emperor himself?

His martial skill had once been mediocre; in the palace, he’d seen nothing amiss. Now that his power had surged, he perceived what he’d once missed—and the truth became instantly clear.

The Great Song must have a secret guard, personally led by the Emperor or the regent Empress Dowager.

But if this secret guard possessed profound martial skill and remained hidden from outsiders, why conceal it from imperial princes and princesses? They weren’t outsiders.

Zhao Ti remained motionless in the shadows for about half a quarter-hour, then glided like smoke along the wall, circling to the rear of the mansion, and leapt upward like a night bird.

On the wall’s edge, he saw many trees within, but the ground lay dark—even the moonlight failed to clarify it.

Zhao Ti frowned slightly; his white robes were too conspicuous, too risky for deep infiltration—he didn’t know what masters lurked inside.

A light breeze stirred; below, tall grass rustled, and faint glimmers flashed—upon closer look, they were bells or similar alarm devices.

He pondered for a few breaths, then leapt back to the ground, vanishing like a wisp of smoke into the distance.

The next day, the Zongzhengsi sent no inquiries about his departure the previous day. At the hour of Hai, Zhao Ti donned black travel attire, gave instructions to Zheng Fu, and exited through the back gate.

He headed straight for yesterday’s alley; tonight, dark clouds obscured the moon, dimmer than yesterday. He leapt silently onto the wall’s peak behind the mansion and peered inside.

Bells or other alarm devices lay below—perhaps pitfalls and net traps too; he couldn’t land directly. He studied the trees: though unstable, their trunks were discernible enough to check for hidden mechanisms.

Calculating the distances between the trees in his mind, Zhao Ti leapt toward one, then used its momentum to spring to another; in moments, he was far from the wall, and faintly ahead, he saw a small fish pond with a nine-turn pavilion extending to its center—across the pond, lights flickered dimly within the buildings.

He held his breath, activated the Sunflower True Qi, and descended like a leaf, floating soundlessly to the ground.

He continued using the Phantom Step, moving entirely within shadows, circling the pond toward the candlelit room.

Along the way, he saw no one, no living thing—not even autumn insects chirped.

Just fifty zhang from the house, distant sounds suddenly arose—he instantly hid. Soon, he saw several figures approaching the front of the house.

In the dim light, he saw they all wore crimson robes, faintly patterned with flowing designs—he couldn’t make out the exact motifs.

They reached the house, knocked softly in a rhythmic pattern; the door opened, and Zhao Ti, watching from afar, saw a young boy with hanging hair.

The men entered; the door closed. Zhao Ti considered, then moved swiftly, slipping across to the opposite side.

Up close, he studied the house: a typical mansion layout, three windows, six panels, tightly shut, double-layered paper windows, faint voices seeping through.

The voices were low, in the Dongjing dialect, speaking of the Song-Liao border market towns.

Zhao Ti listened for a while; though fragmented, the pieces formed a coherent tale: this man had traveled to the border to carry out a mission, recounting his encounter with the Khitans.

Then another voice spoke of something else—again, related to the border. Zhao Ti frowned slightly.

After about a quarter-hour, the voices inside ceased; footsteps moved toward the door.

The door opened; Zhao Ti peered inside—and saw, deep within the room, a slender young figure in brocade robes, arms crossed behind his back, standing sideways to the door.

Seeing that figure, Zhao Ti’s gaze tightened, his expression grave.