Chapter 67: The Tree Wishes for Stillness, But the Wind Will Not Cease

Zhao Ti said: “What’s your name? Who are you seeking in this city? Since you’ve come to Dongjing from afar, I’ll have my men help you find them.”

“This… ” The young man hesitated, looking troubled: “Your Excellency, this humble subject’s surname is Yang, given name Yun Chong. I came to seek relatives surnamed Chen, who once lived in Pixie Alley in the western part of the city, but they’ve moved—so far, I haven’t learned where to.”

“Yang? That’s an uncommon surname.” Zhao Ti smiled. “I know Pixie Alley. I’ll send someone to ask around, but that area’s full of Daoists and recluses—wandering clouds, free cranes—they’re unlikely to be found.”

Yang Yun Chong shook his head urgently: “No need to trouble Your Excellency. I’ve knocked on every door—no one knows the neighbors. My relative is half-cultivator, half-layman; his hometown is Huashan in Shaanxi. He may have already returned there.”

Zhao Ti said: “That won’t do. You were crippled by the Ghost Fan Tower—your martial arts are gone. The government must lend you aid. Someone—”

Shang Qi stepped forward: “My lord.”

Zhao Ti said: “See that Yang Dalang is properly lodged. No mishaps allowed.”

Shang Qi nodded: “Yes, my lord!”

Yang Yun Chong blinked in surprise: “Your Excellency, it’s unnecessary. I’ll leave on my own—tomorrow I’ll return to Jiangnan…”

“Go on now…” Shang Qi’s lips curled with coldness; he seized Yang Yun Chong’s collar and dragged him aside.

After a while, the imperial guards returned with word: Zhong Pu had encountered multiple Chalu underground and dared not proceed further, requesting Zhao Ti’s orders.

Zhao Ti asked: “How many did you kill?”

The soldier replied: “Your Majesty, dozens at least—all shot. It was too dark to use blades or spears.”

Zhao Ti thought a moment: “Tell General Zhong not to advance further. Follow the plan—ignite fire oil and firewood to fill the tunnels with smoke!”

The soldier bowed and left. Zhao Ti then ordered all eight-character water outlets: some were to be sealed shut, others—like this one—were to begin filling with smoke from fire oil and charcoal. The open channels leading to the river were blocked with wooden stakes to prevent anyone from escaping.

Guards stationed at the water outlets held bows and crossbows; over a dozen double-bow bed-novas were positioned before the larger outlets. If any Ghost Fan Tower men tried to burst out, they’d collapse the outlet outright.

The smoke from burning fire oil was lethally toxic. Even if one inhaled only a little and didn’t die immediately, illness would follow. Mixed with firewood and charcoal, the air grew thin. Within moments, the underground world of Dongjing was choked with black winds, as if the end of days had come.

Several outlets saw Ghost Fan Tower thugs fleeing outward, but since the outlets were blocked, wails echoed from within. Only a few of the three or five who broke free were shot down by imperial archers.

The same happened at the underground channels leading to the river: when the wooden stakes could no longer hold, the guards hurled stones to seal the openings completely.

The smoke lasted all night. The Ministry of Works, the Palace Guard Command, and the Imperial Bodyguard Command’s supply depots emptied nearly all their fire oil.

Odors occasionally rose from below—even a whiff above made men dizzy, nauseous, and ready to vomit.

Seeing this, Zhao Ti ordered mud and lime to be smeared over the eight-character outlets to seal them and prevent smoke from seeping out.

The next day, imperial guards took turns watching the outlets day and night—neither entering nor opening them. The fire oil’s poison was too potent; they could only let it slowly dissipate underground. When heavy rain came, they’d open the outlets, letting the poison flow into the river’s living waters, diluted and washed away, so it wouldn’t affect the surface.

Two days later, the weather remained clear. In the evening, Zhao Ti rode in his carriage to the Golden Wind and Fine Rain Pavilion.

Yang Yun Chong had been left there under constant watch—no letting him leave.

Dongjing had many spies; infiltration between government offices was normal. But if Liao or Western Xia had planted agents, or if outlaw bands from the countryside sought to intrude, the matter would become grave.

The Song Dynasty had never lacked rebels. The saying “rise in revolt, then be pardoned and appointed” was no idle tale. Many outlaw bands held this hope: succeed, and become officials; fail, and surrender. Their boldness was immense.

But pardon was never as simple as they imagined. Minor uprisings were crushed outright. The court dared not employ those too powerful—most were stripped of power, given an excuse, and executed. The court wasn’t foolish enough to let a tail grow too large.

Those who could plant spies inside Dongjing were no ordinary outlaw band.

Outlaw bands differed from the Jianghu. Jianghu was a general term; outlaw bands specifically meant bandits and rebels who seized mountains, gathered followers, and rose in revolt—originating from the Green Forest Army and Green Forest Mountain, both dating to Wang Mang’s Xin Dynasty alongside the Red Eyebrows.

That little maid in the Prince’s mansion was abnormal—a servant with martial skill. The white-browed elder was clearly a master, and not from Dongjing. If he came from the mountains of Jiangnan’s Wu-Yue region, or from some sect plotting rebellion, that would be dangerous.

So Zhao Ti had not let Yang Yun Chong go. He intended to extract information from him—to learn where these men came from and what their intentions were in infiltrating Dongjing.

Inside the pavilion, he sat and drank tea. Hou San and Zhu Si arrived.

One thin, one fat: Hou San excelled at climbing—not because of high-level lightness skill, but because of his flexible frame. He could scale rooftops and trees with ease; with two grappling hooks, even city walls were no obstacle.

Zhu Si possessed pure external martial arts—his strength came entirely from sinew and bone. He wasn’t iron-boned or steel-muscled, but ordinary cultivators with shallow internal Qi were no match for him.

Zhao Ti asked them: “How has Yang Yun Chong been these past days? Has he caused trouble?”

Hou San said: “He’s been quiet. Eats and drinks without prompting, but he’s been gloomy every day—as if burdened by some great sorrow.”

Zhu Si said: “No other oddities, but his morning and evening routines are strange.”

“Oh?” Zhao Ti lifted his teacup and sipped. “What’s strange?”

The two exchanged glances. Hou San said: “My lord, every morning and evening he kneels and bows toward the west—exactly the same time, every day. He mutters under his breath. When I got close to listen, he stopped speaking and fell silent.”

Zhu Si said: “We thought he’d gone mad from the Ghost Fan Tower’s torment, but now we see he’s not. He’s kneeling to some deity or bodhisattva in empty space.”

“Kneeling to what deity or bodhisattva in empty space?” Zhao Ti leaned forward slightly. “Did you catch what he muttered?”

Hou San said: “I heard the words ‘life’ and ‘death.’”

Zhu Si scratched his head: “I only caught the word ‘fire.’ Nothing else. The moment he noticed me listening, he fell silent.”

“Life… death… fire?” Zhao Ti’s eyes flickered with change. He gazed out the window as the sun set, a massive fiery orb burning red, staining sky and earth crimson…

Night fell. The bright moon hung high.

In the imperial vacant residence across from Qisheng Courtyard, Zhao Xu stood with his hands behind his back. A Crimson Dragon Guard whispered to him.

When he finished, the guard bowed and stood still, like a stone statue.

Zhao Xu’s gaze was hollow and still, fixed on the southern horizon. He murmured to himself: “I desire a peaceful nation, a tranquil realm. Alas—the tree wishes stillness, yet the wind will not cease…”