Chapter 69

In an instant, the front bedroom was lit up brightly on all sides, filled with clamorous voices.

“Your Highness…” Tong Guan hurriedly said, “Your humble servant will protect Your Highness back to the practice chamber; as long as I draw breath, I will not let Your Highness suffer a single scratch!”

Zhao Ti pondered: “After all these years, this is the first time I’ve encountered an assassin. Let’s go take a look.”

“Your Highness, don’t go!” Tong Guan said. “Your Highness should retreat indoors for now. I’ll hold the door—unless they step over my corpse, the assassin won’t get through!”

Zhao Ti glanced at him: “Let’s see what kind of skill this assassin has. If we can capture him, it’s a great deed.”

“A great deed…” Tong Guan froze at the words.

“Let’s see who it is—remnant of the Ghost Fan Tower, or some other foolish bandit.” Zhao Ti strode off with his hands behind his back; Tong Guan hurried after him.

The palace guards had already surrounded the bedroom. Zhou Dong and Bai Zhan peered up from below, their faces grim—the assassin had breached the mansion; they were negligent.

On the long ridge of the bedroom lay a dark shadow, motionless. From this angle, arrows couldn’t hit him; even crossbows couldn’t reach him.

Zhou Dong flicked his flowery spear; Bai Zhan drew his waist knife with a clang. Zhou Dong shouted toward the ridge: “Bold thief! How dare you break into the Prince’s mansion? Come down and face death!”

The shadow on the ridge said nothing, as if melted into the night. Zhou Dong glanced at Bai Zhan, then pressed the spear tip to the ground and leapt upward, springing straight onto the roof.

He didn’t use his iron spear; the flowery spear was more flexible, better suited for combat on high ground.

As soon as he landed on the roof, with a whoosh, he swung the spear shaft in a powerful strike.

The shadow’s hand flashed with cold light—a single sword like a rainbow appeared. Ding-ding-ding! Three rapid clashes rang out in the blink of an eye.

Zhao Ti watched the ridge with an expressionless face. The shadow’s skill wasn’t particularly high—weaker than the South Sea Crocodile God. On level ground, Zhou Dong would have the upper hand, but on the ridge, the long spear was a disadvantage: its wide swings restricted mobility, and one had to constantly watch one’s footing.

A few more exchanges passed, then the shadow’s voice, aged and hoarse, spoke: “Dog of the court! Why have you betrayed your cause?”

Zhou Dong flew into rage. The spear tip trembled, three crimson tassels fluttering like flowers, locking onto the shadow’s throat and chest.

The shadow suddenly flipped his body, lunging downward in a daring slash. The move was reckless—but on the narrow ridge, it was devastating. Zhou Dong had no choice but to retreat, leaping back to the ground.

Bai Zhan raised his knife to press the attack, but Tong Guan shouted: “All masters, step back! Let me take this thief!”

Before his words fully ended, he shot forward like a wisp of smoke, landing lightly on the roof.

Zhao Ti raised an eyebrow slightly. Why did Tong Guan’s use of the Kuihuabaodian differ so much from his own?

Though Tong Guan’s current movements weren’t like the spectral, gloomy style of the incomplete scripture, they carried more ethereal charm—but they weren’t like Zhao Ti’s own radiant, luminous style either.

Could it be because of the Illusion Yin Qi?

The two were already fighting. Tong Guan had trained in the scripture for nearly a year—longer than Zhao Ti. The Kuihuabaodian emphasized intent over qi, transformation over fixed forms. The corrupted, fragmented Piexie Sword Art had deviated so far from its original form that even the Crimson Thread Needles had no fixed techniques; their changes were endless, and they were the fastest to master.

Tong Guan’s sleeves fluttered, almost silent. Two flying needles drifted with eerie grace, aimed straight at the shadow’s vital points.

The shadow let out a startled cry—he was stunned. He hadn’t expected such a master in the Prince’s mansion.

In moments, they exchanged over a dozen strikes. Tong Guan moved like a fish in water atop the ridge; the shadow was now struggling to defend himself. Suddenly, Tong Guan slid his feet, slipping behind the shadow. The shadow startled, barely turning to evade—when a chill pierced his shoulder and ribs. The needle had struck.

The needle was tied with crimson thread. Tong Guan shook his hands, chuckling: “Down you go!”

The shadow tumbled off the roof. Zhou Dong, Bai Zhan, Su Da, and others rushed forward, weapons flashing, pinning him in place.

He wore a black night suit, his face covered with a black cloth. Su Da tore it off, revealing a weathered, furious face—the white-browed, white-bearded old man Zhao Ti had seen that night at the street fair.

Tong Guan leapt down, trotted to Zhao Ti’s side, and bowed eagerly: “Your Highness, how was my skill?”

Zhao Ti smiled: “Your adoptive father passed not long ago, and you’ve trained in the scripture only a short while. This art is indeed quick to master. Well done.”

At the mention of “scripture” and “quick to master,” Tong Guan’s face paled. He feared Zhao Ti wanted it—he dared not refuse, yet giving it would make him a traitor. He stammered: “Your Highness, I… I’ve trained for a year. My adoptive father passed it to me while he was still alive.”

Zhao Ti smiled and stepped forward. The old man was bound tightly, still cursing loudly.

Yu Er said: “Your Highness, shall I gag him?”

Zhao Ti shook his head, then tapped the old man’s Tianchi point with a finger. The old man cried out in shock and rage: “What evil prince are you trying to do?!”

Seeing Zhao Ti use such a rare acupuncture technique, he was startled—but then realized it wasn’t a standard pressure point. A chilling force surged into his body. He shuddered violently, overcome by unbearable cold, so intense he couldn’t even speak.

The Illusion Yin Finger technique resembled the Life-and-Death Charm: a cold, yin force clung to the body, drifting through every meridian. Unless one possessed a specific counter-force, it could not be eradicated.

Zhao Ti said calmly: “You’re here looking for Yang Yunchong, aren’t you?”

The old man couldn’t speak, only glared with fury. Zhao Ti sneered: “Yang Yunchong has pledged allegiance to me. He won’t see you rabble again.”

The old man’s eyes bulged. Fighting the agony in his body, he forced out two words: “You lie…”

Zhao Ti shook his head: “What position do you hold in the Ming Cult? And where is that young girl now?”

The old man’s face turned ashen with shock. He clenched his lips shut, biting them until they bled.

“Did that girl tell you about my identity?” Zhao Ti stroked his chin. “What position does she hold in the Ming Cult? What’s her name?”

The old man remained silent, but his mind churned with turmoil—he couldn’t fathom how the other knew his origins.

Zhao Ti studied him for a moment, then shook his head: “Fine. Yang Yunchong will tell me.”

The old man had originally disbelieved utterly—but then he thought: how could this man possibly know his background? A flicker of doubt crept in.

Zhao Ti waved his hand: “Take him away.”

Zhou Dong and Bai Zhan shoved the old man off to be imprisoned. Zhao Ti glanced at the sky, ordered the roof and ground cleaned, then retired.

The next morning, he rode straight to the Golden Wind and Drizzling Rain Pavilion. In the back courtyard, Hou San was carrying food toward a room. Seeing Zhao Ti, he hurriedly bowed: “Young Master.”

Zhao Ti asked: “How is he?”

Hou San replied: “I was just bringing his meal. He’s probably kneeling in empty worship again at this hour.”

Zhao Ti nodded and entered the room. Sure enough, Yang Yunchong knelt on the floor, facing west, murmuring prayers as he prostrated himself.