I slaughtered my way through the border at the start, I am the Great Ming's Night Raider!

At noon, Chen Yuan received two invitations.

One letter was from the Duke of Wei's mansion, inviting him to a banquet to "discuss matters related to tomorrow's sacrificial ceremony to Confucius."

One letter was from the Duke of Cheng's villa, inviting him to a banquet, "to discuss important matters."

Two invitations, at the same time, with the same purpose—to get him to choose sides.

Chen Yuan burned both invitations.

He told the messenger, "Reply to the two dukes, I have caught a cold and am unable to attend the banquet. We will meet again tomorrow at the Confucius Temple."

Then he closed the door and began to prepare.

You must wear the flying fish suit, but you must wear soft armor underneath.

You should bring the Embroidered Spring Blade, but the dagger should be hidden in the boot.

Poisons, antidotes, sleeping pills, wound medicines... all categorized and strapped to his body.

Uncle Zhao returned: "Han Cheng agreed and will send one hundred sailors, who will arrive tomorrow morning."

Master Zhou also returned: "The Azure Dragon Society has mobilized two hundred people, who have already dispersed around the Confucius Temple area."

Chen Yuan nodded: "Okay."

He walked to the window and looked outside.

The sun was shining brightly, casting shimmering light on the Qinhuai River.

The songs of female singers drifted from the painted boats, soft and gentle, in a melody unique to the Jiangnan region.

"Uncle Zhao," he suddenly said, "if I don't come back tomorrow..."

"Young master, please don't say such unlucky things."

"I mean, if," Chen Yuan turned around, "if I don't come back, you take Chen Jin away from the capital, go to the south, live in anonymity, and live a good life."

Uncle Zhao's eyes reddened: "Young Master..."

"And another thing." Chen Yuan took out a letter from his pocket. "If I die, find a way to send this letter back to the capital and give it to the Grand Princess."

"Young master..."

Promise me.

Uncle Zhao nodded vigorously: "I agree."

Chen Yuan laughed and patted him on the shoulder: "Don't look like that. Maybe everything will go smoothly tomorrow, and we can come back for a drink."

But he knew that even he himself didn't believe those words.

Outside the window, the sun was gradually setting in the west.

As dusk settled, Chen Yuan did a final check on his equipment.

The flying fish robe was crisp and straight, the embroidered spring knife was sharp, and the soft armor was close-fitting; everything was ready.

He sat down and began sharpening his knife.

The whetstone rubbed against the blade, making a "shush-shush" sound that was particularly clear in the quiet room.

This is a habit of the Night Watchmen – sharpening their weapons before battle is both a way to maintain their equipment and a way to calm their minds.

The more you sharpen a knife, the brighter it becomes, enough to reflect a person's face.

Looking at his reflection on the blade, Chen Yuan suddenly remembered many things.

I think of the snowstorm at the border, the scouts, Zhang Meng, and the night Xuanfu fell...

Thinking of the bloodshed that claimed the entire Chen family, the tearful eyes of the Grand Princess, and the crooked cotton coat Chen Jin sewed...

Thinking back on the bloodshed, conspiracies, and schemes along the way.

Then he laughed.

"Come on," he said to his reflection in the blade, "let's see whose game it is tomorrow."

The knife is sharpened. Its cold gleam is chilling; it could cut a hair with a single blow.

Chen Yuan sheathed his sword and blew out the oil lamp.

The room was plunged into darkness.

Outside the window, lights began to twinkle on the Qinhuai River, and the sounds of traditional Chinese string and wind instruments filled the air.

The night in Nanjing is still as bustling and enchanting as ever.

But Chen Yuan knew that beneath this prosperity, blood would be spilled tomorrow.

The blood of many people.

Including possibly...his own.

But he wasn't afraid.

Because he was the night clerk.

They didn't collect the loot at night, nor did they let the heavens hold them back; they raided through the night without looking back.

It was the 25th day of the twelfth lunar month, at the third quarter of the hour of Chen (7:4

The morning bell of Confucius Temple rang, its deep sound echoing over Nanjing, startling the crows roosting in the willows along the Qinhuai River.

Before the Wenshu Archway, a dense crowd of officials stood silently, dressed in scarlet, blue, and green robes, arranged according to rank.

The morning mist had not yet dissipated, shrouding this Jiangnan Confucian Temple in a hazy veil.

Chen Yuan stood at the end of the civil official line—although he was a military officer, his status as an imperial envoy was special, and the Ministry of Rites had specially arranged for him to stand here.

The flying fish robe gleamed with a dark blue light in the morning mist, and the embroidered spring knife hung at his waist, the cowhide wrapped around the hilt already soaked with sweat from his palms.

He appeared to be focused on his own thoughts, but in reality, he was glancing around with the corner of his eye.

Thirty paces to the left, Duke Xu Huizu of Wei stood at the head of the honored nobles' procession, dressed in the official robes of a duke, holding a jade tablet, his expression solemn.

Fifty paces to the right, Duke Zhu Yong of Cheng was also there, but he stood further back, his face somewhat pale, and he frequently wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

Further away, around the square in front of the temple, there were at least three hundred seemingly ordinary people, vendors, and tourists.

Chen Yuan could identify some of them—soldier under Han Cheng of the Navy disguised as porters, Jianghu people arranged by Zhou, the leader of the Qinglong Society, pretending to be pilgrims, and... at least eight groups of unidentified spies.

"The auspicious time has arrived!"

The master of ceremonies sang loudly.

Everyone bowed. The main gate of the Dacheng Hall slowly opened, revealing a statue of Confucius inside, with incense smoke swirling around it.

The ceremony to commemorate Confucius begins.

First, we welcome the gods.

The musicians played "Showa Song," with the chime bells, chime stones, zither, and se resounding together in a solemn and elegant atmosphere.

Sixty-four dancers, each holding a feathered flute, performed the Eight-Row Dance in front of the hall. Their movements were graceful, their robes fluttering, as if time had flowed back a thousand years.

Chen Yuan performed the rites according to etiquette, but he was silently counting in his mind.

Since entering the temple, he had noticed at least seventeen unusual things—the candied hawthorn vendor's hands were too steady, unlike ordinary vendors; the woman holding the child seemed oblivious to the child's crying; and those young men dressed as scholars had bulging temples, clearly martial arts experts...

After the dance, the first offering was made.

Hu Ying, the Minister of Rites in Nanjing, presided over the ceremony. Holding the sacrificial text, he slowly stepped forward, knelt before the incense table, and loudly recited: "In the ninth year of Xuande, the year of Jia Yin, on the twenty-fifth day of the twelfth month, all the civil and military officials of Nanjing respectfully offer sacrifices of livestock, wine, and other offerings before the spirit tablet of the Most Sage and Teacher Confucius..."

The sound was loud and resonant, echoing through the empty temple.

Chen Yuan's ears twitched slightly. He heard it—very faint footsteps approaching from afar, at least thirty people, heading towards the Confucius Temple.

The footsteps were light but orderly, like those of a soldier.

coming.

He quietly placed his right hand on the hilt of the knife.

After the eulogy was read, the second offering was performed.

Duke Xu Huizu of Wei stepped forward, holding a jade goblet, filled it with sweet wine, and respectfully offered it before the incense table.

His movements were precise, his expression solemn, and there was nothing unusual about him.

But Chen Yuan noticed that when he was serving the wine, he glanced in the direction of the Duke of Cheng.

Duke Zhu Yong of Chengguo stood in the queue, his hands trembling slightly in his sleeves.

Final offering.

It was Chen Yuan's turn.

According to the ritual system, the imperial envoy, representing the emperor, was to offer incense at the final offering.

He took a deep breath, stepped out of the line, and accepted the three sticks of incense offered by the master of ceremonies.

Just as he stepped onto the steps leading to the incense table, a strange thing happened!

"An assassin—!"

A scream came from outside the temple gate. This was followed by the clash of weapons, shouts of alarm, and screams of agony!

The crowd instantly descended into chaos!

The officials panicked; some hid inside the hall, while others huddled in corners, and order was completely lost.

Chen Yuan stood still, his eyes scanning the area quickly—more than a dozen masked men in black rushed in through the temple gate, wielding steel knives and slashing at anyone they saw, but it was clearly a bluff, as their blades avoided vital points.

The first group consisted of the Duke of Wei's "fake assassins".

Sure enough, Xu Huizu immediately shouted, "Protect the Emperor! Protect the Imperial Envoy!"