A person sacrifices himself to become a saint in a chaotic world of martial arts.

Upon hearing this news, all the officers and servants of the Zhenfu Division were dumbfounded.

Everyone thought Su Bai was going to become the Deputy Chief Inspector of the South, succeeding Xing Huai'an. But what happened? He ended up as a prison warden.

The turn was so sharp that it took a moment to react.

People were whispering and talking amongst themselves. They spoke in hushed tones, but their eyes kept glancing at Su Bai with curiosity, envy, confusion, and a hint of something else that was hard to define.

"A jailer? Isn't that the one in charge of the prison?"

"Yes, that's the one who's in charge of the prison. Don't underestimate the job; it's very lucrative. Money from prisoners' families, bribes from gangs, and for those who want reduced sentences, want to ask someone to pass on a message, or want to have a better life in there—all of these require bribing the prison warden. It's a very lucrative position."

"Even more expensive than a vice president's salary?"

"It's not that bad... but it's not bad either. The key is stability. I don't have to be out and about all the time, and I don't have to fight those desperados. I'm protected from the wind and rain, how nice is that? Deputy Chief Constable sounds good, but that means doing the work and taking responsibility."

"Tsk tsk, Lord Su, you're really taking this path very steadily."

Fortunately, he was still in the county town, and he was a jailer.

This made the gangs even more eager to send gifts.

After all, for gangsters, maintaining good relationships in prison is absolutely essential. Who hasn't had a few brothers in jail? Who hasn't needed to beg the jailer for favors? All that praying and groveling is for the sake of smooth things over when things get tough. A single word from the jailer can reduce a prisoner's suffering and extend the case's timeline. They understand the ins and outs of this better than anyone.

As a result, the threshold of Su Bai's courtyard has almost been worn down by the crowds these past few days.

One gift was silver, wrapped in red paper, a heavy bundle so heavy that the bottom of the paper was pressed into it when placed on the table; another was cloth, fine silk, gleaming softly in the sunlight, smooth to the touch; another was medicinal herbs, ginseng and deer antler, packaged in a brocade box with auspicious patterns carved on the lid; yet another was calligraphy and paintings, said to be genuine works by famous artists of the previous dynasty, the scrolls tied with silk ribbons. Su Bai declined several times, but unable to refuse, he grew tired of declining and accepted them all, remembering clearly who gave what and what it was.

However, only one person was unhappy.

That was Zhou Changqing, the deputy chief clerk.

Zhou Changqing's house was located on East Street in the county town, a three-courtyard complex, far more imposing than Su Bai's small courtyard. Two stone lions, each taller than a person, stood guard at the gate, their claws outstretched, exuding a majestic aura. The vermilion gate, with its gleaming copper nails, shimmered in the sunlight. Two servants stood ramrod straight at the entrance.

At this moment, he is sitting in his study.

The study was spacious and exquisitely furnished. The rosewood desk, its surface smooth as a mirror, reflected one's image. The armchair was covered with a brocade cushion embroidered with lotus scrolls. The walls were adorned with calligraphy and paintings by famous artists—landscapes, figures, flowers, and birds—all signed by well-known names. The display shelves held various treasures: bronzes, jade, and porcelain, each piece priceless. Sunlight streamed through the carved windowpanes, casting intricate shadows on the blue brick floor, illuminating the room and making the treasures gleam with a warm glow.

But Zhou Changqing's face was so gloomy it looked like it was about to drip water.

He clutched the copy of the transfer order tightly in his hand, the paper wrinkled and the edges crumpled. His fingers trembled slightly, his knuckles white, and the veins on the back of his hand bulged like writhing earthworms. His gaze fell on the copy; the words seemed to burn, stinging his eyes.

The county jail has always been controlled by the Ning family. And Zhou Changqing came to this county precisely to find a way to gain control of the jail, right? Otherwise, what's he doing here? Retiring?

Don't underestimate these positions; they may seem insignificant to the four major families.

However, in reality, power is something that comes from both the top down and the bottom up.

Throughout history, imperial power has been both in conflict with and in balance with the power of the officials.

Imperial power had to rely on these powerful clans to govern the empire. But where did these clans get their power? It didn't fall from the sky, nor was it bestowed by the emperor. It came from countless seemingly insignificant positions and powers, accumulated little by little, like grains of sand forming a tower, eventually becoming a force to be reckoned with. A tax collector, a jailer, a county magistrate, a registrar—these positions may seem unremarkable individually, but when they are all controlled by a single family, they become a deeply entrenched network of relationships, an unbreakable chain of interests, tentacles that permeate every corner of the empire.

When this power is strong, even the emperor is just a figurehead, sitting on the dragon throne, watching the powerful clans govern the world for him, and having to smile and carefully maintain the balance.

Zhou Changqing is a member of the Zhou family, which is one of the four major families.

He came to Fenjiang County to snatch the prison from the Ning family.

He had been planning this for three years.

It's been three years!

Mao Ya, the deputy warden of the prison, was one of his men.

How much thought and effort did he put in to get people in there?

How many gifts did he give, how many kind words did he say, how many connections did he make, and how many favors did he owe to get to where he is today?

How long did he wait until the jailer reached the age where he was about to retire and return to his hometown?

He originally intended to attribute the credit for killing An Wuou to the deputy jailer and thereby be promoted to jailer.

What a great plan.

What a perfect timing.

He had even written the memorial, just waiting to submit it. The memorial was hidden under the paperweight on his desk. He had already planned that once the deputy warden became the warden, the prison would be his for the taking. At that time, the money sent by the prisoners' families, the silver offered by the gangs, and the bribes given by those who wanted to reduce their sentences would all have to pass through his hands, all have to get past him first.

Unexpectedly, An Wuou was robbed.

It was stolen by a young brat.

It was as if the position of jailer had been snatched away by Ning Yuechan's people.

Zhou Changqing slammed the manuscript onto the table with a loud "crack," causing the teacups to jump and spill tea, wetting the table and leaving a dark water stain on the precious papers. The manuscript fluttered to the ground, but he didn't bother to pick it up, letting it lie there and collect dust.

"This is absolutely outrageous!"

His voice echoed in the study, filled with barely suppressed anger, a anger that seemed to be forced out of his chest, hoarse and deep, so strong that it made the window paper tremble slightly.

"The jailer is getting old, and I finally outlasted my rival, but the Ning family snatched him away! I'm so angry!"

He suddenly stood up, and because of the sudden movement, the armchair tipped backward and crashed to the ground with a loud thud, the back of the chair hitting the blue bricks with a dull thud.

Zhou Changqing didn't bother to help her up. He paced back and forth in the room, his boots making rapid, heavy footsteps on the blue brick floor, each step heavier than the last, as if he wanted to crush the bricks. Every step was filled with his anger.

His face was ashen, like a block of raw iron, with bulging veins on his forehead that throbbed like earthworms crawling beneath his skin. His hands were clenched into fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white, and his nails almost dug into his flesh, leaving deep marks on his palms.

He walked to the desk, grabbed the teacup on the table, and smashed it hard on the ground. With a crisp "crack," shards of porcelain flew everywhere, tea spilled all over the floor, and tea leaves stuck to the blue bricks, steaming hot.

He walked to the antique shelf again, reaching out as if to smash something. His hand was halfway up, his fingertips almost touching a celadon vase, but he pulled it back abruptly, panting heavily, his chest heaving violently, like a trapped beast.

Outside the window, a servant peeked out and saw only a mess on the ground and his master's furious back. He turned pale with fright, quickly shrank back, and didn't dare to breathe. He tiptoed away without even making a sound.

At this point, Zhou Changqing had completely come to hate Su Bai.

He gritted his teeth and forced out a few words: "Su Bai... Su Bai..."

The voice was deep and cold, as if it came from underground, or like the hiss of a venomous snake flicking its tongue, echoing in the empty study, carrying a chilling coldness to the bone.

He looked up, his gaze falling out the window.

The sun was still shining brightly, and the flowers and plants in the yard were in full bloom, red, yellow, and purple, swaying in the wind. But his eyes were so gloomy they seemed to drip with water, and his gaze seemed to be poisoned, as if it could wither the flowers and plants.

just wait.

There is ample time.

His lips twitched slightly, revealing a very faint smile, a smile so cold it sent chills down one's spine, like the biting wind of a winter night seeping from his lips.

"By the way, this guy named Su Bai, I remember he was a policeman before. How did he suddenly manage to kill An Wu'ou? Go, investigate him thoroughly."

The flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows on Master Zhou's face, half of his face lit up and the other half hidden in shadow, with two dark mounds in his eye sockets and a triangular shadow cast by one side of his nose.

As he spoke, his fingers tapped lightly on the table, one tap, one tap, one tap. The sound was not loud, but it made one's heart tighten slightly, as if his fingers were tapping on one's heart, each tap hitting the most vulnerable spot.

"Also, since he's not strong enough, let Mao Ya cause trouble for me. As long as he doesn't directly confront me, he can do whatever he wants."

He paused, a slight downturn at the corners of his mouth drawing deep lines, his nasolabial folds deepening abruptly. A cold glint flashed in his eyes, fleeting yet caught by the candlelight, gleaming briefly in the depths of his pupils like a sudden, cold star. "Tell him that the Zhou family has always supported him. A twenty-year-old thinks he can hold onto his position as prison warden?"

The steward standing to the side bowed deeply, his back hunched over, his hands hanging at his sides, his fingertips lightly gripping the seams of his trousers, his knuckles slightly white. Upon hearing this, he quickly raised his eyelids and glanced at the Zhou family patriarch's face, his gaze lingering for a moment before sweeping over the stern expression, then swiftly lowering his gaze again, his eyelashes fluttering: "Yes, sir!"

As soon as he finished speaking, he took two steps back, each step carefully placed, heel first, then slowly toes down, landing silently, as if afraid of disturbing something.

Turning around, I pushed open the door and stepped out. As the door opened and closed, the wind from the corridor swept in, carrying the chill of late autumn. The candlelight flickered violently a few times, the flames swaying and stretching, almost going out. The shadows cast on the wall also twisted and trembled, like ghosts dancing wildly, baring their fangs and claws.

After a long while, the flames gradually stabilized and shakily rose again. At first, it was a small point of blue light, which gradually expanded into an orange-yellow ball of fire. The shadows on the wall also returned to calm, but seemed to be a few shades darker than before, as if covered with a layer of ash.

"Congratulations on your promotion, Lord Su!"

"Lord Su, congratulations on your promotion!"

"Lord Su, please take good care of me in the future..."

The Southern Garrison Command has been quite lively these past few days. With Su Bai's transfer order officially issued, he will be reporting to the Northern Garrison Command to assume his post in three days at most.

As the news spread, a steady stream of constables came to the door, some to offer congratulations, some to chat, and some to present their visiting cards.

The blue bricks in the courtyard were polished smooth by the footsteps, and the moss that had accumulated between the bricks was worn away by the soles of the shoes, revealing the dark brick surface. It reflected the sunlight slightly, as smooth as a mirror in the bright areas and as dark as ink in the dark areas.

The lanterns under the eaves have also been replaced with new ones, covered with red silk and supported by bamboo frames. The bright red light shines on everyone's face, and everyone is smiling. However, the smiles vary in depth. Some reach the bottom of their eyes, and the fine lines at the corners of their eyes are smoothed out; others stop at the corners of their mouths, with their lips turned up, but their eyes are calm and still.

In particular, Sun Hou, Lao Wang, and Zheng Shijie have been following Su Bai almost every step of the way these past few days.

Wherever Su Bai went, the three of them followed, like shadows, only their footsteps varied in weight and distance.

These three were practically Su Bai's old crew. They had followed him since he was a policeman, running errands for him, patrolling the streets together, staking out the city together, and sharing hardships, even eating cold steamed buns on a street corner in the dead of winter.

Now that Su Bai has been promoted to prison warden, he naturally has to take the three of them with him.

Otherwise, even if he is the jailer, he may not be able to get things done if he doesn't have capable people under him. In a new place with new people, you always need a few people you know well to feel at ease and dare to entrust your back to them.

The three of them naturally did not refuse Su Bai's invitation. Sun Hou rubbed his hands together, making a rustling sound. His palms were rough and calloused. He smiled so much that the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes were squeezed together, narrowing into two slits, with only a sliver of white showing.

Old Wang nodded repeatedly, his neck craning and contracting, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. He was so excited that he could hardly speak, only bowing repeatedly. He would bow to the ground, stand up, and bow again, his forehead almost hitting his knee.

Zheng Shijie patted his chest forcefully, his palms hitting his chest with a loud thud, causing his clothes to tremble slightly. He raised his chin slightly and let out a muffled "hmm" from his throat, meaning that his life now belonged to Lord Su.

With Su Bai's current position as jailer, arranging things for Sun Hou and the other two is just a matter of a word.

Of course, it can't be a leadership position, but ordinary tasks are still within my capabilities.

Su Bai also promised that if the three of them followed him, he would definitely make them all permanent employees—no longer temporary hangers-on, no longer doing the work of a clerk but not receiving their full pay, no longer being marginalized and looked down upon.

If Sun Hou had the chance, he would have made it a position similar to that of a constable, and he could also wear that bronze badge on his waist.

The three of them were naturally very happy about this.

That night, Sun Hou drank two extra cups of wine. He sat alone at the table, grinning foolishly at the empty bowl for a long time. His face was reflected in the bottom of the bowl. He raised the bowl and offered a toast from afar.

Old Wang pulled out a new set of clothes that had been buried at the bottom of a trunk for many years. He shook it out, and the earthy yellow fabric had faded a bit. He examined it carefully by candlelight, smoothed out every wrinkle, folded it neatly, and placed it carefully by his pillow, pressing it down with his palm.

Zheng Shijie touched the knife at his waist. The scabbard was polished smooth by his hands and had a dark red sheen. He chuckled for half the night, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. The bed creaked until the early hours of the morning.

That night, Xing Huai'an, along with the constables of the Southern Garrison and representatives of various gangs, hosted a farewell banquet for Su Bai at Zuixianlou Restaurant.

The building was brightly lit, with red candles burning high, illuminating the entire room as if it were daytime.

The candlestick was made of brass, polished to a shine, and gleamed in the candlelight, casting a faint reflection on its surface.

Several square tables were put together, with sturdy legs and thick tabletops. They were piled high with chicken, duck, fish, and meat, steaming hot and fragrant. The braised pork glistened with a dark brown oil, glistening and trembling. The steamed fish had bulging eyes and bright red gills, covered with ginger and scallions. The poached chicken had yellow skin and white meat, with faint traces of blood still seeping from the bones.

It was the finest Zhuyeqing liquor. Poured into a white porcelain cup, the liquid had a slight greenish tinge and a rich, mellow aroma. A ring of fine beads of liquor clung to the rim of the cup. Waiters carrying trays moved among the crowd, their calls rising and falling: "Excuse me, make way, the hot dishes are coming—" "The wine is here, please excuse me—" The trays jingled steadily in their hands, the bowls, chopsticks, and cups remaining perfectly still.

During the banquet, the police officers and gang representatives, needless to say, all stood up to offer toasts and say the best things to him.

Some people held their cups with both hands, bending over so much that their waists were almost parallel to the table; others tilted their heads back and drank the cups down, revealing the bottom of their cups, with the rim facing down, not a drop of wine left.

Someone was holding Su Bai's hand, talking incessantly. Their palm was warm and they were holding it tightly, as if they had a thousand words to say.

Even Xing Huai'an was all smiles. His usually stern face was much more relaxed now, with smiles on his brows and around his eyes, and fine lines radiating from the corners of his eyes. He frequently raised his glass to Su Bai.

When the wine glasses clinked, he bowed slightly, supporting the bottom of the glass with his other hand, his posture very low, his thumb pressing just below the rim of the glass, his fingertip applying slight pressure.

"Lord Su, I'll still have to rely on you a lot in the future!" Xing Huai'an said, tilting his head back and drinking it all in one gulp. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down, and a few drops of wine dripped down the corners of his mouth and down his chin, staining his collar with dark spots. He didn't bother to wipe them away, but just smiled at Su Bai, his eyes sparkling, whether from the wine or something else, it was hard to tell.

Su Bai also downed his drink in one gulp, his throat slightly swirling. When he put down his cup, his expression remained unchanged, his eyes clear, as if he had only drunk water, not strong liquor: "Lord Xing, you flatter me. It's just mutual assistance."

"Yes, help each other, hahaha..." Xing Huai'an laughed loudly, his laughter echoing in the hall, hitting the walls, bobbing back and forth, making the candlelight tremble slightly, the flames flickering gently. He reached out and patted Su Bai's shoulder, quite hard, his hand landing with a loud slap, carrying a hint of intimacy and a touch of probing. After patting, he didn't immediately withdraw his hand, but lingered on Su Bai's shoulder for a moment, his five fingers slightly curling up before slowly lowering it.

After a flurry of clinking glasses, the atmosphere became warm and friendly.

Amidst the clinking of glasses, laughter, the clinking of glasses, and calls for toasts, a cacophony of voices filled the air.

Some people drank until their faces were flushed, red from their cheeks to their necks, even the whites of their eyes were bloodshot, their eyes were bloodshot when they rolled around; some people started to stammer, their words were mumbled and stuck together, but they still wanted to raise their glasses, their hands trembling so much that most of the wine spilled; some people were swaying and staggering while holding onto the table, the table legs scraping against the ground with a sharp, piercing sound when they got up, but they still wanted to offer a toast, their glasses halfway up the table, they were already unsteady on their feet.

At the farewell banquet, Su Bai received many gifts. Someone handed him silver ingots wrapped in red silk, the silk untied to reveal silver edges engraved with patterns; someone else brought bolts of silk, neatly folded and tied with hemp rope, the surface smooth as water, slightly cool to the touch; and someone else quietly slipped him a silver note—a name card on top, the meaning self-evident, the note folded into a neat square, the edges tidy, the paper crisp.

The gifts were piled up to one side, gradually forming a small mountain. Under the candlelight, they shimmered with various colors: the silver light was cold, the silk light was soft, and the paper light was slightly yellow, all intertwined and sparkling.

It was late at night when I returned from the farewell banquet.

Su Bai pushed open the courtyard gate. The hinges turned, making a low creaking sound that was particularly clear in the silence, the echo lingering and gradually fading away. Moonlight, like water, bathed the courtyard, turning the blue brick ground into a layer of silvery white, as if covered with a thin layer of frost, yet it made no sound when stepped on.

In the distance, the faint sound of the night watchman's clapper could be heard, thud, thud—bang, it was past midnight. The sound was sometimes near, sometimes far, drifting in the night wind, sometimes clear as if right next to your ear, sometimes indistinct as if from across the alley.

He didn't go inside, but went straight to the courtyard. Under the moonlight, he stood tall and straight, like a pine tree, his shadow stretching long and thin on the ground, from his feet all the way to the base of the wall, swaying gently with his slight movements, his head, shoulders, and body shadows clearly defined.

Close your eyes, breathe in and out, and begin the posture.

He took a deep breath, letting the air enter his abdomen, which swelled slightly, like a ball gradually filling up; he slowly exhaled, his abdomen sinking down inch by inch, his chest rising and falling with it. He repeated this three times, then slowly raised his arms, palms down, and pressed them to his lower abdomen, then slowly lifted them up, turning his palms upwards, revealing the veins on the back of his hands.

The body's blood and qi gradually rose, surging like boiling water, emitting a faint buzzing sound. The sound was deep and continuous, as if it came from the depths of the body and seeped out from the crevices of the bones.

The internal energy flows back and forth in the meridians, starting from the dantian, going through the Ren and Du meridians, and the warm current climbs up the spine, section by section, passing the coccyx, passing through the mingmen, passing through the Jiaji, and crossing the Yuzhen, like ants crawling or insects moving.

When the heat reaches the Baihui point, a slight throbbing sensation appears on the top of the head, as if a warm current is flowing in; then it slowly descends from the forehead, passes between the eyebrows, through the bridge of the nose, and down the throat, causing a slight itch on the skin where the warm current passes; it enters the Tanzhong point, and the heat spreads to the chest; it then returns to the Dantian, and the lower abdomen feels warm, as if hugging a warm stove.

Again and again, in endless cycles, with each cycle the warm current grows stronger and the heat intensifies.

The moonlight shone on his face, and fine beads of sweat gradually appeared on his forehead. The sweat beads emerged one by one, first in a thin layer, then gradually gathered into larger beads, sliding down his cheeks and accumulating at his chin. They grew larger and larger, crystal clear, and shone slightly in the moonlight. Finally, unable to bear their weight, they dripped to the ground with a soft thud, wetting the soil beneath his feet and leaving small dark spots that gradually faded and spread.

The courtyard was silent, save for the sound of his breathing—his inhalation was like a silken thread, long and thin, as if a gentle breeze was drawn from the sky and gently entered his nose; his exhalation was like a thread, distant and slow, as if sending the stale air in his body into the depths of the night, mingling with the night mist.

The sound was even and lingering, like the lingering echo of a distant mountain bell. It blended into the deep night along with the distant sound of a wooden clapper, the footsteps of a night watchman, and the occasional bark of a dog, becoming a part of the night, silent yet omnipresent.