If I, a death row inmate, am not to become a demon, am I to become a member of the Imperial Guard?

The mark of the blood pact seemed to still burn in the air.

Zhang the Madman knelt there, motionless, like a stone statue. The iron plaque in his hand, the demonic face side facing upwards, the firelight licking the cold metal, reflecting a twisted, ferocious image.

Zhou Yang didn't look at him again.

He turned around and faced Wang Mang.

Wang Mang's lips twitched. He looked at Zhou Yang, his previous contempt gone, replaced by a layer of apprehension. He seemed to be reassessing this man. A mere captain newly arrived in the imperial prison had managed to subdue Zhang the Madman within half a day. This wasn't luck; it was skill.

In this place, they're not afraid of you being ruthless, they're afraid of you being even crazier than them.

Wang Mang unfastened a bunch of keys from his waist. The brass keys clinked together, producing a dull thud. In the quiet Jiazi room, the sound was particularly jarring.

He picked out a handful and threw them over in a huff.

The key traced an arc in the air, accompanied by the sound of wind.

Zhou Yang reached out and caught it steadily. The key was cold and heavy, like a lump of iron.

"The innermost cell," Wang Mang pointed to the depths of the imperial prison, a place so dark that no light could penetrate. "It's yours from now on. Settle down yourself."

His tone was as if he were shooing away a fly.

Zhou Yang didn't say anything.

He weighed the key in his hand; the metal felt substantial. This was his resource, the first foothold he had established in the prison.

He nodded.

A simple action, without yielding or provoking, just acceptance.

Then he turned and walked deeper into the corridor.

Footsteps echoed on the stone path, neither hurried nor slow.

He took a few steps, and then he heard another set of footsteps behind him. They were very light, almost inaudible, but they kept following him.

Zhou Yang did not turn around.

He knew it was Zhang the Madman.

The madman who had just knelt down and offered his loyalty. Now, he has become his own shadow.

The corridor grew darker and darker.

Water seeped through the walls, leaving them sticky to the touch. The smell in the air had changed; it was no longer simply the stench of blood, but a complex mixture of mold, decay, and despair. This smell, like something alive, crept into my lungs.

There are people in many of the cells.

Those eyes peeked through the gaps in the fence. Some were empty, some resentful, some numb. They looked at the new captain as if he were a piece of meat about to be thrown into a meat grinder.

Zhou Yang ignored those stares.

He only looked ahead.

He walked to the last cell. A large, rusty padlock hung on the iron door.

He inserted the key from his hand.

Click.

The lock opened. The sound was crisp and clear, like a pronouncement of judgment.

He pushed open the door.

creak-

The door hinges emitted a piercing groan, as if protesting the long-awaited opening.

A dampness even stronger than outside hit us.

It was dark inside, with only a sliver of light filtering in from the doorway, barely outlining a shape. A pile of blackened straw lay in the corner, rotting and emitting a sour stench. The walls were covered in moss, slippery as if coated with oil.

There were dried, dark red marks on the ground, like blood, or something else entirely.

This is his "home".

Zhou Yang stood at the entrance, surveying his new territory. There was no hint of disgust on his face, just as a businessman inspecting his new shop.

He stepped aside, making way for the doorway.

He said to Zhang the Madman who had been following him:

"Clean it up."

It wasn't spoken in a commanding tone, nor in a consultative manner; it was simply a statement of fact.

Zhang Fengzi didn't hesitate at all.

"Yes, sir."

He nodded with his head down and went straight into the cell. Without even looking for tools, he simply picked up the pile of rotting straw with his bare hands and threw it outside. Then, he began wiping the moss off the wall with his sleeve.

Quick and efficient, silent, and willing.

Zhou Yang leaned against the door frame, watching.

He watched as Zhang the Madman, like a tireless ox, painstakingly cleaned out the filthy cell. He knew that the blood pact was more effective than any iron chain.

The price he paid was five years of his life, but in return, he gained an absolutely useful knife.

This deal is a good one.

Just then, a series of light footsteps came from the other end of the corridor.

The footsteps were unlike any other in the prison. The boots of the Imperial Guards were heavy, the steps of the prisoners were slow and dragging, but this sound was crisp, steady, and carried an undeniable rhythm.

Zhang Fengzi stopped what he was doing and looked outside warily.

Zhou Yang also turned around.

Qin Shuang appeared in the corridor.

She was still wearing that well-fitting flying fish robe, the hilt of the embroidered spring knife at her waist was snow-white. Her hair was perfectly styled, and her face was like jade sculpted from ice, making her seem out of place in this filthy environment.

She walked over, her gaze passing over Zhou Yang, sweeping over Zhang Fengzi who was cleaning, and then looking at the clean floor, without any expression.

She walked up to Zhou Yang and handed him a file.

The cover was made of kraft paper and sealed with sealing wax.

"Your first task." Her voice, like her face, was cold, devoid of any warmth.

Zhou Yang reached out and took it.

The case file was heavier than the key.

He held the file in his hand, feeling the thickness of the paper inside. This was no ordinary document.

He didn't open it immediately, but looked at Qin Shuang.

"Interrogate a prisoner of the Heavenly Principle Sect," Qin Shuang added, as if explaining, yet also issuing an unquestionable order.

After she finished speaking, she prepared to turn around and leave.

"Wait a minute," Zhou Yang said.

Qin Shuang stopped and looked at him, her eyes filled with a question.

"And the reward?" Zhou Yang asked.

He asked the obvious question. He had put in a lot of effort and manpower in this deal, so he had to see a return on his investment.

Qin Shuang's lips seemed to move slightly, but no sound came out. She took a small silver ingot from her bosom and tossed it over.

"A deposit. More will follow after the deal is done."

The silver ingot was tossed into the air, and Zhou Yang caught it. It was quite heavy.

He was satisfied with that.

He said no more and nodded.

Qin Shuang then turned around and left with the same steady steps. Her figure quickly disappeared into the darkness of the corridor, as if she had never been there.

Zhou Yang then lowered his head and tore off the sealing wax from the file.

He unfolded the file.

The paper inside was a bit rough, and there were words written on it with ink, the handwriting was very neat.

The first page is a portrait of a person.

The painting depicts a fat man with a squinting smile, his eyes narrowed to slits, and his face full of wrinkles, giving him a kind and benevolent appearance, like the owner of the cloth shop next door.

Below the portrait were a few lines of text.

The Heavenly Principles Sect, its Dharma Protector, the "Smiling Buddha".

Zhou Yang's finger lightly traced the squinting eyes of the fat man in the painting.

That smile, no matter how you look at it, seemed to conceal a knife.

Chapter 174 [The Art of Interrogation] (Laying the Foundation for a New Closed Loop)**

The air in the dungeon was cold.

It wasn't the crisp, clear cold of winter, but a sticky, viscous cold mixed with the smell of blood, mildew, and despair. It clung to the skin and seeped into the very bones.

Zhou Yang walked down the long corridor. His footsteps were swallowed by the stone walls, leaving only his heavy breathing. He had finished reading the file in his hand; the smiling fat man was like a brand, etched into his mind.

Wang Mang and the others stood at the door, their faces beaming with undisguised smugness.

"Zhou Xiaoqi, our men have been busy all afternoon." He pointed to the heavy wooden door behind him. "They're tough as nails. But we'll find a way to get them to talk."

Zhou Yang didn't say anything, he just pushed open the door.

An even stronger stench of blood wafted over, mixed with the smell of burning flesh. The room was dimly lit, with only an oil lamp flickering on the wall.

In the center of the room stood a wooden rack. A man was bound hand and foot to it, his body soaked through, whether from blood or water, it was hard to tell. He kept his head down, his hair hanging down, obscuring his face.

Two captains were standing to the side, holding red-hot branding irons and barbed whips. They stopped when they saw Zhou Yang enter.

"Zhou Xiaoqi." One of the captains bowed, looking somewhat impatient. "This kid's too tight-lipped. We've used every kind of torture device, but he still won't open his mouth. Look, he's still smiling."

Zhou Yang took a few steps closer.

The person on the rack seemed to sense it and slowly raised their head.

It was a frail face, pale-skinned, with delicate features. He was indeed smiling. The corners of his mouth stretched upwards, forming a perfect arc. The smile was strange, completely out of place with the shocking injuries on his body. It was as if the pain hadn't been inflicted upon him.

He is the "Smiling Buddha".

That smile, which had remained unchanged since the afternoon, was like a stiff mask plastered to his face. The officers administering the torture were nearly driven mad by it. They would rather see him scream or curse than witness this silent smile.

Zhou Yang's gaze swept over the "Smiling Buddha." He noticed the man's fingers. Despite being tightly bound, his fingers were still twitching slightly, as if tapping out some rhythm. This was a person with extreme self-control. Ordinary physical pain was probably just background noise to him.

Wang Mang's method of interrogating people was singular: beat them to death. This tactic was sufficient against ordinary bandits, but it was clearly ineffective against someone like "The Smiling Buddha."

Zhou Yang waved his hand.

"You all go out first."

The two captains were stunned. Wang Mang also frowned.

"Zhou Xiaoqi, what are you doing...?"

"I said, get out." Zhou Yang's voice wasn't loud, but it was calm and emotionless. "I'll handle things here."

Wang Mang's eyes darkened, but he finally waved his hand. "Fine, let him come. I want to see what new tricks he has up his sleeve."

The officers put down the instruments of torture and walked out, somewhat puzzled. The iron gate closed behind them with a dull thud. Only Zhou Yang, "Smiling Buddha," and the flickering oil lamp remained in the room.

Zhou Yang didn't rush to speak.

He moved a three-legged stool from the corner of the wall, placed it opposite the rack, and sat down. The stool was a little unstable and wobbled before he steadied himself.

The two stood facing each other, about ten feet apart.

The "Smiling Buddha" maintained his smile, but a hint of inquiry appeared in his eyes. He looked at the young Imperial Guard, a man who exuded no murderous aura and even seemed somewhat lazy.

Time passed little by little.

The oil lamp's flame flickered, making a soft "crackling" sound. This faint sound was the only sound in the dungeon.

Zhou Yang remained silent. He simply gazed at the other man, like a patient hunter observing the habits of his prey.

He knew that to deal with this kind of person, torture was an outward pressure, while silence was an inward pressure. It would make them overthink, speculate, and ultimately destroy themselves.

Sure enough, the curve of the "Smiling Buddha's" mouth no longer seemed so standard. His gaze began to wander, no longer fixed on Zhou Yang.

Zhou Yang felt that the time was about right.

He moved.

He didn't stand up, nor did he take out any instruments of torture. He simply slowly pulled something out of his pocket.

It was a dusty gray cloth bag.

He untied the rope at the top of the bag, but instead of emptying it, he reached in, grabbed a handful, and then pulled his hand out.

In his palm lay a few gold leaves.

Under the dim light, the golden leaves shimmered with a soft and alluring glow. They were thin, with slightly curled edges, as if they had been repeatedly caressed.

Zhou Yang didn't look at the "Smiling Buddha"; his attention was entirely on the gold leaf in his palm. He picked up a leaf with two fingers and rubbed it gently between them.

The gold leaf was very soft, and he rolled it into a small roll. Then he slowly unfolded it and smoothed it out. The golden light flickered and flowed on his face and hands with his movements.

"rustle……"

It was the extremely faint sound of metal rubbing together. In the deathly silent dungeon, this sound was amplified countless times, drilling directly into people's ears.

The "Smiling Buddha's" eyes finally shifted from Zhou Yang's face to the gold in his hand.

At that moment, for the first time, a crack appeared in his signature, unchanging smile.

His lips twitched stiffly, as if trying to maintain that smile, but his muscles wouldn't obey. His pupils contracted sharply the instant he saw the golden light.

Zhou Yang noticed this detail.

He knew he had found the other person's pressure point.

A person who is not afraid of death is not necessarily someone who doesn't love money. Especially for a "Buddha," gold is the best object for consecration.

Zhou Yang continued to slowly and deliberately play with the few gold leaves. He stacked them one by one, then spread them out again. Each flash of gold was like a heavy hammer blow to the "Smiling Buddha's" defenses.

Finally, Zhou Yang stopped.

He put all the gold leaves back into his bag, but kept one in his hand. He raised his head, his gaze piercing the other man for the first time with a truly sharp intensity.

He spoke, his voice very soft, as if he were chatting casually.

"I have some more here."

He shook the cloth bag in his hand, and the gold inside made a dull clattering sound.

"Tell me something I don't know," Zhou Yang said, gently tossing the gold leaf in his hand onto the ground between them like a leaf, "and it's all yours."

The gold leaf fell to the ground with a crisp "ding".

The sound wasn't loud.

But the "Smiling Buddha's" body trembled violently, as if struck hard by the voice. He stared intently at the golden leaf on the ground, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

For the first time, his breathing became heavy.

He stopped laughing.

The face that had been smiling all afternoon was now completely blank. Sweat began to seep from his forehead, mingling with blood, and slowly trickled down.

Zhou Yang didn't urge him. He simply sat there quietly, leaning slightly forward, like a merchant waiting for a transaction. He knew the fish had taken the bait. Now all he had to do was reel it in.

The "Smiling Buddha's" lips were cracked and dry. He seemed to want to say something, but held back. He was struggling. His gaze shifted back and forth between the gold leaves on the ground and Zhou Yang's calm face.

Fear, greed, pain, scheming... a variety of emotions alternated on his face.

Zhou Yang was very patient. He took out another gold leaf from his pocket and flicked it with his finger.

"bite."

The second golden leaf landed next to the first. The two golden leaves overlapped, making them even brighter.

"For example, how many members of the Heavenly Principle Sect are still in the capital?" Zhou Yang's voice remained calm. "For example, what is the purpose of your visit?"

With each word he spoke, a gold leaf would pop out.

"For example, who is your incense master?"

"bite."

"For example, what's your code word for making contact?"

"bite."

A thin layer of golden light had already spread across the ground. In this dimly lit dungeon, it was like a path leading to desire.

The "Smiling Buddha's" breathing grew increasingly rapid. His eyes were bloodshot. He stared at the gold like a wolf that hadn't eaten for three days had spotted a piece of fat meat.

He finally couldn't hold back anymore.

His voice was hoarse, like sandpaper being rubbed.

"...Are you... telling the truth?"

Zhou Yang smiled.

He stood up, walked to the rack, squatted down, and picked up a gold leaf from the ground. He used the tip of the gold leaf to gently scrape a wound on the "Smiling Buddha's" face.

"You see, I don't like to pressure people," Zhou Yang said gently. "I only like to make deals. I provide the money, you provide the intelligence. It's perfectly fair."

The cold touch of the gold and the stinging pain from scratching it sent a shiver down the spine of the "Smiling Buddha".

He completely gave up resistance.

"I'll talk...I'll talk..." he gasped, his eyes filled with a desperate longing for gold, "but you have to give me...give me just one piece...just one piece!"

Zhou Yang stuffed the gold leaf in his hand into the mouth of the "Smiling Buddha".

The coldness of the metal and the taste of blood instantly filled my mouth. It was a strange sensation, a mixture of pain and satisfaction.

The "Smiling Buddha" is like a greedy beast, frantically swirling its tongue around the piece of gold, as if trying to devour all its flavor.

Zhou Yang stood up, stepped back to his stool, and sat down again.

He looked at the man before him who had abandoned all his beliefs and principles for gold, his eyes showing neither contempt nor smugness, only indifference.

There is no such thing as an unbreakable mental defense in this world.

The only problem is the price, which isn't attractive enough.

Interrogation is sometimes not a technique, but an economics.

"Now," Zhou Yang said calmly, "you can begin."

The "Smiling Buddha" held the gold in his mouth and, mumbling incoherently, began the first and last betrayal of his life.