In the Ming Dynasty, I became invincible simply by extracting memories!

When the drumbeats sounded three times, the light was still on in Wei Liangbi's duty room.

Wei Liangbi adjusted the wick, and the flame leaped up, illuminating the stack of mulberry paper on the table—the edges of the pages were rolled up, having been turned many times, and some had circles drawn on them with cinnabar, the names inside the circles being traced repeatedly, the ink seeping through to the back of the paper.

His finger stopped on the top sheet of paper. Three words were written on it: Fang Xuejian.

He had read those three words no less than twenty times. The scholar from Chizhou Prefecture had been imprisoned for four months due to the White Lotus Rebellion. The interrogation records were so thin they could be used as window paper, and they kept repeating the same few sentences—"Innocent," "I knew nothing," and "I am a scholar." Every scholar imprisoned in the imperial prison said the same thing, and they said it even more fluently than he did.

But Shen Lian's learning from Fang Xue was quite unusual.

From day one, Shen Lian protected him. He took him along when he needed better treatment, when he needed paper and pens, and when he wanted four dishes and a soup. Even when his identity as a spy was exposed and he was in danger, Shen Lian still fought for him—"to raise his food and other necessities by one level."

Why should someone who doesn't even know if they'll live or die tomorrow care about another person's diet?

Wei Liangbi turned the paper over, and on the blank back were a few lines of small writing he had made: Fang Xuejian, a native of Tongling County, Chizhou Prefecture, a scholar who passed the imperial examination in the thirty-sixth year of the Jiajing reign (1557). He has an elderly mother, no brothers, and no wife. He showed no unusual behavior in prison, did not argue with anyone, did not speak on his own initiative, and occasionally talked to himself, mostly using meaningless words such as "temperature," "recipe," and "overcooked."

He circled the words "meaningless" and put a question mark next to them.

Three months in prison, without breaking down, yielding, ingratiating himself with the guards, or betraying his fellow inmates. Such a person is either genuinely honest, or—perfectly convincingly pretending.

Wei Liangbi folded the paper and stuffed it into his sleeve. He stood up and walked to the window.

He knew that somewhere in that darkness, Fang Xuejian was curled up asleep in a pile of straw. He didn't know what would happen tomorrow, nor did he know that he had become a pawn on a chessboard.

Wei Liangbi returned to his desk, took out a blank document from the drawer, and picked up a pen. The pen tip hovered over the paper for a long time, the ink forming a full bead that hesitated to fall. He thought for a moment, then wrote five characters: "Testing Fang Xuejian."

Just after dawn, Fang Xuejian was dragged out of his cell by two jailers.

He was still half asleep, and was being carried through the corridor in a daze. The iron chains on his feet dragged white marks on the ground, and the ear-piercing scraping sound bounced back and forth in the stone passage, like someone scratching a blackboard with their fingernails.

He wanted to call out to Shen Lian, but his mouth was covered by a rough hand as soon as he opened it. The hand was covered in sweat and rust, with hard, calloused knuckles that felt like an iron plate pressing against his lips.

"Don't make a sound." A deep voice said in his ear, the voice was very low, as if afraid of waking someone, "Lord Wei has moved you to another place."

Fang Xuejian struggled twice, but couldn't break free. The two men held his arms with the strength of iron clamps, twisting his arms behind his back, his shoulder joints making a soft "crack" sound. His mind was a mess—change locations? Change to where? Did Shen Lian know? What was Wei Liangbi planning now?

The underworld! Is this how it ends?

He was dragged into a side room.

When the door was pushed open, a wave of heat rushed out, mixed with the aroma of food and a scent he hadn't smelled in a long time—the scent of cosmetics.

The fragrance was very faint, sweet, and when it entered his nose, it made him feel momentarily dazed.

Fang Xuejian stood frozen at the doorway, his eyes wide open.

The room wasn't large, but it was infinitely better than a prison cell. The floor was paved with blue bricks, the gaps between them filled with white lime, so clean you could see your reflection in them. The walls were freshly plastered, a blindingly white.

Fang Xuejian stared blankly at the new Korean paper pasted on the windows. He thought that if the paper were replaced with glass, the windows would be even brighter. Glass is a public works project; there's definitely a market for it.

A wooden bed stood against the wall, covered with a clean blue quilt. The quilt cover was stiff from washing, but it was folded neatly with sharp edges. At the head of the bed was a celadon pillow, its surface painted with mandarin ducks playing in the water, the glaze gleaming lustrous in the light.

In the very center was a square table laden with dishes—braised pork, sweet and sour fish, stir-fried seasonal vegetables, a dish of peanuts, a pot of wine, and a bowl of steaming white rice. The rice was piled high, each grain plump and glistening, resembling a small heap of shattered jade in the steam.

The braised pork sauce was thick and glossy, the sweet and sour fish topping was a bright red, and the stir-fried vegetables were so green they looked like they had just been picked from the ground.

A person was sitting at the table.

The man was dressed in a flying fish robe, with an embroidered spring knife at his waist. He was in his thirties, with a fair complexion and almost no stubble on his chin. A slight smile played at the corners of his mouth—not a real smile, but a slight upward curve of his lips, like an arc measured with a ruler. Fang Xuejian recognized him—Qianhu Zhao Yan, the man Shen Lian had mentioned, one of Xu Jie's men.

"Scholar Fang, please sit down." Zhao Yan stood up and gestured for him to sit. His hands were very white, with long, slender fingers and neatly trimmed nails, unlike the hands of a military officer, but more like those of a scholar.

The voice was as gentle as if welcoming an old friend, but the eyes swept over Fang Xuejian's face, taking in every detail—his chapped lips, sunken eyes, bruises on his neck, and the marks from the iron chains on his wrists.

Fang Xuejian stood still. Shen Lian's words flashed through his mind—Wei Liangbi wouldn't give up testing him; he would start with you. No matter what methods they used, don't give in. His toes curled on the cold floor tiles, and the muscles in his calves tensed.

"Lord Wei asked me to come and have a chat with you." Zhao Yan pulled out a chair, sat down first, picked up the wine pot and poured two cups of wine. "You've been locked up in jail for four months, you've suffered. Lord Wei said that from today onwards, you'll stay here. Eat well and drink well, take good care of yourself."

Fang Xuejian swallowed hard, letting out a soft "gurgle." He stared at the plate of braised pork on the table for two seconds—the pork was marbled with fat and lean meat, the skin glistening with oil, the edges slightly browned, and a few pieces of scallion whites soaking in the broth—before shifting his gaze to Zhao Yan's face.

"Where is Shen Lian?"

Zhao Yan smiled. This smile was a bit wider than before, revealing a few teeth, but the look in his eyes remained unchanged—still that indifferent, scrutinizing gaze.

"Mr. Shen is still in the same place. Don't worry, he's fine. Lord Wei just feels it's inconvenient for the two of you to be locked up together—you know, some things are better asked separately."

Fang Xuejian glanced at the doorway—it was closed, and the shadows of two captains were reflected on the Korean paper, motionless, like two door gods.

"Sit down." Zhao Yan gestured to a chair again, his tone still gentle, but with an added layer of unyielding authority. "Have something to eat, and we can talk slowly."

Fang Xuejian hesitated for a moment, then walked over and sat down. The chair was made of hardwood, and the coldness made the muscles in his thighs tense. He didn't touch his chopsticks, but just sat there with his hands on his knees and his back straight.

Zhao Yan placed a piece of braised pork in his bowl. The chopsticks touched the rim of the bowl, making a soft "ding" sound.

"Try it. This is the food prepared by the Imperial Guard's kitchen. Ordinary people can't get this kind of food. And those who did are no longer here."

Fang Xuejian stared at the piece of meat. It was glistening with oil, marbled with fat and lean meat, and the dark brown skin shimmered.

He simply couldn't understand the meaning behind Zhao Yan's words.

He hadn't eaten meat for four months. A primal hunger churned in his stomach, as if something was scratching at the walls of his stomach. Saliva overflowed in his mouth, rising from under his tongue and soaking his entire oral cavity.

His fingers twitched, the tip touched the chopsticks, and then he pulled them back.

"Lord Zhao, please speak frankly."

Zhao Yan put down his chopsticks, leaned back in his chair, and looked at Fang Xuejian.

"Scholar Fang, you've been in the imperial prison for four months, and Shen Lian has been here for quite some time now, not a long time either. You two have already become sworn brothers." His tone was casual, as if chatting about everyday matters. "I'm curious, has he said anything to you? Are you really that devoted to him?"

Fang Xuejian pursed his lips into a thin line.

"Don't be nervous." Zhao Yan picked up his wine glass, took a sip, and left a shallow ripple around the rim. "I was just asking casually. You know, Shen Lian's identity is a bit... unclear right now. He says he's a mole, but he's not on the roster. Lord Wei is having a headache, not knowing whether to believe him or not."

He put down his wine glass, leaned forward slightly, and the chair made a soft creak. His face was half a foot closer to Fang Xuejian's, so close that Fang Xuejian could smell the incense on him, a crisp sandalwood scent mixed with a hint of alcohol.

"You've shared the same phone number with him for so long, you should know something, right? Has he told you who his superior is? Has he given you anything to keep safe? Has he said anything—about things up there?"

Fang Xuejian's lips moved slightly. His tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, which was filled with the aroma of braised pork.

He wanted to say "I don't know," but it was stuck in his throat like a wad of paper soaked in water—he couldn't swallow it or spit it out.

Zhao Yan waited for a while, and seeing that he didn't speak, he smiled. The smile was warm, like that of an elder who cares about a younger person.

"Scholar Fang, I know you're a loyal and sentimental person. But have you considered that if Shen Lian really is a fraud, and you cover for him, you'll only end up hurting yourself? If he really is a mole, helping him is the right thing to do, but you have to make us believe him, right?"

He took a silver ingot from his sleeve and placed it on the table. The silver gleamed in the sunlight, so bright and white that it hurt Fang Xuejian's eyes. The ingot weighed at least ten taels, and it was square and angular, with the official silver stamp on the bottom.

"If you're willing to talk, this silver ingot is yours. Once you get out of prison, a hundred taels of silver and a house will be enough to live comfortably for the rest of your life." Zhao Yan's voice was soft, like he was coaxing a child. As he spoke, he lightly tapped the edge of the silver ingot twice with his fingers, making a soft, resonant sound. "And look—"

He clapped his hands.

During the Jiajing era, the annual salary of a seventh-rank county magistrate was about 45 taels of silver. One hundred taels was equivalent to more than two years' salary for a seventh-rank county magistrate.

A hundred taels of silver is quite a lot. Buy some land, use the remaining silver to do some small business, and live a peaceful and stable life.

The door to the side room was pushed open, and the two shadows on the Korean paper flickered, one to the left and the other to the right, making way for each other.