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

In the corridor, Zhou Kui was standing against the wall, arms crossed, eyes closed, dozing off.

Hearing the door open, he glanced at Zhao Yan and went straight in.

Zhou Kui wore a black robe with a cowhide belt around his waist, from which hung a bunch of keys and a short knife. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing his thick forearms, on which ran an old scar from his wrist to his elbow joint, like a centipede crawling on his skin. It was a wound he had sustained years ago while hunting down remnants of the White Lotus Cult; it had required seventeen stitches and left a raised scar after it healed.

He entered the duty room, without bowing, and went straight to the desk, pulling out a chair and sitting down. The chair creaked in protest, as if to say—with your weight, is it suitable for you to sit on me?

Wei Liangbi didn't take it to heart. Within the Embroidered Uniform Guard, Zhou Kui was known as a rough and uncouth man, lacking in manners, but efficient and decisive in his work. Wei Liangbi employed him precisely because of this.

"You know about Fang Xuejian's matter, right?" Wei Liangbi said. "Zhao Yan tried the soft approach, but it didn't work. Now it's your turn to try the hard approach."

Zhou Kui nodded, picked up the teapot on the table, poured himself a cup of tea, and downed it in one gulp. When he put the cup back, the bottom of the cup hit the table with a dull thud.

"Lord Wei, what do you want me to do?" Zhou Kui asked. "Make him speak, or make him—shut up?"

The last two words have a very strong meaning.

Wei Liangbi tapped his fingers on the table twice.

"Make him talk," Wei Liangbi said, "but don't kill him. Shen Lian hasn't given a word yet, and if Fang Xuejian dies, Shen Lian will be even less likely to speak. Shen Lian is a powerful figure, very likely someone from above, and Fang Xuejian probably knows the inside story."

Zhou Kui nodded again: "Understood."

"There's more." Wei Liangbi took a document from the drawer and pushed it in front of him. "This is the interrogation record of the accountant surnamed Qian in cell number D. Take a look at it first, and then take Fang Xuejian to 'visit' it."

The page was covered with dense writing. Zhou Kui read a few lines, frowned, turned the page, and his frown deepened.

"This is... one of Yan Shifan's men?" Zhou Kui asked knowingly.

"That's right," Wei Liangbi said. "Qian Dehou is Yan Shifan's chief accountant in Nanjing. He just recruited a portion of them three days ago, and most of them haven't been recruited yet. Take Fang Xuejian to see his 'treatment' and let Fang Xuejian know what the consequences are for not speaking up and not cooperating."

Zhou Kui closed the document, tucked it into his sleeve, and stood up.

"When?"

"Now," Wei Liangbi said, "Zhao Yan, you go too. You're in charge of scaring him, and Zhou Kui is in charge of beating him. One of you plays the good cop, and the other plays the bad cop. Fang Xuejian is a scholar who's never seen the world. If the two of you go together, he'll have no choice but to speak up."

Zhao Yan's lips curled slightly, while Zhou Kui's face remained expressionless. The two exchanged a glance, bowed respectfully, and left.

As the door closed, Wei Liangbi tapped his fingers twice on the armrest while sitting on the back of his chair, then stopped.

How long can Fang Xuejian hold out?

A scholar who spent four months in prison withstood the temptations of a hundred taels of silver, a house, and two beautiful women. So, could a bookkeeper withstand the torture, branding, and a broken leg?

That afternoon.

Before Fang Xuejian could even have lunch, two jailers rushed in, grabbed him from both sides, and dragged him away.

He was taken to cell number D.

The iron door to cell number T was black, not the ordinary rust black, but the black from oxidation after being soaked in blood. There were no windows, only a small hole covered with an iron plate; pushing it open allowed a glimpse inside.

Zhao Yan stood at the door, holding a bunch of keys. He saw Fang Xuejian being dragged over, his face expressionless. He simply inserted the key into the lock and turned it. The lock clicked, and the iron door was pushed open.

A strong, pungent smell of blood wafted over.

Fang Xuejian's stomach clenched violently. The smell was so strong, so solid, that it filled his nostrils and blocked his throat, making it almost impossible for him to breathe. The stench of blood was mixed with the smell of rust, feces, and rotting wounds, as well as an indescribable sour stench, as if someone had left a pile of rotten flesh in the sun for three days.

There was only one person locked up inside.

The man was chained to an iron ring on the wall, his hands hanging above his head, his toes barely touching the ground. He was wearing a gray-white prison uniform, which was covered in dark red bloodstains, some of which had dried and hardened, while others were still wet, dripping down the hem and pooling on the ground in a small dark red puddle.

His left leg—

Fang Xuejian's eyes widened.

The man's left leg, below the knee, was turned outward at an impossible angle. It wasn't a fracture; fractures are straight, but this one was bent. The kneecap was completely out of position, as if someone had broken the leg in the middle and then twisted it. The calf was swollen thicker than the thigh, the skin stretched and shiny, and bluish-purple bruises peeked out from under the skin, like an overturned palette.

"His name is Qian Dehou," Zhao Yan's voice rang in Fang Xuejian's ears. "He was Yan Shifan's accountant in Nanjing. He's been locked up for thirteen days, and for the first ten days he wouldn't say anything. Later, we 'chatted' with him, and then he opened up."

He walked up to Qian Dehou, reached out, pinched his chin, and lifted his face.

Fang Xuejian saw that face—

It was a face that had been repeatedly beaten. His lips were split, covered in dark red scabs; his nose was broken and crooked to one side; his left eye was swollen shut, while his right eye was half-open, its pupil unfocused, as if he no longer recognized anyone. Three circular branding marks, each the size of a coin, marked his forehead; the skin was scalded, the charred scabs peeling back to reveal the pinkish flesh beneath.

"You see, this is what happens when you don't speak up." Zhao Yan released his grip, and Qian Dehou's head drooped, his chin hitting his chest with a dull thud. "He could have suffered much less. But he insisted on enduring it, enduring it for ten days, until his left leg broke, until he had three marks branded on his forehead, until—"

He drew his embroidered spring knife from his waist and used the tip to lift Qian Dehou's trouser leg.

Fang Xuejian saw the leg.

It was broken. There was a dent in the kneecap; someone had smashed the bone with a hammer. The shinbone was protruding from the skin, with blood and bits of flesh clinging to the white bone fragments.

Fang Xuejian's legs went weak. Acid churned in his stomach, and he began to gag.

"Scholar Fang, you're a smart man." Zhao Yan sheathed the knife, wiping the blood from its blade onto the cloth, leaving a dark red stain. "You should know that you're different from them. You're a scholar, with official rank, a refined and cultured man. But—"

He crouched down to meet Fang Xuejian's gaze. Under the lamplight was a gentle, concerned face.

"But if you keep silent, Lord Wei will lose patience. At that point, your academic achievements won't save you. Your status as a scholar won't save you. And your complete ignorance won't save you either."

Fang Xuejian mustered his courage and straightened up. "Xiucai, you're probably the lowest-ranking person in this Beijing prison. Gongming, didn't you say I was a remnant of the White Lotus Sect when you arrested me? Do you Jinyiwei have no law left? Torturing people like this."

Zhao Yan was surprised that Fang Xuejian was so naive and timid from the start that he was speechless.

If Wei Liangbi hadn't given instructions, Fang Xuejian wouldn't have been executed on the spot.

"Take him back first, take him back," he said impatiently to the two jailers. "Let him think it over carefully."

Two jailers grabbed Fang Xuejian, one on each side, and dragged him out. As they passed Qian Dehou, Fang Xuejian smelled an even stronger stench of blood mixed with the stench of rotting flesh. He didn't dare turn his head to look, but his peripheral vision caught sight of the severed leg—the white bone fragments gleamed in the oil lamplight, like a gnawed bone.

He was dragged back to that side room.

A bowl of chicken soup sits on the table. The soup is still steaming, with golden oil floating on top.

Fang Xuejian was forced into a chair. His hands and legs were still trembling, but he didn't struggle or speak. He just stared at the bowl of chicken soup on the table.

Time passed in a flash.

"Scholar Fang, have you thought it through?" Zhao Yan picked up the chicken soup and placed it in front of Fang Xuejian, then lowered his tone, "As long as you ask, this soup is yours. Drink it, go back, eat and drink well, and take good care of yourself. Once the case is closed, you can get out of prison and continue your studies for the imperial examinations."

Fang Xuejian looked at the bowl of soup.

The aroma of chicken soup wafted into my nose.

Zhao Yan waited for a while. His patience was like sand slowly disappearing from an hourglass.

"Scholar Fang, you really are going to refuse a toast only to suffer the consequences. You saw Qian Dehou yourself. His left leg is broken, and he has three branded marks on his forehead. Do you want to follow in his footsteps?"

Zhao Yan took out a small porcelain bottle from his sleeve, uncorked it, and poured some white powder into the chicken soup. The powder dissolved instantly upon entering the soup and disappeared without a trace.

"This is arsenic. If you drink this soup, you will die within the time it takes for an incense stick to burn. You will bleed from all seven orifices, your intestines will rupture, and you will die a horrible death."

He pushed the bowl in front of Fang Xuejian.

"You choose," Zhao Yan said, arms crossed, looking at him. "Speak, or die."

Fang Xuejian looked down at the bowl of soup. The oil on the surface of the chicken soup glistened in the light, like a small mirror, reflecting his disheveled appearance, sunken eyes, and chapped lips.

He reached out and picked up the bowl of soup.

When I brought the bowl to my lips, the soup was no longer hot; only a little residual steam remained.

Zhao Yan narrowed his eyes. He tapped his fingers on the armrest once, then again.

Fang Xuejian brought the bowl to his lips and opened his mouth—

"Wait!" Zhao Yan suddenly stood up, his chair tipped backward, and crashed to the ground with a loud "bang".

The bowl was suspended at the mouth, less than an inch from the lips.

"Have you thought it through? Without hesitation?" Zhao Yan asked with a hint of concern.

He paused again.

"Did you never intend to speak in the first place?"

Fang Xuejian put the bowl down and placed it on the table.

"I don't know. Lord Zhao, I don't know what you want me to say. If there really was arsenic in that bowl, it would be a relief for me." He chuckled foolishly.

Zhao Yan fell silent, while Fang Xuejian was both confused and impressed.

"Fang Xiucai, do you know?" Zhao Yan said to himself, "I've interrogated prisoners for twelve years and seen too many people. Some are afraid of death, some are greedy for money and lustful, and some are power-hungry. But you are different."

"You're afraid of death. You're afraid of pain. But you're afraid of nothing. You're not afraid of money, women, or fame." His voice held a hint of envy. "What are you after?"

Fang Xuejian's eyes were red and bloodshot.

"Lord Zhao, have you ever had someone—you knew you'd die if you followed him, but you still wanted to follow him?"

Zhao Yan was taken aback; he did have it.

"I have one," Fang Xuejian said. "That person's name is Shen Lian. He saved my life, and I'm returning the favor. It's that simple."

"I'm tired, I'm tired, Scholar Fang, let's stop here. Today's soup wasn't poisoned, it was just flour." Zhao Yan's voice was muffled, but his heart was heavy with thought: How can I ever repay the life I owe him?

Fang Xuejian's legs were a little numb, so he stood for a while, holding onto the table.

"Lord Zhao, thank you."

He is not dead.

He is still alive.

He recalled what Zhao Yan had said—"That's flour."

Then he remembered that his hand didn't shake when he picked up the bowl.

enough.

He didn't know when he had become so fearless of death. Perhaps it was in the side room, the moment two women pinned him to the bed. Perhaps it was in cell number D, the moment he saw Qian Dehou's broken leg.

Or, even earlier.

It was as early as the moment Shen Lian told him, "I won't let you die."

Footsteps echoed from the end of the corridor. They weren't Zhao Yan's, nor Zhou Kui's; they were the kind of slow, drawn-out footsteps that sounded like those of an old person.

Fang Xuejian recognized the footsteps—it was the jailer, Sun.

The iron key was inserted into the lock, and with a twist, the chain rattled, and the iron door was pushed open a crack.

The jailer, Sun, stood at the door, carrying a food box. He wore a gray short-sleeved shirt with a cloth belt around his waist, from which hung a gourd of wine. His face showed concern, worry, and the kind of heartache that only the elderly possess, a hidden and unspoken pain.

"Scholar Fang," he said softly, as if afraid of disturbing someone, "I've brought you your food."

He placed the food box on the ground, opened the lid, and took out a bowl of porridge, a dish of pickled vegetables, and two steamed buns. The porridge was hot and steaming, and the steamed buns still carried the bamboo fragrance of the steamer.

The jailer squatted down and pushed the bowl of porridge towards him.

"Drink it. You've been starving all day, your stomach can't take it."

Fang Xuejian took a sip of the hot porridge, and then sipped it one after another until he finished the whole bowl.

The jailer watched him drink the porridge, and only spoke after he put the bowl down.

"Scholar Fang, I've worked in this prison for twenty-three years and seen too many people. Some come in tough, but leave weak. Some come in weak, but leave strong. But someone like you—you've been here for four months and you're still so tough—I've never seen anything like it."

He paused for a moment, then took the gourd from his waist, uncorked it, and handed it to Fang Xuejian.

"Take a sip to warm yourself up."

Fang Xuejian took the gourd of wine and took a sip. The wine was strong, like scalding liquor, burning from his throat all the way to his stomach, making him cough twice.

The jailer Sun took the wine gourd back, put the cork in it, and hung it on his waist.

"Scholar Fang, what exactly is your relationship with Shen Lian—" He paused, as if choosing his words carefully, "?

Fang Xuejian's mind was filled with Shen Lian's face—not the face from the original owner's memories, but the face he had seen with his own eyes in the imperial prison. A calm, composed face that never panicked.

"He is my friend. My only friend."

The jailer, Sun, stood up and dusted off his knees.

"Friends," he repeated the word, as if savoring its meaning, "In this place, friends are a luxury. More precious than silver. I also have a friend I would give my life for."

He walked to the door and paused.

"Scholar Fang, Shen Lian is no simple man. Following him is your destiny."

The chains rattled as the iron gate slammed shut.

Fang Xuejian sat alone in the darkness.

He was still clutching the empty bowl in his hand, with a thin layer of porridge remaining at the bottom, which had cooled and congealed into a film.