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

Shen Lian was awakened by a series of hurried footsteps.

It wasn't the slow, dragging sound of chains scraping the ground typical of prison cell footsteps—it was excited, an uncontrollable urge, like a hunter's involuntary quickening of pace upon spotting his prey.

The sky wasn't fully bright yet. A layer of hazy light shone through the window paper, like water used to wash an inkstone, so pale that its color was almost invisible. Fang Xuejian was already up in the east wing. The sounds of bowls and plates clattering and sand being poured into a basin filled the air. Ever since he got a crucible and a stove, he got up before dawn every day to heat glass, more punctual than the night watchman in the imperial prison.

There was a knock on the door twice.

Determined, rhythmic. Not knocking, but tapping—the sound of knuckles falling on wood, carrying a deliberate sense of proportion.

"Mr. Shen, are you up?"

Shen Lian sat up and put on his clothes. The cotton cloth was soft and clung to his skin, a world apart from the stiff prison clothes in the imperial prison.

"Come in."

Wei Liangbi pushed open the door and entered. He held an official document in his hand, the cover stamped with the vermilion seal of the Northern Garrison Command. The ink was fresh, glistening with a damp, dark red in the morning light. Today he wore a flying fish robe, the bright red satin embroidered with golden flying fish patterns, dazzling to the eye.

"Mr. Shen, Lord Zhu requests your attendance at a meeting at the Northern Garrison Command. It's an internal discussion about the Yan Song case, and several high-ranking officials from the Northern Garrison Command will be there."

Shen Lian paused for a moment.

The Northern Garrison Command. The core headquarters of the Embroidered Uniform Guard, the superior authority to the Imperial Prison. He had memories of this place, but not his own—fragments extracted from the minds of Zhou Kui and Wei Liangbi. A dimly lit corridor, heavy iron doors, instruments of torture hanging on the walls, the air thick with the stench of blood. He had never been there, but he knew it was a place where once you entered, it was difficult to leave.

Seeing that he remained silent, Wei Liangbi's eyes flickered, and he added, "Lord Zhu said that you are now a special advisor and have the right to attend the meeting. Moreover—" He paused, "haven't you always wanted to know about the internal workings of the Embroidered Uniform Guard? This is a good opportunity."

Shen Lian looked into his eyes.

There was something familiar in Wei Liangbi's eyes: expectation. Not expectation for intelligence, but expectation for "cooperation." He wanted Shen Lian to go out and meet more people, so that Shen Lian would rely on him more and trust him more. In the world of the Embroidered Uniform Guard, trust was a commodity—it required exchange, investment, and constant escalation.

"Okay." Shen Lian stood up. "When?"

"At Chenshi (7-9 AM), the carriage is waiting at the gate."

The carriage circled the alley several times.

Just like the transfer that night. Left turn, right turn, straight ahead, then left turn again. But this time Shen Lian wasn't blindfolded; he could see the street scene outside the window—gray walls, green-tiled roofs, early morning street sweepers hunched over, and vendors carrying tofu pudding shouting their wares. The air was filled with the smoke from coal stoves, the aroma of steamed buns wafting from steamers, and the dampness of last night's rain on the stone pavement.

The capital city is awakening.

The carriage wound its way around, actually only circling a few alleyways. Shen Lian recognized the gray walls of the granary and the flying eaves of the Dongsi Archway. The old trick of the Embroidered Uniform Guard—they let you see, but don't let you see clearly.

Fang Xuejian did not come along.

As he left, he squatted at the kitchen doorway, clutching a piece of freshly burned glass shard in his hand, black and resembling coal dust. He muttered, "You didn't take me with you again..." The cook stood beside him, shaking his head helplessly, holding a basin of freshly mixed mud.

Shen Lian didn't turn around. It was a good thing that Fang Xuejian wasn't there for this occasion.

The gate of the Northern Garrison Command was more ordinary than Shen Lian had imagined.

There were no flying fish patterns, no copper nails, and none of the imposing and awe-inspiring grandeur I had imagined. There were just two black lacquered wooden doors, with a plaque hanging above the doorway that read "Northern Garrison Command".

But standing at the entrance were eight Imperial Guard captains with swords at their sides. Their backs were ramrod straight, their eyes like eagles, locking onto Shen Lian's every move the moment he stepped off the carriage—how he placed his hands, how he took each step, where his eyes looked. Their hands were all resting on the hilts of their swords.

Wei Liangbi walked in front, and Shen Lian followed behind.

Passing through the gate, there was a large courtyard paved with blue bricks, spotlessly clean. Not a single blade of grass grew in the cracks between the bricks; it was so clean it didn't look like a place anyone lived in. Directly opposite was a row of main houses with large windows and shiny white paper windowpanes, newly pasted. On both sides were side rooms, all with their doors closed, so it was impossible to tell what was inside.

There was no one in the courtyard. But Shen Lian could sense that there were eyes watching him from behind those tightly closed windows.

He was led into a large room in the center.

The room was large, with a dozen or so chairs arranged in two rows, leaving an aisle in the middle, resembling a courtroom layout. Directly opposite was a long table, covered with a white cloth, on which lay several files and cups of tea. The tea was cold, untouched.

Someone has already arrived.

The oldest man was in his early forties, with a square face, thick eyebrows, and full lips, giving him a simple and honest appearance. But his eyes were anything but simple—they were shrewd and discreet, and he looked at people as if he were weighing a piece of merchandise.

Zhao Yan. Commander of the Northern Garrison. A man under Xu Jie.

Shen Lian recognized this face from Qian Dehou's memory—in the dim candlelight of the interrogation room, Zhao Yan said to Qian Dehou with a forced smile, "Mr. Qian, as long as you tell me Lin Yiqing's whereabouts, Grand Secretary Xu will guarantee your safety." (A proverb implying a weasel offering New Year's greetings to a chicken.)

The thinner guy next to him was about thirty-five or thirty-six years old. He had high cheekbones, narrow eyes, and a downturned mouth. He looked at people with an innate disdain, as if no one in the room was worthy of standing in the same room as him.

Liu Fu. Also a commander of a thousand households.

Shen Lian's pupils contracted slightly. This name had appeared in Qian Dehou's memory before—not directly, but indirectly. Liu Fu was one of Yan Song's spies planted in the Embroidered Uniform Guard, responsible for monitoring Zhu Xixiao's every move. Qian Dehou had never met him in person, but there was a record in the account book: the annual "ice tribute" allocated to Liu Fu was two thousand taels, paid through the Ministry of Works' accounts.

Wang Chong sat in the main seat.

Wei Liangbi whispered in Shen Lian's ear, "Mr. Shen, that is Lord Wang Chong. He is the Commander of the Embroidered Uniform Guard, a fourth-rank official, and the person directly in charge of our entire criminal justice system."

Shen Lian glanced sideways. To have reached the fourth rank before even forty was an absurd feat in the Ming Dynasty's officialdom. His original owner's memories included casual conversations among several old scholars from Huizhou Prefecture about the path to official advancement—an examination every three years, a term of office every nine years; to rise from a seventh-rank county magistrate to a fourth-rank official took at least fifteen years. Yet this Lord Wang had reached this position before even forty.

Wei Liangbi seemed to sense Shen Lian's doubt and lowered his voice even further: "Lord Wang has powerful connections. His mentor was a second-class scholar in the 20th year of the Jiajing reign, who later became a Grand Secretary in the Inner Cabinet. Three of his classmates from that year are already Vice Ministers in the Six Ministries. With connections in court, promotions are naturally faster. However—" He paused, "This man doesn't rely entirely on connections. He worked in the Imperial Prison for eight years, handling at least eighty to a hundred cases. His skills in criminal law are genuine. Even Lord Zhu said that in terms of interrogation, Wang Chong in the Northern Garrison Command is second to none."

Shen Lian's gaze lingered on Wang Chong's face for a moment. With a pale face and a light beard, he looked like a scholar who couldn't even kill a chicken. But his hands, resting on the armrest, had large knuckles, and calluses on the base of his thumb and the palms—not from holding a pen, but from holding a knife. A civil official's hands, bearing the calluses of a warrior.

"And another thing," Wei Liangbi's voice lowered a notch, his tone carrying a subtle complexity, "I was recommended by Lord Zhu and am now ostensibly Lord Wang's advisor. Lord Wang is a cold man who doesn't like to socialize, but he's been quite polite to me. However..." He paused, not finishing his sentence.

Shen Lian didn't press the matter. He understood what Wei Liangbi hadn't said aloud. Zhu Xixiao had placed his trusted confidant as an advisor to Wang Chong—this was both a means of surveillance and a check on him. Wang Chong knew this, and so did Wei Liangbi. The two met daily, politely but each harboring unspoken thoughts. Relationships in officialdom were never as simple as they appeared on the surface.

Wang Chong's ability to remain calm in this situation, treating Wei Liangbi with courtesy without being overly familiar or distant—this composure and shrewdness are more alarming than his official rank. Shen Lian had seen many people well-versed in the ways of officialdom in his previous life through historical records. But standing in front of such people is completely different from reading their biographies through pages.

Wei Liangbi led Shen Lian inside.

All three men's gazes fell on Shen Lian simultaneously, like three knives pointed at him from different directions. Zhao Yan's gaze was curious, carrying a "let's see what kind of person this is" scrutinizing look. Liu Fu's gaze was appraising, cold and icy, as if examining stolen goods of dubious origin. Wang Chong's gaze was indifferent—he looked at everyone like that, seemingly unimportant. But Shen Lian noticed that his fingers tapped lightly twice on the armrest of the chair.

"This is Mr. Shen." Wei Liangbi's voice was not loud, but very clear.

Shen Lian could sense the weight in his words. He was telling these three people: this person was brought by Lord Zhu with his approval.

Judging from today's lineup, the three men clearly knew that Wei Liangbi was ostensibly Wang Chong's advisor, but that Zhu Xixiao was behind him—a fact everyone tacitly acknowledged.

Shen Lian stepped forward and bowed according to the rules. His hands were folded, his body slightly bowed, his posture neither humble nor arrogant, and his movements were so proper that there was no fault in them. The original owner of this body had this set of etiquette in his memories—it was taught in the Huizhou Prefectural School, and there were rules about how to bow to superiors, how to bow to peers, and how to return the bow to subordinates.

"Shen Lian from Shexian greets all of you esteemed officials."

Zhao Yanxian made a move. He stood up from his chair, returned the greeting with a cupped hand, and wore the kind of smile he had honed in officialdom—neither too warm nor too cold.

"Mr. Shen, I've heard so much about you."

As he spoke, he stepped forward to greet him. As they drew closer, he naturally reached out and lightly touched Shen Lian's forearm—a gesture of closeness in official circles, meaning "no need for formalities."

Fingertips brushed against the inside of Shen Lian's wrist.

Skin contact.

Shen Lian's temple throbbed—it was coming.

Zhao Yan's memory was like a river. Muddy, turbulent, carrying silt and undercurrents. Shen Lian saw many things in those one or two seconds.

Zhao Yan was speaking in hushed tones to someone in the duty room of the Northern Garrison. The man was dressed in a blue robe and wore a square scarf, resembling a schoolteacher, but Zhao Yan treated him with great respect, bowing as he spoke and keeping his voice extremely low. The man's face was blurry in his memory, but Shen Lian could hear a word in Zhao Yan's mind—"Grand Secretary Xu."

There was another letter. It bore a private seal, and the paper was fine cotton paper from Songjiang Prefecture. The letter read: "The Yan faction must be eliminated, but this matter cannot be rushed. As for Shen Lian, his background must be carefully investigated. If he is usable, keep him. If not—" The rest was left unwritten, but Zhao Yan filled it in automatically when he read it.

The letter ended with a two-character signature. Shen Lian didn't see it clearly, but he could sense Zhao Yan's excitement as he wrote the reply. That excitement wasn't loyalty; it was the tension of a gambler betting everything.

Zhao Yan withdrew his hand.

Shen Lian released his grip. His expression remained unchanged. His temples throbbed, but he endured it, even sporting a perfectly timed smile.

Liu Fu remained seated in his chair.

His gaze swept slowly and carefully across Shen Lian's face, like a coroner examining a corpse. Then he stood up—not to greet him, but to step aside and walk past Shen Lian toward the long table. As he passed Shen Lian, he didn't stop, and his shoulder seemingly bumped into Shen Lian unintentionally.

"Mr. Shen has a great reputation."

The voice was cold, carrying a deliberately suppressed hostility. The impact wasn't forceful, but the angle was tricky, hitting the shoulder socket precisely.

Shen Lian was slightly swayed by the impact, but after adjusting his posture, he met the force head-on.

Skin contact.

Liu Fu's shoulder brushed against Shen Lian's upper arm, resting just above his open collar; that one touch on his bare neck was enough.

Liu Fu's memory presents a different picture.

In the dark room, he sat in a chair, facing Yan Shifan. Yan Shifan's face was half-lit and half-shadowed in the candlelight, like a cleaved stone. His voice was low, laced with phlegm: "That Shen Lian, have you found out anything? If he's Xu Jie's man..." He gestured lightly across his neck, as if brushing a speck of dust off his collar.

Liu Fu nodded, his forehead covered in sweat. Although it was a memory, Shen Lian could feel the sweat—sticky, cold, seeping from the roots of his hair.

Then comes another memory. Liu Fu was writing a secret report in the duty room, using his left hand, the handwriting crooked and messy, as if deliberately written that way. The recipient's name was only one word: "Yan". The report was short: "Shen Lian is suspected to be Xu Jie's mole. It is recommended to deal with him as soon as possible. The source of this person's intelligence is unknown, and keeping him alive will surely be a great threat."

Liu Fu walked over, sat down at the long table, picked up his teacup and slowly skimmed the tea foam, without even lifting his eyelids.

Shen Lian released his grip. His heart skipped a beat, but his face remained expressionless.

Wang Chong remained seated, neither getting up nor reaching out.

Shen Lian stepped forward, cupped his hands in a respectful but not servile manner, and said, "Lord Wang, I have long admired you. I am Shen Lian, and it is an honor to meet the esteemed Commander today."

Wang Chong raised his eyelids slightly.

His gaze lingered on Shen Lian's face for a moment—not the appraising look of Zhao Yan, nor the scrutinizing gaze of Liu Fu, a coroner's examination. It was a deeper, slower gaze, like an old farmer looking at the sky, not rushing to judgment, but first observing which way the clouds were drifting.

After a moment, he nodded slightly.

"Mr. Shen," the voice said softly and slowly, like an old ox pulling a cart, "please sit down."

There were no unnecessary formalities, no insincere small talk. Just the words, "Have a seat." But Shen Lian detected a very faint, almost imperceptible hint of surprise in his tone—this young man actually dared to take the initiative to talk to him.

Shen Lian knew from Wei Liangbi's memories that Wang Chong was a notorious opportunist and centrist. He never shook hands with anyone, never got too close to anyone, and had neither friends nor enemies within the Embroidered Uniform Guard. Everyone hated him, and no one could do anything about him.

Wang Chong was a man who would side with whichever side was in power, never having any firm stance, only knowing how to curry favor and protect himself. But the fact that he could remain standing in a place like the Embroidered Uniform Guard—his lack of stance was itself a stance.

The three of them sat down.

Shen Lian was seated at the very end, near the door, far from the long table, as if deliberately placed in a position where he could be ignored at any time, or observed at any time. Wei Liangbi sat opposite him, his gaze fixed on his face, as if to confirm whether he had been frightened by the three people.

Shen Lian met his gaze and nodded slightly. The meaning was—I can handle it.