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

The duty room of the Northern Garrison Command was so dark it was as if it had been soaked in a vat of ink.

The window faces north, so sunlight? No sunlight gets in. The oil lamp on the wall glows dimly, like a dying firefly, casting Chen's shadow on the table—a motionless shadow, like a lump of thick, unyielding ink.

He had been sitting at the table for two hours, the paper in front of him covered with writing—not a copy of the dossier, but his own notes.

Each piece of paper has only one message written on it, and then related messages are connected together with a red line.

The lines are very dense, as dense as a net.

Zhou Kui said that Shen Lian "revealed that information" during interrogation, but Zhou Kui did not mention the details. Wei Liangbi said that Shen Lian "seemed to know everything beforehand," and was always prepared for each interrogation. Warden Sun said that Shen Lian "rarely spoke" in the cell, but once "bumped into me."

Everyone spoke of it casually.

There was no deliberate exaggeration, nor was there any deliberate concealment.

It seems so ordinary, yet beneath this ordinariness lies an inexplicable eeriness, hinting at something unusual.

Chen's finger paused on the words "touched me." It wasn't an unconscious movement; it was deliberate and slow. He looked up at the opposite wall. There was nothing on the wall except white plaster and cracks, but he seemed to see something in that empty wall.

"You touched me. You already knew everything."

He repeated it in a low voice.

Then he suddenly stood up, walked to the door, and opened it.

A draft of wind blew in from the corridor, carrying a damp, musty smell—the smell of the imperial prison. He stood there for a moment, then turned back, pulled out the slip of paper from the jailer Sun, and placed it on top.

I read it again—the jailer Sun said that Shen Lian "pretended to stretch" and "accidentally" brushed against the back of his hand.

Chen's expression changed. The change was subtle; anyone who didn't know him well would miss it. His pupils contracted slightly, the corners of his mouth turned down a little, and his entire face suddenly transformed from calm to sharp, like a knife being slowly drawn from its sheath.

"Every 'prophecy' Shen Lian made in the imperial prison occurred after he came into contact with someone who knew the truth."

Is the key here?

He mentally rearranged the pieces of paper.

—Before his execution, Shen Lian met with Zhou Kui.

—Before the first interrogation, Shen Lian met with Wei Liangbi.

—Before the second interrogation, Shen Lian met with prison guard Sun.

Every contact was skin-to-skin contact, and after each contact, Shen Lian would "suddenly learn" something he didn't know before.

Yes, that's right, there was a trigger, but were they all just coincidences?

coincidence?

It was a coincidence.

Both times it was luck.

three times--

Three times is sorcery.

At this moment, there was no hesitation in Chen's eyes, only the calmness of a hunter discovering the footprints of his prey.

He carefully collected the pieces of paper one by one, stacked them together, tied them with a thin rope, and went straight to find Zhu Xixiao.

Zhu Xixiao's duty room at the Beizhenfusi was in the inner room on the second floor.

The door was closed.

A Jinyiwei captain with a sword at his side stood at the door, his back straight and his eyes sharp as an eagle.

"Is Lord Zhu here?" Chen's advisor asked.

"Here." The captain stepped aside and opened the door for him.

Zhu Xixiao sat at the table with a dossier spread out in front of him and saw the bundle of papers in Chen's hand.

"You found it?"

Chen's advisor placed the piece of paper on the table but did not sit down.

He stood there, looking into Zhu Xixiao's eyes, and remained silent for a moment.

He was organizing his thoughts. Not because he didn't know how to say it, but because he knew—what he was about to say would make any normal person think he was crazy.

"I questioned all of Shen Lian's contacts in the imperial prison: Zhou Kui, Wei Liangbi, the prison guard Sun, and Fang Xuejian. Everyone's account differed, but one thread was common."

Zhu Xixiao waited.

"Zhou Kui said that Shen Lian 'suddenly revealed those intelligences' during the interrogation, without any intermediate process." Chen's aide pulled the first piece of paper from the bundle of papers and placed it on the table. "Wei Liangbi said that Shen Lian 'seemed to know everything all along,' and was always prepared for each interrogation."

Then he took out a second piece of paper and placed it next to the first one.

"The jailer said that Shen Lian 'rarely spoke' in the cell, but once he 'bumped me'."

He pointed to the line of text above.

"I've discovered a pattern—every time Shen Lian made a 'prophecy' in the imperial prison, it happened after he came into contact with someone who knew the truth."

Zhu Xixiao leaned forward slightly.

"You mean, he's trying to trick them into revealing information?"

Chen's advisor shook his head

"I asked the jailer Sun. When Shen Lian touched him, he didn't say a word."

"This isn't just platitudes."

"It's just simple contact. Skin to skin contact."

The room suddenly fell silent.

It was as quiet as a dry well.

"Go on," Zhu Xixiao said, tapping his finger.

Chen's advisor took a deep breath.

He served as Zhu Xixiao's advisor for fifteen years. He witnessed torture and forced confessions, frame-ups and massacres, people turning into ghosts, and ghosts turning into people. He learned one thing—

In the world of intelligence, the least likely answer is often the truth.

Even if the truth makes him look like a madman.

"I have a hypothesis."

The voice was even lower.

"This Shen Lian has a way of obtaining intelligence that we don't know about. I don't know the method itself, but what I do know is that he needs to be in close contact with his target to obtain information. Every 'prophecy' he made in the prison occurred after he came into contact with someone who knew the truth."

"Every contact is a transfer of intelligence."

Zhu Xixiao's fingers stopped.

He stared at Chen's advisor.

He stared at it for a long time, so long that Chen could hear his own heartbeat.

Zhu Xixiao spoke, his voice seeming to seep from underground.

"You mean... he can steal information from people's minds?"

Stealing intelligence.

That word is so accurate.

It was so accurate that it frightened him.

But he couldn't say that. Because he had no evidence. All he had was logic. And in the world of the Embroidered Uniform Guard, logic was never evidence—logic only told you which direction to look for evidence.

"My subordinates are unsure of the specific method," he said, "but the logic points to this conclusion."

Zhu Xixiao remained silent.

He walked to the window, his back to Chen, the advisor.

Outside the window was the courtyard of the Northern Garrison Command, paved with blue bricks, spotless. Several Jinyiwei captains stood ramrod straight on the eaves, their eyes like eagles, tall and imposing, like several invisible mountains.

"If he really could steal information from people's minds."

The sound came from behind.

It's so boring.

Separated by a coffin board

"Then he's not human."

"It's a demon." Zhu Xixiao turned around and looked into Chen's eyes. "In the Ming Dynasty's imperial prison, there's a demon that can steal information from people's minds."

Chen's advisor recognized what was below from Zhu Xixiao's voice.

It's not fear.

It's a deeper, bone-chilling cold.

In his position as commander of the Embroidered Uniform Guard, Zhu Xixiao had seen it all: torture, forced confessions, framing, and even the extermination of entire families. But he had never seen anything like this.

A person who can extract secrets directly from the minds of living people.

If this kind of person is on your side, he is the sharpest knife in the world.

If he were standing on the other side—

He is the most potent poison in the world.

"My subordinates are unsure," Chen's aide said.

Zhu Xixiao stared at him.

Then he laughed.

"Keep a close eye on them," he said, "but don't alert them. I have my reasons."

Chen's advisor nodded and turned around.

I paused for a moment when I reached the door.

"Lord Zhu," he said, "if my guess is correct, then this person is far too dangerous. Keeping someone who can steal information from people's minds around is like having a time bomb ready to explode at any moment."

Done.

Chen, the advisor, silently opened the door and went out.

Zhu Xixiao stood alone by the window.

he was thinking.

If Chen's advisor's speculation is correct—if Shen Lian really can steal information from people's minds—then the accuracy of his intelligence is not a problem. Because that's not intelligence, that's memory.

A person's memory is certainly accurate.

But that's not the problem.

The question is—how many people's minds has Shen Lian already stolen from? How many things does he know that he shouldn't know? How many lives does he hold in his hands?

Including his own.

He recalled what Chen's advisor had said—"Shen Lian. Intelligence source. Contact. Memory. This person is too dangerous."

He is dangerous, of course. A person who can steal information from a person's mind is more dangerous than a hundred assassins. Assassins can only kill, but he can steal all your secrets—your plans, your weaknesses, your fears, your dreams.

Zhu Xixiao shuddered.

It's not that I'm afraid of the cold.

It's because I'm afraid of this person.

He closed the window.

On the table was a secret report that had just been delivered from Huizhou.

The secret report was very short, only one page long. The handwriting was messy, as it had been written overnight, and the ink was not completely dry in some places, with a few smudges from fingers.

"Shen Lian was from Shenjiazhuang Village, Shexian County. He was poor, owned no land, and lived in rented houses. His parents died early, and he had no siblings. He had no friends, relatives, or clan connections. Before being falsely imprisoned, he made a living by writing letters and copying account books, and had never left the territory of Huizhou Prefecture. Neighbors said that his origins were unknown, and he was suspected to be an abandoned child adopted by the Shen couple. He was about three or four years old when he was adopted, and his accent was not from Huizhou, so he was suspected to be the descendant of refugees."

Zhu Xixiao's finger stopped on the eight characters "never left the territory of Huizhou Prefecture".

A poor scholar who had never left Huizhou.

However, they knew the top-secret intelligence that Yan's party was colluding with the Japanese.

Zhu Xixiao picked up a pen and wrote a line on the back of the secret report.

"Investigate all his correspondence before his imprisonment. Investigate the letters he wrote and the account books he copied. Investigate whether he could have accessed intelligence sources through these. Investigate the background of the Shen couple."

The pen paused for a moment.

Another line was added.

"Check if he really is Shen Lian."

He folded the secret report, put it in an envelope, and stamped it with his personal seal.

The inkpad is vermilion.

In the candlelight, it looked like a drop of congealed blood.

He gave a cold laugh.

"Go investigate," he said in a low voice, as if speaking to himself, "Find out who this Shen Lian really is."

"If he really has a problem—"

The meaning is already very clear.

There was no shortage of corpses in the imperial prison.

One more is not needed.

There is not a single one missing.

Meanwhile, at the resettlement site three streets away.

Shen Lian suddenly felt a strange unease.

It seeped from the bones.

He knew Zhu Xixiao was going to investigate him. It was only a matter of time.

A mole suddenly appeared in the imperial prison, possessing intelligence about Yan's faction's collusion with Japanese pirates, and accurately predicted Zou Yinglong's impeachment—any normal commander of the Embroidered Uniform Guard would be suspicious of such a thing. Wei Liangbi was fooled by the "accuracy of the intelligence" because he needed merit and a ladder to climb higher.

But Zhu Xixiao didn't need that. He was already at the top of the ladder.

The person at the top sees things differently. He doesn't look at how high the ladder is—he looks at whether anyone at the bottom wants to pull the ladder away.

From Wei Liangbi's memories, Shen Lian knew what kind of person Zhu Xixiao was.

Old fox.

An old fox who has lived in the quagmire of the Ming Dynasty for over forty years, witnessed all the dirty things, yet never got a speck of mud on his body.

He wouldn't be fooled by "accuracy" like Wei Liangbi. He would question it methodologically—how could one person simultaneously possess so much top-secret intelligence from so many different sources?

This is Shen Lian's biggest weakness.

Knowing too much is a mistake, but knowing too little is worthless.

There is a very thin line between the two.

It's as thin as a single hair.

Stepping on the right step—you'll be treated like royalty.

He stepped on the wrong thing—an unidentified corpse in the imperial prison.

But he didn't intend to let Zhu Xixiao find out that far.

Before that, he needs to make himself indispensable.

It is not indispensable for "providing intelligence".

He is indispensable because "only he can provide this intelligence".

It's not so complicated that he is indispensable; it's just that he's dead.

Let's gamble then, and see Zhu Xixiao.

Even a single skin contact is enough.

Just by touching his hand—even for a moment—you can know what he's thinking, what he's afraid of, and what he wants.

Then--

Then he had leverage.

They now had a bargaining chip to save their lives.

The "Supplement to the Extended Meaning of the Great Learning" had been on the table for half an hour.

Shen Lian didn't absorb a single word.

The meeting from that day resurfaced in my mind. Zhao Yan's hand, Liu Fu's hand, Wang Chong's hand. Those memories were still churning, like a pot of boiling porridge, impossible to suppress.

My temples are throbbing.

It was like someone was hitting it with a hammer.

He pressed his fingers against his temples and rubbed them vigorously.

Useless.

Those memories are etched into my being.

It can't be wiped off.

It can't be washed clean.

Like ink spilled on white cloth—once it's stained, it's stained, and there's no going back.

Fang Xuejian shouted in the courtyard, "Shen Lian! Look! I've burned glass!"

Shen Lian stood up and walked to the window.

Fang Xuejian stood at the kitchen doorway, holding a palm-sized shard of glass in his hand, pointing it at the lantern light. The glass was thin, letting through a layer of murky light, but you could see the other side in the light—his fingers were waving behind the glass, blurry, but definitely visible.

"Look!" Fang Xuejian ran over and shoved the glass shards into his hand. "Isn't it much better than yesterday? With a few more improvements to the formula, we'll be able to make truly transparent glass!"

Shen Lian took the glass shards and examined them.

Light streamed through the glass, casting a blurry patch of light on his palm. The edges of the patch were indistinct, but the center was transparent, revealing the lines of his palm.

"Not bad," Shen Lian replied wearily.

Fang Xuejian held up the shard of glass, looking at Shen Lian's profile, where gray hairs had appeared at his temples.

"You," the voice held a stubborn edge, "usually even if the sky were to fall, your eyes would still be bright. But today, it's like something in your eyes has gone out."

He paused, then handed the shards of glass in his hand to Shen Lian, the dim light illuminating half of Shen Lian's expressionless face.

"I don't know what happened. But remember this—there aren't many people in this world who can make glass, and even fewer who I, Fang Xuejian, would consider a real man. Don't die."

Shen Lian remained silent, turned around and returned to the table, sat down, and casually flipped through the book "Supplement to the Great Learning".

The words are swaying.

He knew the storm was coming.

He took out the seven pieces of paper that were hidden under the mattress.

I watched it one last time.

Every circle. Every line. Every name. Zhao Yan's seven undercover agents, Liu Fu's five informants, Zhu Xixiao's three confidants. The factional network of forty-three people, like a complete star map, was etched in his mind.

Then he lit the tinderbox.

It lit a corner of the bottom sheet of paper.

The flames licked the paper, spreading from the edges towards the center.

The paper curled, yellowed, and turned black in the brazier, finally turning to ashes. Circles and lines, names and arrows, all twisted, shattered, and disappeared in the flames.

He dropped in the seven sheets of paper one by one.

Watching them burn to ashes.

The flame swallowed the last word.

The ashes collapsed in the brazier.

Like a city that has been burned down.

Like a person's escape route.