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

Just as the clapper of the evening drum struck its first note, the oil lamp at the end of the corridor flickered in the draft, casting the water stains on the wall like distorted faces.

Shen Lian leaned against the cold stone wall, the dull ache in his fingertips still lingering from the memory extraction he'd experienced earlier that day. Fang Xuejian squatted beside him, a straw dangling from his mouth, his eyes fixed on the passageway beyond the iron fence.

"Soon, right?" Fang Xuejian asked in a low voice, still muttering the lines he had rehearsed: "Brother Sun? Grandpa Sun? Uncle Sun, in this prison, you're the most humane one..."

"Relax," Shen Lian said softly. "If you're nervous, he'll be nervous too."

"How can I not be nervous?" Fang Xuejian swallowed hard. "This is our only one—"

"Shut up and wait." Shen Lian kept his eyes closed, his temples still throbbing. Wei Liangbi's memories were too vast, like a mountain crammed into his brain, and he hadn't fully digested them yet. But he had to hold on—the shift change at 5 PM was his only chance.

The sound of boots stomping on water stains came from the end of the corridor, a slow, drawn-out rhythm typical of the elderly.

Fang Xuejian immediately stood up, gripped the iron bars with both hands, and peered through the gaps. Shen Lian opened his eyes and saw the tuft of messy hair sticking up on the back of his head, like an antenna in the dim light.

"Here they come." Fang Xuejian lowered his voice and turned to wink at Shen Lian.

Shen Lian slowly sat up, the prison uniform clinging coldly to his skin. He used his hands to push himself up, his kneecaps making a soft "crack" sound—his joints had stiffened considerably after being locked up for so many days.

The footsteps grew closer. The light of the torches spilled from around the corner of the passage, casting a long shadow on the opposite stone wall.

He was an old soldier in his fifties, wearing a faded white shirt, with a keychain hanging from his waist, and he walked with a slight limp in his left leg. He was the prison guard surnamed Sun that Fang Xuejian had mentioned. He was carrying a food basket containing several rough earthenware bowls filled with water for the prisoners.

"Uncle Sun! Uncle Sun!" Fang Xuejian pressed his face against the iron fence, his voice low but warm, "Over here, over here!"

The jailer stopped and squinted at them. The torchlight shone on his face, casting a dim light that revealed deep nasolabial folds and a downturned mouth—the numb expression of someone who had spent too long in the imperial prison.

"What are you doing?" The voice was hoarse, like sandpaper grinding iron.

"It's nothing serious." Fang Xuejian chuckled twice. "It's just that you look quite well today, much more energetic than yesterday."

The jailer, Sun, didn't reply. He slowly walked over, carrying the food basket, each step firm and deliberate. Reaching the cell door, he placed the basket on the ground, squatted down, unfastened his keychain from his waist, and began searching for the cell key.

Shen Lian noticed his hands—thick calluses on the base of his thumb and index finger, large knuckles, hands that had been wielding knives for years. But when he turned over the keys, his movements were slow, with a sluggishness typical of the elderly.

"Uncle Sun, let me tell you something," Fang Xuejian squatted down to look Sun, the jailer, at eye level, "of all the jailers who come and go in this imperial prison, I only admire you the most."

"Stop flattering me." The jailer didn't even look up and continued flipping through the keys.

"I'm serious!" Fang Xuejian said earnestly. "Those young ones kick doors and curse at the drop of a hat, they're as fierce as the King of Hell. You're different, you're the most humane one in this prison. Last time I had a high fever, if it weren't for your bowl of hot water, I would have lost my life."

The jailer paused for a moment, then snorted, "If someone dies in the prison, I'll be in trouble too. It's not that I'm worried about you." He looked up at Fang Xuejian, his eyes showing a mixture of surprise and satisfaction.

"Stop talking nonsense," he muttered, but his tone was noticeably softer. He found the key, inserted it into the lock, and turned it; the iron door creaked open with a dull thud.

He didn't open the door, but only cracked it open, carried the food basket in, and placed it on the ground. He then took out two rough earthenware bowls filled with water, with a speck of ash floating on the surface.

Fang Xuejian immediately picked up a bowl, gulped down more than half of it, wiped his mouth, and asked, "Uncle Sun, has anything new happened in the imperial prison lately?"

The jailer, Sun, was packing up the food basket when he heard this, and his hands paused.

"What's it to you?" He glanced at Fang Xuejian warily.

"Just asking casually." Fang Xuejian scratched his head, looking innocent. "I've been locked up here for three months, I've even gotten to know the mice. I just want to know what's going on outside to relieve my boredom."

The jailer, Sun, was silent for a few seconds, probably thinking there was some truth to it. He squatted down again and lowered his voice: "Recently, we've brought in a batch of high-profile criminals."

"A wanted criminal?" Fang Xuejian's eyes lit up. "What level of official is he?"

"They were brought from Nanjing," said Warden Sun, glancing instinctively at both ends of the corridor to make sure no one was around before continuing, "They're kept in cell number T, guarded by officers two levels higher than ordinary prisoners. Two people have to go in together every day to deliver their meals—one to deliver and one to guard the door."

"Case number T?" Fang Xuejian feigned curiosity. "What kind of case is that?"

The jailer immediately shut his mouth. He closed the lid of the food basket, stood up, and the slight relaxation on his face disappeared, replaced by his numb expression.

"Don't ask what you shouldn't ask." His voice turned cold. "In the imperial prison, the less you know, the longer you live."

Fang Xuejian wanted to ask more questions, but Shen Lian coughed softly behind him.

Fang Xuejian immediately shut up, picked up his bowl and continued drinking water, pretending that nothing had happened.

Shen Lian stood up and slowly walked to the cell door, supporting himself against the wall. His legs were numb from sitting for so long, and each step felt like walking on needles. The jailer, Sun, was bending down to pick up the food basket, his back to the iron bars, very close—an arm's length, no, half an arm's length.

Shen Lian's heart suddenly raced.

He took a deep breath, controlling his expression, and pretended to stretch. He braced his hands on the iron bars, leaned forward, bent his left leg, and stretched his right leg back, making a stretching motion. The sleeves of his prison uniform slipped down, revealing his thin, bony forearms.

The jailer picked up the food basket, turned around, and prepared to leave.

Shen Lian's right arm just happened to be lowered at that moment, the back of his hand brushing against the hand of the jailer Sun who was carrying the food basket—skin contact, less than a second, as fast as a gust of wind.

coming.

Shen Lian's mind felt as if a bucket of ice water had been poured into it, or as if a thousand needles were piercing his temples at once. Images, sounds, smells, and emotions all tangled together, flooding in like a torrent.

Yesterday, Warden Sun was gambling with another warden in his cell and lost thirty coins, slamming his fist on the table and cursing. The night before last, he was patrolling the cell corridor when he passed cell number D and heard someone crying inside—a very low, suppressed cry, as if afraid of being overheard. He stopped to listen for a moment, but was pulled away by another warden—"Don't listen anymore. We've been given orders that no one is allowed to ask about the case in cell number D."

Then came large fragments of memory, like pieces of film being shredded, being stuffed into Shen Lian's mind one by one—

The interrogation room was dimly lit, with torture instruments hanging on the wall. A middle-aged man in a blue robe sat in a chair, his hands tied behind his back. His face was unharmed, but his eyes were lifeless, filled with the weariness and despair of someone who had been repeatedly interrogated.

"Mr. Qian, please think about it again." A voice asked politely, but with a hint of threat, "These accounts need to be addressed."

The man called "Mr. Qian" shook his head, his voice hoarse: "I've already said, the account book isn't in my possession. Lord Yan... I've kept all of Yan Shifan's transactions in the Southeast in a single general ledger. That ledger..."

The video cuts out here.

Then comes another memory—the jailer, Sun, eavesdropping outside cell number T. Inside, two people are speaking in hushed tones.

"Yan Shifan is probably doomed this time."

"Whether he can protect it or not is his business; we need to keep our mouths shut for now. Once that line in the southeast is exposed, no one can escape it."

"Mr. Qian's ledger..."

"Stop talking. The walls are listening."

Then came the sound of footsteps; the jailer was coming to relieve him, and Jailer Sun quickly walked away.

The video cut out again.

Shen Lian abruptly pulled his hand back, his nails digging into his palm, barely suppressing a muffled groan. His temples felt like they were about to explode, his vision blurred, and cold sweat poured down his forehead.

"Are you alright?" Fang Xuejian noticed that his expression was off and quickly came over.

"It's nothing," Shen Lian said through gritted teeth, his voice forced out. "My legs went numb from squatting for too long."

He leaned against the wall, slowly squatted down, turned his back to the jailer Sun, and hid his face in the shadows. His fingers dug into the cracks in the stone floor, his fingernails turning white.

pain.

It hurt ten times more than when Zhou Kui's memories were extracted.

Sun, the jailer, didn't have a large memory, but the fragments about "Mr. Qian" were too deep, too fragmented, and too secretive—it was Yan Shifan's bribery network that he had been operating in the southeast for ten years. Every penny, every route, and every person involved was something that could kill.

Shen Lian closed his eyes and quickly went through the process in his mind—

Mr. Qian was Yan Shifan's key financial officer in Nanjing, and he controlled all the bribery accounts of Yan's faction in the southeast region. The person imprisoned in cell number D was this man, along with several of Yan Shifan's protégés.

Sun, the jailer, also remembered another piece of information—Qianhu Zhao Yan had been frequently entering and leaving cell number D recently, and each time he went there he would send the guards away and talk to Mr. Qian alone for a long time.

It was no secret within the Embroidered Uniform Guard that Zhao Yan was Xu Jie's man; at least it was known to a small circle.

Xu Jie was racing against time to gather crucial evidence against Yan Xishan's faction.

Shen Lian's lips unconsciously curled up slightly, but he immediately suppressed it.

That's enough information.

This was enough for him to make another "prophecy" in front of Wei Liangbi.

The jailer, Sun, had already reached the corner of the passage with his food basket when he suddenly stopped and looked back. The firelight cast his long shadow on the stone wall, making it look like a crooked pillar.

"You two," he called out.

Fang Xuejian quickly turned his head: "Huh?"

"Don't pry," Jailer Sun's voice echoed in the corridor. "Knowing too much will get you killed quickly."

After he finished speaking, he turned the corner, and his footsteps gradually faded into the distance.

The cell fell silent again. Only the wind blowing in through the vents howled, like someone crying.

Fang Xuejian squatted down, leaned close to Shen Lian, and lowered his voice: "How did it go? Did you get anything out of him?"

Shen Lian leaned against the wall, his eyes closed, his temples still throbbing. He took a deep breath and went through those fragments of memory in his mind again—Mr. Qian's face, the lights in the interrogation room, those densely packed account numbers, 500,000 taels of silver, Japan, Japanese pirates, sulfur, arms dealers.

"The people imprisoned in cell number T are Yan Shifan's men." Shen Lian's voice was low, as if he were talking to himself. "An accountant surnamed Qian has a general ledger that records Yan's party's bribery network in the southeast over the past ten years."

Fang Xuejian's eyes widened: "That ledger..."

"Enough to send Yan Shifan to the imperial prison." Shen Lian opened his eyes, looking at the fist-sized vent above his head in the darkness. Grayish-white light shone in, falling on his face and illuminating his eyes. "And it's not just corruption. I suspect Yan Shifan also had dealings with Japan by sea—exchanging silver for sulfur and copper from the Japanese pirates, and then reselling them to arms dealers."

Fang Xuejian gasped, "Colluding with Japanese pirates? That's a crime punishable by the extermination of nine generations of one's family!"

"So we can't throw it all out at once," Shen Lian said. "We have to squeeze it out like toothpaste, feeding it little by little."

Fang Xuejian was silent for a moment, then suddenly lowered his voice and said, "I didn't expect your knowledge of Ming history to be so solid. To know so much information just because you came from Nanjing. It seems we're saved."

Shen Lian glanced at him. Fang Xuejian's eyes shone excessively in the dim light, his thin face filled with excitement and trust.

When extracting Sun the jailer's memories, he said too many things he shouldn't have. Things like "the accountant's surname is Qian" and "Yan's ten-year bribery network in the southeast"—these details could certainly be explained as "inferences deduced from Sun the jailer's words," but Fang Xuejian isn't stupid. This man has modern chemical knowledge and strong logical reasoning skills. If similar "inferences" were to occur a few more times, Fang Xuejian would definitely become suspicious.

Moreover, Fang Xuejian himself was also a time traveler.

More importantly, is it possible that Fang Xuejian also has a cheat code?

Fang Xuejian is no ordinary person.

This was Shen Lian's intuition.

Shen Lian recalled the images extracted from Fang Xuejian's memories—experiments with straw and soil, sketching crucibles and distillations on the ground, observing the guards' shift changes, secretly hiding sharpened stones… These behaviors certainly fit the profile of a science and engineering transmigrator. Yet, Fang Xuejian remained imprisoned for three months without breaking down, without giving up, and even while being brutally beaten by the guards, he never revealed anything about his transmigration.

This kind of mental resilience is not like that of an ordinary graduate student.

Forget it, now is not the time to think about these things.

Shen Lian silently reminded himself: I must be more restrained in the future. I should say as little as possible, and resolutely not say anything if I can avoid saying anything at all.

Footsteps suddenly came from the end of the corridor, heavy and numerous. It wasn't the jailers bringing food; it was the sound of leather boots clattering on the stone slabs, rhythmic, powerful, and carrying a sense of oppression.

Shen Lian's nerves immediately tensed up.

The footsteps grew closer. The sound of the iron gate opening filled the air, and the light of torches flooded the corridor, illuminating the cells.

Fang Xuejian sat up, his expression changing: "What is it now?"

Shen Lian didn't answer. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.

Outside the iron bars, Zhou Kui stood still, looking at him expressionlessly: "Shen Lian, Lord Wei has ordered—to interrogate you tomorrow."

Shen Lian opened his eyes, a slight smile playing on his lips: "I understand."

The footsteps faded into the distance, and the firelight spread from the corner of the passage, casting long, slanted shadows of several people on the stone wall.

The cell went dark again.

Fang Xuejian leaned closer and lowered his voice: "Is Wei Liangbi going to interrogate you again?"

"Um."

"Can you... handle it?"

Shen Lian didn't answer. He opened his eyes in the darkness, and the face of the accountant and the account numbers alternated in his mind.

We can handle it.

Not only could he withstand it, he also wanted Wei Liangbi to know that he, Shen Lian, was far more than just a "hidden mole".