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

The interrogation room was darker than the last time I was there. The dim light from the oil lamp on the wall cast flickering shadows on the damp stone walls, as if it might go out at any moment. The air was thick with the musty smell of decay, mixed with the stench of rust and blood—the torture chamber next door had just been used and hadn't been cleaned up yet.

The flames flickered in the wind that seeped in through the crack in the door, casting long and short shadows on the wall.

Shen Lian was forced onto a chair, the iron chains hanging on the ground, making a dull clanging sound.

Wei Liangbi sat behind a long table, several sheets of paper spread out in front of him, the ink still wet. He didn't rush to speak, but slowly ground the ink, dipped his brush, wrote a few words on the paper, and then put it down.

Shen Lian watched calmly. This old fox was testing him—the basics of interrogation: making the prisoner wait, the longer they wait, the more anxious they become.

Unfortunately, in his previous life he could wait all morning for a photocopy machine in the library, so he still had that much patience.

After about the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, Wei Liangbi finally raised his head. His expression was more serious than before, but less scrutinizing, and more ambiguous—was it inquiry? Curiosity? Or apprehension?

Wei Liangbi put down his teacup and stared at him for a while: "How did you sleep last night?"

"It's alright," Shen Lian said.

"Not bad?" Wei Liangbi laughed, a forced smile. "A man who might be executed by slow slicing tomorrow says he slept well. Shen Lian, are you genuinely confident, or are you just pretending?"

"Regarding what you mentioned," he began, his voice calm and measured, "I've looked into some of it."

Shen Lian didn't reply.

"It's true that Yan Shifan transferred silver in Zhangjiawan. The time, place, and the person in charge all match up." Wei Liangbi stared into his eyes. "Liu Sanqiu is also a real person. He's missing a little finger on his left hand. He was the steward of Yan's household and just escorted a batch of goods back to Jiangxi from Tongzhou last month."

He paused, as if waiting for Shen Lian's reaction.

Shen Lian's expression remained unchanged.

All of this was within his expectations—it was a historical fact, and the Embroidered Uniform Guard would certainly be able to find it if they investigated. He could even tell from Wei Liangbi's tone that it was true that the other party had "investigated part of it," but that he had found far more than that.

Wei Liangbi sat behind his desk, his eyes half-lit and half-dark in the light of the oil lamp. When he stared at Shen Lian, it was as if he were staring at a secret letter that had been opened but whose authenticity had not yet been verified.

Wei Liangbi paused, leaned forward slightly, and placed his hands folded on the table. The light from the oil lamp shone on his fingers—large knuckles, calloused between his thumb and forefinger, hands that had been used to wielding knives for years, but he was holding a pen.

"I only want to know one thing right now." His voice was low, so low that Shen Lian almost had to strain his ears to hear. "How much else do you know?"

Shen Lian looked into his eyes. Those eyes held scrutiny, probing, but deep within lurked something Shen Lian knew all too well—greed. Not greed for gold and silver, but greed for information. Within the Imperial Guard, the same creed was etched into their very bones: information is power.

"Yan Shifan had a key financial officer in Nanjing, surnamed Qian," Shen Lian began, speaking steadily. "He was his chief accountant in the southeast region. This person had a ledger that recorded all the details of Yan's party's bribery and corruption in the southeast—who gave how much money, through which channels, by whose hands, and where the money was finally transferred—every single detail was recorded clearly."

Wei Liangbi's pupils contracted sharply. It wasn't surprise, it was fear—a man who had served in the Embroidered Uniform Guard for twenty years, having someone reveal to his face information that he was investigating but hadn't yet verified, felt like being stabbed in the back without knowing where the knife came from.

"He's in the Imperial Prison right now," Shen Lian continued, "in cell number D."

The interrogation room was so quiet you could hear the hiss of the burning oil lamp wick. It was like a snake flicking its tongue.

Wei Liangbi tapped his fingers twice on the table. Sweat began to bead on his forehead. Shen Lian could see the fine beads of sweat seeping from his hairline, running down his temples, glistening in the light of the oil lamp, and dripping into his collar.

"How did you find out about cell number D?" Wei Liangbi's voice was still steady, but his hands were no longer steady.

"I've said it before, I have my own channels." Shen Lian met his gaze without flinching or pressing him. "Only my superiors know about these channels. You either trust me, or you kill me. There's no third option."

Wei Liangbi stared at Shen Lian. The wick of the oil lamp sparked several times. Each time a spark appeared, Wei Liangbi's pupils contracted, as if pricked by a needle.

Then Wei Liangbi stood up, walked around the table, and paced back and forth in the interrogation room.

As he reached the corner, his shadow, stretched long by the oil lamp, was cast on the opposite wall like a crooked tower. Turning around, the shadow shrank back, becoming a short, stocky black blob.

Shen Lian didn't turn to look at him. He knew this was an interrogation technique—making the prisoner tense by following his gaze. So he simply sat there, hands on his knees, back straight, his eyes fixed on the oil lamp on the table. The flame flickered in the wind, illuminating the wood grain of the table like a crumpled map.

"But that's not the most important thing," Shen Lian suddenly said.

Wei Liangbi stopped in his tracks. He stood in the center of the interrogation room, his back to Shen Lian.

"Yan Shifan had dealings with Japan by sea." Shen Lian's voice was very soft, but every word was like a nail driven into the air. "He used the stolen silver to trade with Japanese pirates for supplies—sulfur, copper, lead—and then resold them to Ming Dynasty arms dealers, making huge profits."

Wei Liangbi suddenly turned around.

His face changed, a look of shock mixed with a deep-seated fear. In the lamplight, his face was as white as paper, his lips pressed into a thin line, and the muscles in his jaw trembled.

"August of the thirty-ninth year of Jiajing." Shen Lian's voice was unhurried, as if he were reading an account book that had been read countless times. "Eighty thousand taels of silver. The account does not say embezzlement or bribery, but four words—'For use in the East.'"

Wei Liangbi stopped breathing.

"Out of Ningbo Port, in of Kyushu Island," Shen Lian continued, enunciating each word clearly. "They resold sulfur, copper, and lead, and then resold them to arms dealers. Yan Shifan had been running this line for more than a year. It started in the thirty-fifth year of the Jiajing reign, and every year there were goods going out and silver coming back."

"This line is what can truly kill Yan Shifan," Shen Lian said, then shut his mouth.

The interrogation room was deathly silent. The wick of the oil lamp popped again, sparks flew up, almost extinguishing the flame, but stubbornly reignited.

The firelight flickered across Wei Liangbi's face, revealing a deep blue mark beneath his eye socket—a result of staying up all night.

Wei Liangbi's hands were trembling. Not his fingers, but his entire palm. He clenched his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palms, but the trembling couldn't be stopped.

He went behind the desk, sat down, stood up, and sat down again.

Shen Lian looked at him calmly. He knew what Wei Liangbi was thinking—if what Shen Lian said was true, and Yan Shifan colluded with Japanese pirates, then this was no longer just a corruption case. It was treason, a crime punishable by the extermination of nine generations of one's family. And someone who could obtain such intelligence could not possibly be an ordinary mole.

If what Shen Lian said is false—

Wei Liangbi dared not gamble on this "what if".

"How do you know so much about cell number T? Speak!" Wei Liangbi finally spoke, his voice hoarse, a stark contrast to the unhurried interrogator from before.

Shen Lian looked at the flame on the oil lamp.

"I'm asking you, who told you that!" Wei Liangbi suddenly stood up, placed his hands on the table, leaned forward, and brought his face less than a foot away from Shen Lian.

The light from the oil lamp shone on his face, making his eyes look like two will-o'-the-wisps, with Shen Lian's reflection in his pupils.

Shen Lian met his gaze without flinching or backing away.

"I've said it before, I have my own channels. Only my superiors know about these channels. You either trust me, or you kill me. There is no third way."

Wei Liangbi stared at him for a full ten breaths. Shen Lian could smell the scent on him—ink, sweat, and a faint medicinal aroma.

He was taking stimulants, which meant he hadn't had a proper night's sleep in a long time.

Then Wei Liangbi loosened his grip on the table and slowly sat back down. His hands stopped trembling, and the sweat on his face was wiped away with his sleeve. He transformed once again into the calm and shrewd advisor of the Embroidered Uniform Guard.

"The execution will remain suspended. Food and rations will be increased by another level." His voice had regained its composure, but the previous condescending scrutiny was gone, replaced by something Shen Lian was very familiar with—a tentative, bargaining tone. "What you've said is very valuable. If we find out—"

The meaning is already very clear.

Shen Lian nodded to Wei Liangbi.

If the investigation is successful, Shen Lian's value will extend beyond being a "covert informant"; he will become an indispensable source of intelligence for the entire Embroidered Uniform Guard.

Wei Liangbi stood up, walked to the door, and opened it. The torchlight from the corridor shone in, casting his long, straight shadow on the floor of the interrogation room.

"Zhou Kui, take him back." He didn't even turn his head.

Shen Lian stood up; his legs were a little numb, but he didn't lean against the wall and walked step by step to the door. He paused as he passed Wei Liangbi.

"Lord Wei," he said.

Wei Liangbi turned his head to look at him.

"We'll get a reply from Shexian County in five days," Shen Lian said. "Until then, you'd better check Mr. Qian's accounts more thoroughly."

He went outside. The corridor was dark, with only the flickering light of the torches overhead. Zhou Kui walked ahead, his boots making a dull thud on the stone slabs. Shen Lian followed behind him, counting his steps. From the interrogation room to the cell, it was a total of one hundred and forty-seven steps. Three more steps than last time—Zhou Kui had taken a detour, probably deliberately testing whether he was remembering the way.

The cell door opened and then closed. The chains rattled against the iron bars for a moment, then fell silent.

Fang Xuejian was squatting in the corner, clutching a handful of straw. When he saw Shen Lian enter, he jumped up, almost tripping over his own foot. "How did it go? What did that old fox ask you this time?"

"The same as always." Shen Lian leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.

"What did he say?"

"Let us continue to live."

Fang Xuejian paused for two seconds, then let out a long sigh: "Damn, we made it through again?"

Shen Lian did not answer.

He opened his eyes in the darkness, and the image of Wei Liangbi's face flashed into his mind—his fingers trembling, his forehead sweating, and the expression on his face when he finally asked, "How much do you have left?"

He shifted closer, leaning in, and whispered, "He believed it?"

"I only half believed it," he said.

"Half?" Fang Xuejian squatted down in front of him. "And the other half?"

"The other half depends on what Wei Liangbi can find out." Shen Lian closed his eyes and went through those fragments of memory in his mind again. Mr. Qian's accounts, the location of cell number T, the time Zhao Yan frequently came and went—this information must be accurate enough that Wei Liangbi can find it with a simple investigation, but not so accurate that Wei Liangbi would suspect the source of the information.

This is a delicate matter. If it's too vague, the Embroidered Uniform Guard won't be able to find it, and Shen Lian's words will be meaningless. If it's too precise, Wei Liangbi will think—how could a scholar imprisoned in the imperial prison know so much?

"You mean that Mr. Qian..." Fang Xuejian lowered his voice even further, "Is he really in cell number T?"

silence.

Fang Xuejian wisely raised his hand: "I understand, I understand, I won't ask. You said you wouldn't ask, you're really tight-lipped, you must have swallowed a pound of salt."

He took a bowl of water from the corner and handed it to Shen Lian.

"Do you think Wei Liangbi will go to interrogate or investigate tonight?" Fang Xuejian squatted down next to him and didn't leave.

"Yes." Shen Lian put the bowl on the ground. "The kind of person he is won't believe anyone unless he sees the evidence with his own eyes."

Fang Xuejian was silent for a moment, then said, "What if he finds out?"

"Then he'll know that I'm telling the truth."

"and then?"

"Then he'll come back to me," he said, "with a chair, good tea, and a bunch of questions he wants to ask."

Fang Xuejian clicked his tongue: "So, does that mean we can have four dishes and a soup?"

Is it a knife to the throat, or a simple meal of four dishes and a soup? Just as Wei Liangbi was greedy for intelligence—there was one piece of information he hadn't told him: Yan Shifan's collusion with the Japanese pirates wasn't a recent development. In the thirty-fifth year of the Jiajing reign (1556), Yan Shifan had already established contact with Japan through Fujianese maritime merchants. That year, the number of Japanese pirates along the southeastern coast suddenly increased by 30%. While Qi Jiguang was fighting a grueling battle on the front lines, Yan Shifan was making a fortune in the rear.

Of course, there are also personal opinions from previous Ming Dynasty history studies.

These are all the cards Shen Lian has in his hand.

I'm not going to fight now; I'll fight if I get stabbed.

Footsteps suddenly came from the end of the corridor, the sound of leather boots on the stone slabs, hurried and heavy, carrying an irrepressible excitement.

Fang Xuejian tensed up: "They're here?"

Shen Lian didn't move. He closed his eyes, listening to the footsteps getting closer and closer, and then stopping at the cell door.

"Shen Lian." It was Zhou Kui's voice, panting, as if he had run over. "Lord Wei said he'll interrogate you first thing tomorrow morning. He told you to get some rest."

Then the footsteps faded into the distance.

Fang Xuejian was stunned for a long time: "That's it?"

Shen Lian's lips curled up slightly.

he knows,

Wei Liangbi will eventually lose his patience.

This is nothing but self-deception.

Shen Lian closed his eyes to calm himself down. His temples were still throbbing, but it was much better than before.

At the end of the corridor, the sound of an iron gate opening and closing echoed. Then came the sound of leather boots clicking on the stone slabs, rhythmic and powerful, gradually fading into the distance.

Wei Liangbi did not return to his duty room. He stood in the shadows outside cell number T, staring at the iron door.

"Lord Wei," a captain emerged from the shadows, lowering his voice, "are we going to interrogate those guys from Unit D tonight?"

Wei Liangbi's mind was replaying Shen Lian's words over and over again.

Yan Shifan's accounting office in Nanjing. Colluding with Japanese pirates. Sulfur, copper, and lead. Arms dealer.

Every word was like a hammer blow to his heart.

If all of this is true—no, if some of it is true—then the weight of this case is beyond his control.

The more you know, the deeper you get entangled.

Complete ignorance renders one worthless.

"We won't discuss it tonight. Tomorrow. I'll personally handle the case tomorrow," Wei Liangbi replied.

The captain acknowledged and retreated.

Wei Liangbi turned around and walked back along the dimly lit corridor. After a few steps, he suddenly stopped.

He recalled Shen Lian's expression when he said those words—calm, resolute, as if he were talking about something that had already happened.

That person wasn't gambling.

He really knew.

Wei Liangbi took a deep breath and quickened his pace. He needed to go back and organize his thoughts, figure out how to interrogate that accountant surnamed Qian tomorrow, and even more importantly, figure out—just who this Shen Lian really was.