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

Shen Lian was awakened by footsteps. Not just one person's footsteps, but several. The leather boots trod on the stone slabs, neat and powerful.

He opened his eyes. A sliver of grayish-white light shone through the vent; it was morning.

Fang Xuejian was curled up in the corner, still asleep, muttering something. He turned over, kicking the straw everywhere. A sense of oppression echoed through the prison corridors, like the muffled rumble before thunder.

The footsteps stopped at the cell door. The chains rattled, and the iron door was pulled open.

"Shen Lian. Lord Wei is here to interrogate you." Zhou Kui stood at the door, followed by two Jinyiwei captains. His expression was strange—not the usual businesslike indifference, but something Shen Lian rarely saw on the faces of Jinyiwei: awe.

Shen Lian stood up; his legs were a little numb, but he didn't lean against the wall. As he reached the door, he glanced back at Fang Xuejian. Fang Xuejian was still asleep, a straw dangling from the corner of his mouth; he smiled faintly, perhaps dreaming of something.

The interrogation room door was open, and the room was brightly lit. Two oil lamps—one on the table and the other hanging in the corner—illuminated the entire room. The water stains and mold on the walls were clearly visible, like a crumpled map.

Wei Liangbi sat behind his desk, in front of him were writing brush, ink, paper, inkstone, a pot of tea, and two cups.

Today he was wearing a flying fish robe, the crimson satin embroidered with golden flying fish patterns, dazzling under the light. A brocade spring knife hung at his waist, the copper buckle on the scabbard polished to a gleaming shine.

But to Shen Lian's surprise, there was a chair next to the desk. It wasn't the low stool that prisoners used to sit on, but a proper chair with a backrest, placed next to the wooden chair he had been sitting on.

"Sit down." Wei Liangbi's voice was much calmer than yesterday, but it lacked the condescending tone of an interrogator and had something Shen Lian was very familiar with—the politeness of a businessman when discussing business.

Shen Lian sat down. The chair was hard, but it was much better than squatting on the ground.

Wei Liangbi didn't speak immediately. He picked up the teapot, poured tea into a cup, and pushed it in front of Shen Lian. The tea was dark brown and steaming. The fragrance of the tea leaves spread in the damp air, mixing with the musty smell of the prison cell to create a strange aroma.

Shen Lian did not reach for the teacup.

Wei Liangbi didn't seem to mind. He poured himself a cup, took a sip, and put it down. Then he took out a document from under the table, unfolded it, and placed it in front of Shen Lian.

"Yan Shifan's accountant in Nanjing was surnamed Qian, named Qian Dehou. He joined Yan's household in the 25th year of the Jiajing reign and was in charge of the accounts in the southeast. He was the one imprisoned in the Ding-class jail. What you mentioned yesterday—the Nanjing Ministry of Works' secret accounts, the three lines of the Wang family in Huizhou, and the 500,000 taels of silver annually—"

He paused, looking into Shen Lian's eyes.

"They all match up."

Shen Lian's face remained expressionless. This was all within his expectations—Mr. Qian's memories were extracted from the mind of the jailer Sun, and the account figures were genuine; Wei Liangbi could easily find them by investigating.

"But the other thing you mentioned—" Wei Liangbi's voice suddenly lowered, so low that Shen Lian almost had to strain his ears to hear, "Yan Shifan had dealings with Japan, exchanging silver for sulfur and copper, and reselling strategic materials. Qian Dehou didn't mention this line of work."

Shen Lian picked up his teacup and took a sip. The tea was cold, probably because it had been steeping for too long; it was a bit bitter. But he didn't frown, slowly swallowed it, and put the cup back on the table.

"He doesn't dare to confess," Shen Lian said. "The general ledger isn't in his possession."

Wei Liangbi tapped his fingers twice on the table, then stopped.

"Who has it?"

"Yan Shifan had a merchant in Fujian named Lin Yiqing. In the thirty-fourth year of the Jiajing reign, Yan Shifan began doing business with Japan through him. The master ledger was in Lin Yiqing's possession."

This was something Shen Lian had unearthed last night while repeatedly "replaying" Sun the jailer's memories in his mind. It wasn't something he saw directly from the memories, but rather pieced together from those fragmented, incomplete pieces—information that Sun the jailer had silently memorized, including "Boss Lin from Fujian," "the first batch of goods from the thirty-fifth year of the Jiajing reign," and "the account books cannot be kept in Nanjing; they must be transported by sea."

Wei Liangbi's face changed, his fingers clenched into fists, revealing a deeper, bone-deep shock.

"That's not the only one." Shen Lian had put in considerable effort in his research on the history of the Ming Dynasty. Yan Shifan experienced a pivotal event that had a significant impact on his political career. Shen Lian continued, "Yan Shifan's weakness wasn't just at sea."

Wei Liangbi narrowed his eyes.

"Last October, his mother, Lady Ouyang, passed away," Shen Lian said. "According to regulations, he should have returned to his hometown to observe the mourning period for three years. Grand Secretary Yan was eighty-two years old, and his son was indispensable in drafting memorials and writing petitions. Grand Secretary Yan submitted several memorials, requesting the Emperor to grant him special permission to remain in the capital to observe the mourning period."

Wei Liangbi's breathing became heavy.

"His Majesty has granted permission. But there's something not written in the edict—" Shen Lian's voice lowered even further, so much so that Wei Liangbi had to lean forward. "Yan Shifan can remain in the capital, but he cannot enter the Western Garden to draft documents on behalf of his father. He can only observe mourning outside the palace and listen to news from behind the palace walls."

The interrogation room was so quiet you could hear the wick of the oil lamp burning.

"Lord Wei, think about it." Shen Lian picked up his teacup, took a sip of the now-cold tea, and said, "Yan Song is eighty-two years old. His eyesight is failing, and his hearing is failing. The memorials he's drafting are piled up on his desk, and he can't even turn them over. Yan Shifan is guarding outside the palace and can't enter the West Garden. Who will write the memorials? And who will approve them when they're submitted?"

He didn't continue speaking, but simply put the teacup back on the table with a very soft "tap".

Wei Liangbi's fingers stopped on the table, and he sat there motionless as if someone had struck an acupoint.

Shen Lian, observing his reaction, knew what he was thinking—the palace. Those drafts submitted from the Grand Secretariat ultimately had to pass through the Directorate of Ceremonial, and then through the people close to the Emperor. Yan Shifan couldn't enter the Western Garden, Yan Song couldn't approve memorials; who ultimately made the decisions for the Emperor regarding those drafts?

Is the political winds shifting in the imperial court?

Wei Liangbi dared not think further about this problem.

"How do you know all this?" He tried to keep his voice steady, but his throat was moving as he swallowed.

Shen Lian did not answer. He looked into Wei Liangbi's eyes, waiting for him to figure it out himself.

The torch on the wall sparked once, and a spark landed on the stone slab before hissing and going out.

Wei Liangbi lowered his voice, but his tone betrayed an urgent tension: "Who exactly is your superior?"

Shen Lian still did not answer. Silence itself was the best answer—let Wei Liangbi guess for himself; the deeper he guessed, the less he would dare to touch him.

Wei Liangbi stood up and paced back and forth in the interrogation room.

When he reached the corner, he stopped, turned his back to Shen Lian, and stood there for a long time.

"Mr. Shen," he suddenly spoke, his voice much gentler than before, so gentle that it gave Shen Lian goosebumps. His form of address had also changed. "Since you know so much, why don't we cooperate?"

He turned around, walked to Shen Lian, and sat down on the chair next to him. The two faced each other, less than two feet apart. Wei Liangbi's face held an expression that Shen Lian rarely saw on the faces of the Embroidered Uniform Guards—sincerity.

"Tell me everything you know, and I'll keep you safe." His voice was soft and sincere, like an old friend having a heart-to-heart talk.

Shen Lian looked at him. The light from the oil lamp shone on Wei Liangbi's face, casting a half-light, half-shadow on his thin features. His eyes were bright, and Shen Lian's reflection was mirrored in his pupils, small, as if waiting for a promise.

Shen Lian smiled. It wasn't a friendly smile; it was the kind of smile that someone who's been in prison for a long time would have—the corners of his mouth turned up, but his eyes were empty.

"Mr. Wei, as I've said before, I'm an undercover agent. My intelligence is for those above me, not for you. If you want to know more, you can, but you'll have to offer something in exchange."

Wei Liangbi's smile froze on his face. The froze not because of anger, but because of surprise—a scholar imprisoned in the imperial prison waiting to die actually dared to negotiate with him.

"Exchange it for something?" His voice turned cold again. "What right do you, a convicted member of the White Lotus Religion awaiting punishment, have to negotiate with me?"

Shen Lian met his gaze without flinching.

"Lord Wei, when you went to check cell number D last night, Commander Zhao Yan was also there." His voice was soft, but every word was like a nail driven into the air. "He stayed in Mr. Qian's cell for half an hour. When he came out, he was clutching a letter in his hand."

Wei Liangbi's expression changed completely. His hands began to tremble, and he hid them under the table, but they were shaking so violently that the teacups on the table were also shaking.

"Zhao Yan is Xu Jie's man," Shen Lian continued, his voice still flat. "He's racing against time. He wants to get his hands on the account book from Mr. Qian before Yan's faction destroys the evidence. Lord Wei, do you think you'll still have any say in Lord Zhu's eyes if Zhao Yan gets that account book first?"

The interrogation room was deathly silent. The torchlight flickered on the wall, mingling the shadows of the two men, making it impossible to distinguish one from the other.

Wei Liangbi steadied his trembling hands, slowly took them out from under the table, placed them on the table, interlaced his fingers, and slowly tightened them.

"What do you want?" His voice was hoarse.

Shen Lian picked up his teacup and took a sip. The tea had gone completely cold and was even more bitter, but he slowly swallowed it and put the cup back on the table.

"First, Fang Xuejian's treatment will be the same as mine. Food, clothing, and medicine will all be provided." He held up one finger. "Second, I need paper and pen. Not for writing secret letters, but for writing things for the higher-ups to see. You can check them, but you can't delete or modify them."

Wei Liangbi stared at him for a long time, long enough that Shen Lian could count the beads of sweat on his eyelashes.

"Anything else?" Wei Liangbi asked.

Shen Lian looked at him, and the corners of his mouth curled up slightly.

"Third, after Shexian County's reply arrives, no matter what it says, you must give me a chance to explain in person."

Wei Liangbi's pupils contracted sharply. He knew what Shen Lian was talking about—Shen Lian's name was likely not on the secret roster of the Shexian County Hundred-Household Office.

This incident is the biggest flaw in Shen Lian's false identity.

"Aren't you afraid I won't agree?" Wei Liangbi's voice was very low.

Shen Lian smiled and said, "Lord Wei, you have no choice."

He stood up, the chair scraping against the floor with a harsh sound. He paused at the doorway, but didn't turn back.

"Mr. Qian's general ledger was transported by sea. Lin Yiqing in Fujian has the ledger, but he doesn't keep it at home. It's on a ship outside Quanzhou Port, the ship's name is 'Shunfeng'. You'd better find it before Zhao Yan does."

He went outside. The corridor was dark, with only the light of torches flickering overhead.

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 come in, he suddenly stood up.

"How is it?" he leaned closer. "Did he believe it?"

Shen Lian leaned against the wall, slowly slid down, and sat on the ground. The back of his prison uniform was wet again, clinging to his skin, cold and sticky. His temples started throbbing again—not a side effect of his cheat-like abilities, but the exhaustion after two consecutive days of intense interrogation.

"I believe you," he said.

Fang Xuejian's eyes lit up: "Then can we have four dishes and a soup?"

Shen Lian did not answer. He was thinking about something else—Wei Liangbi had agreed to his conditions, but the reply from Shexian County would arrive in four days. By then, no matter how much Wei Liangbi trusted him now, the fact remained that his name would not be on the list.

He needs to make himself indispensable within four days.

Footsteps echoed from the end of the corridor. It wasn't the jailer bringing food; it was the sound of leather boots clicking on the stone slabs, unhurried and reassuring.

Fang Xuejian tensed up: "Not again?"

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. "Lord Wei said that from today onwards, your and Fang Xuejian's meals will be upgraded by one level. Four dishes and one soup."

Fang Xuejian opened his mouth wide, unable to speak for a long time.

Zhou Kui didn't leave. He stood at the door, hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Also, the paper and pen you asked for, bring them over first thing tomorrow morning."

The footsteps faded into the distance.

Fang Xuejian was stunned for a long time, then suddenly squatted down, grabbed Shen Lian's arm, and whispered, his voice trembling with excitement: "Four dishes and a soup! Paper and a pen! Shen Lian, did you drug him?"

Shen Lian opened his eyes and glanced at him.

"It wasn't medication," he said. "It was toothpaste."

Fang Xuejian was stunned for a moment, then laughed, laughing so hard that tears almost came out: "You're a fucking genius."

Shen Lian leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. His temples were still throbbing, but the corners of his mouth curled up slightly.

Shexian County will respond in four days.

Within four days, he would turn Wei Liangbi into his strongest shield.

At the end of the corridor, in Wei Liangbi's duty room, the lights were on. He sat behind a desk, a sheet of white paper spread out in front of him, a pen dipped in ink, suspended above the paper, but he hadn't written a single word.

He was thinking about what Shen Lian had said—Yan Shifan's mother had passed away, and he was forced to remain in the capital despite his illness, forbidden from entering the Western Garden. Who was approving those draft proposals submitted?

He recalled a secret report he had handled last month. The report stated that Lü Fang, the Grand Eunuch of the Directorate of Ceremonial, had been frequently entering and leaving the Qianqing Palace, sometimes not leaving until late at night. Previously, Lü Fang only handled palace affairs and never touched draft memorials. Yan Song was eighty-two, and Yan Shifan could no longer enter the Western Garden; those memorials submitted would eventually need someone to approve them.

Has the wind really changed direction?

Wei Liangbi touched the paper with the tip of his pen, and the ink spread into a small dot, like a closed eye.

He put down his pen, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.

The less you know about these things, the better.