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

Wei Liangbi returned at dusk three days later.

Shen Lian heard his footsteps coming from the end of the corridor. They were not in a hurry, but each step was firm, as if he wanted to wear through the stone slabs.

When the iron gate was pushed open, Fang Xuejian was weaving something out of straw in the corner.

These days he's become obsessed with weaving cricket cages, saying he can sell them for money when he gets out. His hand trembled, and the half-finished straw knot came undone, scattering straw onto his knees. He stared blankly at the doorway, forgetting even to pick it up.

Wei Liangbi stood at the door.

He wore a flying fish robe, the crimson satin embroidered with golden flying fish patterns, which gleamed dimly in the lamplight. But the eyes did not lie—the dark circles under his eyes were deeper than before, as if two arcs had been drawn in his eye sockets with charcoal, and the blood vessels on the whites of his eyes were dense, like a net woven too tightly, covering his pupils.

He wasn't holding any official documents, only a key.

"Come out." His voice was as flat as a stagnant pool, but there were undercurrents beneath.

Two Imperial Guard captains emerged from behind him, their black boots making a dull thud on the stone slabs. They pulled open the iron gate, the bars creaking harshly and echoing through the corridor for a long time. The two men stood on either side of Shen Lian, making no move, but Shen Lian could feel their gazes—not the cold indifference he had shown when looking at prisoners before, but something far more dangerous, like hunters eyeing prey that had fallen into a trap but was still alive.

Shen Lian slowly stood up. His legs were a little numb, and his kneecap made a soft "click" sound, which was particularly clear in the quiet cell.

Fang Xuejian suddenly rushed out from the corner and grabbed his sleeve.

"Shen Lian—" Fang Xuejian's voice trembled, but there was something else in his eyes, something deeper than fear.

Shen Lian looked down at his hands. Those hands were covered in calluses and scars from chemical burns, with indelible grass sap embedded in his fingernails, and a fresh scratch on the back of his hand, from when he was moving straw yesterday. Three months ago, those hands were still in the laboratory, handling beakers and test tubes.

"It's nothing," Shen Lian said.

His voice was very soft, but Fang Xuejian heard it. The hand slowly loosened, the knuckles unfolding one by one, as if it were a great effort.

Fang Xuejian retreated to the corner, squatted down, and tried to gather the scattered straw back together, but his hands were shaking and he couldn't weave it back together.

Shen Lian walked out of the prison cell.

Shen Lian was led to sit down on the wooden chair. The chair was hard, and the armrests were worn smooth. Countless prisoners had sat on this chair; sweat and blood had seeped into the wood grain, turning it into dark brown patterns.

Wei Liangbi sat opposite him, the two of them less than three feet apart.

"Case file from the first half of the thirty-eighth year of Jiajing, Class C, Case No. 43." Wei Liangbi's voice was slow, as if he were reading a judgment, each word pronounced clearly, pausing after each word as if waiting for them to take root in the air. "I've investigated."

He didn't throw the document at him; instead, he pressed the pages down with his hand and tapped them lightly twice with his fingertips.

Shen Lian didn't move. He didn't even look at the document, but stared into Wei Liangbi's eyes. Those eyes were bloodshot, weary, and held something Shen Lian knew very well—fear. Not the kind of fear of having a knife to one's throat, but a deeper kind, seeping from the very bones. A man who had served in the Embroidered Uniform Guard for over twenty years, being manipulated by rules he himself didn't understand—that feeling was worse than being stabbed.

"The person who filed Case No. 43 was a tea merchant from Shexian County named Li Defu." Wei Liangbi's voice was even lower, so low that Shen Lian almost had to strain his ears to hear. "He was developed into a temporary informant in the first month of the thirty-eighth year of Jiajing. His superior was the head of the Shexian County Hundred Household Office at the time—not Chen Zhong, but Ma Wencai."

He turned the document over so that the front was facing Shen Lian.

The light from the oil lamp shone on the paper, making the large vermilion seal particularly dazzling, and the ink gleamed with an oily sheen under the light.

"Chen Zhong was indeed the former centurion of the Shexian Hundred-Household Office, and he was transferred at the end of the year 38 of the Jiajing reign." Wei Liangbi's voice suddenly rose a little, as if a string on a musical instrument had been stretched to its limit, "but during his tenure—he never developed any temporary informants with the surname Shen."

He put down the document, placed his hands on the table, interlaced his fingers, and slowly tightened them.

Shen Lian could hear his own heartbeat, steady and steady.

You could also hear Wei Liangbi's breathing, heavy and uneven, like a exhausted old horse.

Shen Lian looked at the document, then he raised his head and looked into Wei Liangbi's eyes.

"Lord Wei, you've checked the files from the thirty-eighth year of the Jiajing reign. But have you considered that my record might not be from the first half of the year?"

Wei Liangbi's fingers stopped, as if someone had struck an acupoint.

"In the winter of the thirty-eighth year of Jiajing," Shen Lian continued, speaking slowly but clearly, as if writing on rice paper, each stroke carrying strength. "The twelfth lunar month. Chen Zhong developed a group of temporary informants in the twelfth lunar month, specifically to monitor the salt merchants of Huizhou and the White Lotus Sect's dealings. The records of these people—were not included in the files for the first half of the year."

Wei Liangbi's pupils contracted sharply.

"What makes you say that?" Wei Liangbi's voice trembled. It wasn't a noticeable tremor, but a subtle tremor in his fingertips, almost imperceptible unless you looked closely. But Shen Lian noticed it.

Shen Lian looked into his eyes without flinching.

"Because that batch of temporary informants went through the emergency filing process," he said. "In the twelfth month of the thirty-eighth year of Jiajing's reign, the White Lotus Rebellion broke out simultaneously in Huizhou, Chizhou, and Yingtian. The Northern Garrison Command ordered the emergency development of a batch of temporary informants—the filing was done separately and not through the regular case files."

As he uttered those words, he could almost see the gears turning in Wei Liangbi's mind.

Wei Liangbi's expression changed.

It wasn't the previous bluish-gray; it was a deeper white, seeping from the very bones.

"Emergency filing procedures..." His voice was low, as if he were talking to himself, or perhaps reciting a name he had long forgotten. "How do you know about this?"

Shen Lian did not answer. He simply sat there, back straight, hands on his knees, looking at Wei Liangbi.

Wei Liangbi's breathing grew heavier, his chest heaving like a wild beast cornered. His lips moved as if he were saying something, but no sound came out. His Adam's apple bobbed several times before he finally managed to squeeze out a few words.

"Shen Lian, what exactly are you—"

He didn't finish speaking.

Because Shen Lian stood up.

The chair scraped against the floor with a sharp, cracking sound, like bones breaking. Wei Liangbi instinctively leaned back, the chair back slamming against the wall with a dull thud.

Shen Lian looked down at him, the light from the oil lamp shining from the side, casting his shadow on Wei Liangbi and enveloping him completely.

"Lord Wei, you came to see me today not because I lied to you. It's because you're afraid—that I really am lying to you."

This statement was like a knife, stabbing into Wei Liangbi's most vulnerable spot, all the way to the hilt.

Wei Liangbi's facial muscles twitched. It wasn't the kind of twitching that comes from anger, but the kind where someone has hit a nerve, and he instinctively wants to refute but can't find the words.

His mouth opened and then closed.

"If what I'm saying is true—" Shen Lian's voice was still so soft, but every word was like a nail, hammered into the air, "You've offended someone above you."

Wei Liangbi's eyelid twitched.

"If what I said is false—" Shen Lian paused, letting the words hang in the air for a moment, like a knife suspended in mid-air, "you were tricked by a prisoner in the imperial prison."

Wei Liangbi's chin was trembling.

"You can't afford to gamble with that outcome," Shen Lian said, slowing his speech and enunciating each word clearly. "So you won't kill me, and you wouldn't dare to. You'll just investigate—and find out that everything I said is true. Or, you'll find out that every single thing I said—you won't even have time to verify it."

Dead silence.

The wick of the oil lamp popped again, sparks flew up, and the light flickered on Wei Liangbi's face, illuminating the dark blue mark under his eye, so deep it looked like it had been drawn with charcoal.

Shen Lian turned and slowly walked towards the door.

He paused when he reached the threshold, but did not turn around.

"Lord Wei, you have interrogated me more than once, and my men have been investigating me for days." His voice came from the doorway, neither too loud nor too soft, just loud enough for Wei Liangbi to hear clearly. "At this point, is it really that important whether I am a wanted spy for the court?"

He heard the sound of a chair creaking behind him.

Shen Lian didn't turn around. He stood on the threshold, one foot already outside.

"In our line of work, the most important thing is intelligence," he said, his voice carrying a certainty and unquestionable quality. It wasn't a threat or a plea, but the composure of someone who knows they have leverage. "You might as well be patient and wait three days. Within three days, Censor Zou Yinglong will definitely submit a memorial—impeaching Yan Shifan in court."

He could feel Wei Liangbi's gaze fixed on his back, like two knives.

"If this matter falls through—" Shen Lian paused, a slight smile playing on his lips, before quickly suppressing it, "You need not trouble yourself. Kill me or torture me, I, Shen Lian, will do as you please."

After he finished speaking, he stepped over the threshold and went back to his cell.

Shen Lian did not turn around.

No sound.

Wei Liangbi did not speak, did not throw anything, and did not chase after him.

There was no sound at all.

He didn't stop.

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 loose straw. When he saw Shen Lian come in, he suddenly stood up. His legs were numb from squatting, and the sudden movement made him sway, so he grabbed the wall for support.

"How is it?" His voice trembled. "Did he believe it?"

Shen Lian did not answer. His temples throbbed as if they were about to explode, and his mind was filled with Wei Liangbi's ashen face—the sweat on his forehead, the dark circles under his eyes, the deep furrow at the corner of his mouth, and the look in those eyes.

It wasn't anger, it wasn't fear, it was something Shen Lian was very familiar with.

hesitate.

A man who had served in the Embroidered Uniform Guard for twenty-three years was hesitating about whether to kill a prisoner in the Imperial Prison.

Shen Lian closed his eyes and went over those words in his mind again. Emergency filing procedures, December, the White Lotus Rebellion, separate filing. Every word was dug out from Wei Liangbi's own memories, and every detail could withstand scrutiny. But the look in Wei Liangbi's eyes at the end—it wasn't a look of belief, nor a look of disbelief.

That was the calm of an old hunter who, after his prey has shown a weakness, chooses to temporarily retreat and wait for a better opportunity.

Perhaps Wei Liangbi was not fooled by him.

He simply chose to wait.

Let Shen Lian reveal more flaws himself. Or let Shen Lian's prophecy fail.

Shen Lian mentally reviewed the date again. May 19th. This was a date he had read about countless times in his thesis; it was etched deep in his memory, something he could never forget.

But what if Zou Yinglong doesn't submit a memorial?

What if history changed because of his arrival?

Shen Lian tapped his knee once, then once more.

Fang Xuejian moved over from the corner, squatted down in front of him, and lowered his voice: "Shen Lian?"

"Um."

"I didn't understand a single word of what you just said—what emergency filing procedures, what direct custody by the garrison commander—" Fang Xuejian swallowed hard. "But I did understand one thing."

Shen Lian opened his eyes and looked at him.

Fang Xuejian's face was not very clear in the darkness, but his eyes were very bright, almost excessively so. The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he were smiling, or perhaps trying to bolster his courage.

"You're gambling."

Shen Lian remained silent.

Fang Xuejian reached out and patted him on the shoulder.

"Let's gamble," Fang Xuejian said, his voice still trembling slightly, but much more steady than before. "Anyway, we were given a second chance at life."

Shen Lian looked at him, his lips twitching slightly. He didn't smile, but there was something in his eyes that Fang Xuejian had never seen before.

It's not gratitude, but a deeper sense of relief, like the feeling of having entrusted something to someone else.

"Fang Xuejian," Shen Lian called out.

"Um?"

"What if—" Shen Lian paused, "I mean, what if Zou Yinglong doesn't submit a memorial in three days, and Wei Liangbi wants to kill me? What would you do?"

Fang Xuejian paused for a moment, then laughed. The laugh was hard to see in the darkness, but his voice was bright, almost shrill.

"What can I do? Die with you, I guess," he said casually, as if he were talking about what to have for dinner. "Anyway, I've had enough of living. I transmigrated to the Jiajing era, and the first thing I did was go to jail. I didn't even get a few hot meals. So be it, I'm dead."

Shen Lian stared at him for a long time.

"You won't die," Shen Lian said.

Fang Xuejian was stunned.

"I won't let you die." Shen Lian's voice was soft, but every word was enunciated clearly, "No matter what happens."

Fang Xuejian opened his mouth, then closed it again. His Adam's apple bobbed, and his eyes reddened, but he stubbornly refused to let the tears fall. He turned his head away and wiped his face haphazardly with his sleeve.

"Damn it," he said, his voice muffled, "how am I supposed to die if you say something like that?"

Shen Lian leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. His temples were still throbbing, but much better than before. He went over the numbers in his mind again—May 19th, Zou Yinglong impeached Yan Song. Two more days.

Two days.

By then, Wei Liangbi will no longer ask who he is.