I traveled back to the Southern Song Dynasty and was actually outmaneuvered by Yue Fei.

Is he Wan Qixie's nephew or grandnephew? Zhao Bocong searched his mind for the original owner's memories.

Wan Qixie, Qin Hui's right-hand man, took over from He Zhu as the presiding judge of Yue Fei's case at the end of the eleventh year of Shaoxing. He tortured Yue Fei to extract a confession and ultimately convicted him on trumped-up charges.

Historically, he later rose to the position of Vice Chancellor, but fell out with Qin Hui and was demoted. He was reinstated after Qin Hui's death.

However, in the first month of the twelfth year of Shaoxing, he had just been promoted from Vice Censor-in-Chief to Vice Chancellor for his merit in investigating Yue Fei, which was the height of his power.

His sons and nephews ran rampant in Lin'an City, and no one dared to stop them.

The courtesan placed her pipa on the table and stood up. "I am not feeling well today, please come another day, Your Excellency."

She turned and walked backstage, but Lord Wanqi reached out and grabbed her wrist.

"I said, let's change the song." His voice wasn't loud, but everyone in the brothel heard him clearly.

"Miss Ding, you're singing songs in Lin'an City, who are you singing for anyway?"

"I'm in a good mood today. You'll keep me company with a cup of tea and sing a song called 'Drunken Penglai.' Tomorrow, I'll have someone change your sign in Beiwali to the biggest one."

The courtesan's wrist was gripped by him; she tried to pull away, but couldn't.

Her fingers clenched tightly. Zhao Bozong saw her lips move, as if she wanted to say something, but then swallowed it back.

She probably wanted to say a lot, whether it was cursing, begging for mercy, or invoking someone's name to pressure the other person.

But in the end she said nothing, because she knew that in Lin'an City, no one could suppress the Wanqi family.

Zhao Bocong walked out of the crowd.

"Lord Wanqi."

His voice wasn't loud, but everyone in the brothel heard it.

Lord Wanqi did not loosen his grip on the courtesan's wrist, and turned his head.

His gaze fell on Zhao Bocong, who wore a purple official robe, a gold belt, and a long-winged turban—the attire of the Prince of Puan.

Then his expression changed; he seemed somewhat surprised.

"Prince Puan".

Lord Wanqi released the singer's wrist and bowed slightly, but this bow did not convey any respect.

Zhao Bozong walked down from the stage and looked up at the singing girl on the stage. She was about eighteen or nineteen years old. The cuff of her lotus-colored jacket was torn, revealing a plain white undergarment underneath.

Her fingers were still trembling, but her face had lost its anger, leaving only a numb calm.

A person who has sung in a brothel for three years and has been bullied for three years has long since learned to swallow their anger. What they can't swallow turns into numbness.

"Young Lady Ding," Zhao Bozong's voice was not loud, "your pipa string is broken. Get a new one and sing another song."

The courtesan was taken aback, and so was Lord Wanqi.

Zhao Bocong took out a small piece of silver from his sleeve and placed it on the table.

"Lord Wanqi just said that 'Yu Lin Ling' is not good. Then let's change it to another one—'Man Jiang Hong'."

The brothel fell silent instantly.

"Man Jiang Hong" is a poem by Yue Fei. In the fourth year of the Shaoxing era, after Yue Fei recovered the six prefectures of Xiangyang, he returned to Ezhou and wrote this poem on the banks of the Yangtze River.

"My hair stands on end in anger, I lean against the railing as the rain subsides."

In Lin'an City during the twelfth year of Shaoxing, no one dared to sing this poem in public.

Qin Hui never explicitly forbade it, but everyone knew what the consequences would be if they sang it.

The courtesan looked at Zhao Bozong, a crack appearing in the numb calm of her eyes. "Your Highness," she said softly, "I don't know 'Man Jiang Hong'."

She is lying.

A courtesan who has been singing in the northern part of Lin'an for three years could not possibly not know how to sing "Man Jiang Hong".

From the fourth to the eleventh year of the Shaoxing reign, this poem spread throughout the north and south of the Yangtze River, and everyone in the entertainment districts and theaters could sing it.

She said no because she was afraid.

Zhao Bozong looked at her; her fingers were still trembling. She was afraid of Wan Qixie's nephew, but even more afraid of the consequences of singing "Man Jiang Hong".

"Then let's choose another one," Zhao Bozong said. "Let's choose one you know how to sing."

The geisha was silent for a moment, then bent down and picked up the broken-stringed pipa from the table. She took out a new string from a hidden compartment at the bottom of the pipa, replaced it, sat up straight, and placed her hand on the frets.

She didn't sing "Man Jiang Hong," but rather "Xiao Chong Shan," another poem by Yue Fei.

Last night, the crickets chirped incessantly. Startled from a thousand-mile dream, it was already past midnight. I rose and walked alone around the steps. All was quiet; the moon shone dimly outside the curtain.

Her voice wasn't loud, unlike her usual melodious singing; it sounded more like she was reciting or talking to herself.

I've spent my life striving for fame and fortune. The old pines and bamboos of my hometown are aged, hindering my return. I long to entrust my heart's secrets to the zither. But true friends are few; if the strings break, who will listen?

When the last note came down, her fingers stopped on the strings.

No one spoke in the brothel. Lord Wanqi stood there, the wine-redness on his face fading by half.

He wasn't stunned by the content of the poem, but rather by Zhao Bozong's silence.

Prince Puan stood below the stage, looking up as he listened, without uttering a single word.

After listening, he didn't applaud, but simply pushed the piece of silver on the table forward.

"Young Lady Ding, the strings on your pipa have been repaired."

Zhao Bozong turned around and walked out of the brothel. Liu An followed behind, carrying his cloak. After a few steps, he stopped.

Lord Wanqi, there's no need to change Lady Ding's brand. Her current brand is perfectly fine.

Lord Wanqi's lips moved, but he did not speak.

Zhao Bocong walked out of the brothel, with Liu An following closely behind, remaining silent for a long time.

Your Highness, that Wanqi—”

"Wan Qixie's nephew. Wan Qiyu." Zhao Bozong fastened the ties of his cloak. "Qin Hui's man. He suffered a setback today, and tomorrow he'll report it to Qin Hui."

He glanced back at the flag of North Wa, then looked away and got into the carriage.

Today, he stood up for a courtesan in a brothel, causing Wan Qiyu to suffer a silent loss, and every node in the intelligence network will know about it.

Prince Puan shielded a female singer in the entertainment district from the Wanqi family. What will the people of Lin'an say about this?

Some say Prince Pu'an was young and impetuous, and it wasn't worth offending Qin Hui for a courtesan. Others say he was a man of strong emotions and couldn't bear to see women being bullied. Still others say he was infatuated with the courtesan.

No one would have thought—

Prince Puan is in North Wali today, and he has not seen the face of that courtesan from beginning to end.

He looked at her broken pipa string and the thin calluses on her fingers as she repaired it.

A singer's calluses should have been formed by pressing the strings at the fingertips, but her calluses were on the web of her thumb and forefinger.

It was from gripping the knife so tightly.

Zhao Bozong closed his eyes, the carriage swaying slightly. He went over the events of the day in his mind.

When Wan Qiyu gripped her wrist, her fingers trembled, but her hand remained steady.

When a courtesan who had been singing in a brothel for three years had her wrist grabbed, her first reaction was not to break free, but to reach for her waist with her other hand.

She reached for nothing, then struggled to free herself. What was around her waist?

It's probably a knife that's not with you.

Bo Cong opened his eyes. He had seen the intelligence nodes that Zhi Jia had set up in Lin'an City in the book.

Jingci Temple...the cook at the back gate of the Qin Mansion...the tea room of the Imperial City Bureau, and another place—Beiwa Goulan, the contact person and the code are not specified.

Zhijia left this page blank and didn't write anything.

Is Ding Xiaoniangzi the nail in the coffin?

he does not know.

But he knew one thing.

Today in North Wali, when Wan Qiyu grabbed her wrist, she touched her waist.