Chapter Twelve: Borrowing the Spirit Horses to Invoke Divine Speed; Escaping the Warehouse at Hour of the Dragon Amidst Wolves

Song Mo realized something was amiss. Tang Yi had rushed back in such haste; it must mean that something had gone wrong with Old Wu—perhaps he’d ended up like Zhang Donkey, cut down by someone. If the lead on Guo Suobo was lost, and he just happened to have learned the truth at this very moment, anyone would suspect Song Mo of foul play, wouldn’t they? Even if he wasn’t a collaborator with the Turks, he’d be hard-pressed to clear himself of involvement.

Yet Song Mo couldn’t reveal the secret of the Soul Summoning Record. The situation was clear: he had only two choices before him. Either he surrendered quietly and followed Tang Yi to the Six Gates’ prison to sample their newly invented “massage chair”—if it wasn’t comfortable, someone would be more than happy to bring out the little whip for a bit of playful cosplay; there was always something just right for you. Or—he could run.

Glancing at the talisman tied to his leg, Song Mo couldn’t help but lament the tricks of fate—he hadn’t expected to need it so soon. But when he looked up, the constables of the Six Gates were already sealing off every escape route.

There was no time to hesitate; when the knot’s too tangled, the wise use the sharpest blade.

Song Mo suddenly drew something from his chest and threw it with a shout: “Tang Yi, Guo Suobo!”

Everyone looked up and saw an ancient, yellowed book spinning through the air. Before it touched the ground, “The Divine March of the Talisman Horse” dissolved into a swirl of azure smoke. No one there understood the mystical powers of the Soul Summoning Record; they assumed Song Mo had thrown a concealed weapon, some sort of trick.

In the split second of Tang Yi and the others’ surprise, Song Mo invoked the Divine March of the Talisman Horse. In the blink of an eye, his figure vanished before the assembled constables of the Six Gates.

“Witchcraft!” one constable gasped in terror. In their understanding, anyone who moved with such speed was no longer merely human.

“Don’t panic, it’s just a spell,” Tang Yi said calmly.

The constables, recalling Tang Yi’s status, steadied themselves and stilled their panic.

Tang Yi watched Song Mo’s disappearing back and murmured quietly, “A corpse keeper... and sorcery. Interesting.”

...

The thirteenth year of Jian’an, the fifteenth day of the eighth month, at dawn.

Six Gates Headquarters.

The Marquis of Mysteries, Zhuge Changqing, toyed with a purple bamboo brush tipped with golden mouse hair. Below, Tang Yi stood with a furrowed brow.

“Are you finding yourself at ease in the Six Gates?” Zhuge Changqing set the brush on its stand and asked.

Tang Yi’s expression softened a little. “It feels just like home.”

Zhuge Changqing paused, then gave a wry smile. “Just like home, you say. But a guest is always a guest—how could it ever be home?”

Tang Yi said nothing in reply. Zhuge Changqing continued, “Do you think there’s anything amiss with that corpse keeper?”

Tang Yi paused to consider, then shook his head. “He probably has no ties to the Turks.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Tang Yi added, “But he doesn’t look like a corpse keeper.”

Zhuge Changqing glanced at Tang Yi. “If he’s not a corpse keeper, then what do you think he is?”

Tang Yi replied solemnly, “A Suppressor of Demons.”

The two fell silent together, letting the topic drop.

“Should we close the net on the Turks in Pomegranate Lane?” Tang Yi asked in a low voice.

Zhuge Changqing nodded. “I’ve already sent Qi Jingmo and Bai Lingquan with teams.”

Tang Yi nodded as well. With the skills of the Star-Chaser and the Blood-Drinker, the task should be straightforward.

Suddenly, Tang Yi thought of someone and asked gravely, “What about Hua Banxia?”

Zhuge Changqing didn’t answer directly. “Today is the Lantern Festival, and the Grand Marshal of the Northern Desert, Ma Sihu, has returned to the capital. The Emperor has bestowed his favor; platforms and stalls are being set up in every district. Even a few stones thrown at the walls of Moyang Palace would stir up a world of trouble.”

Zhuge Changqing sighed. “The Northern Desert army sweeps all before it; the Turks are in full retreat. There’s no such thing as coincidence—why would the Turks sneak into Jian’an at such a time?”

Tang Yi’s expression grew grave. “Hua Banxia has gone to Yong’an Gate?”

Zhuge Changqing nodded solemnly. “There’s no curfew tonight, and the Six Gates and Five City Garrison are stretched thin. We must uncover the Turks’ purpose within the next eight hours.”

Tang Yi’s heart sank. “Eight hours... That’s precious little time. Let’s hope Qi and Bai don’t make a mistake.”

...

Early morning.

West Market. Over a hundred constables from the Six Gates, swords at their waists and compact crossbows in hand, moved smoothly past a porcelain shop, heading west across Mushan Street. Approaching Pomegranate Lane, they dismounted and proceeded on foot.

The heavy footsteps and labored breathing merged into a single ominous sound. No one spoke; they advanced like a company of black-armored shadows toward Pomegranate Lane.

Qi Jingmo quietly fastened his black and gold gauntlets. “The targets are in Tian Four Warehouse. Kill as needed—leave two or three alive for questioning.”

Bai Lingquan nodded, having no objections to Qi’s plan.

The team shot forward like an arrow into Pomegranate Lane. The surrounding warehouses and shops had already been shuttered by the city’s enforcers; any passersby were ushered out of the area.

Inside the Tian Four Warehouse, only the Turks disguised as Western merchants remained. Fearing their cover might be blown, the Turks had driven out any other foreign merchants, which worked to the Six Gates’ advantage.

Tian Four Warehouse was a wooden structure, distinct from the other buildings in Jian’an. Its flat roof was designed for merchants to sun-dry their goods—herbs, furs, spices, and the like from the Western Regions. Without enough space to dry them, a long rainy season would see their wares rot and mold—a wasted journey for nothing.

The warehouse was eighty paces long, fifty paces wide, square, with east and west entrances. Windows on all sides let air flow but were too small for thieves—no need to worry about Turks escaping that way.

There were no shared walls between warehouses, as foreign merchants often stored furs; a fire could easily spread from one to the next. For the same reason, the warehouse stood by a canal and was equipped with water bags, bladders, pumps, and giant jars for fire prevention. Water bags made from cow or horse hide were tightly bound with a bamboo spout; in case of fire, strong men would squeeze the bag to spray water onto the flames. Water bladders, made from pig or cow bladder, could be thrown directly into a fire; as they burst, they would douse the flames.

Inside the warehouse, Mi Zigé sat at a table across from another man—a high-nosed, deep-eyed Turk with a black braided ponytail.

“Gu Master, have you found Guo Suobo?” Mi Zigé asked gravely.

The Turk, Zhao Nu, shook his head. “The old beggar was hit with the Heart-Eater Gu and died in a heartbeat. I didn’t even have time to ask about Guo Suobo’s whereabouts.”

Mi Zigé’s face darkened. “Don’t ruin the whole plan.”

Zhao Nu replied irritably, “You worry too much.”

As Mi Zigé opened his mouth to retort, Zhao Nu’s expression turned grim. “Something’s wrong—the Night Watch Gu is disturbed.”

Mi Zigé immediately called out in Turkic, “Enemies!”

Outside, Bai Lingquan drew his sword and flicked it, its note ringing coldly, thirsting for blood.

“Wind!” Qi Jingmo roared.

A hundred Six Gates constables unleashed a volley of crossbow bolts. The Turks guarding the doors were instantly riddled like porcupines.

“Break the doors!” Qi Jingmo ordered decisively.

Three explosive arrows whistled through the air and struck the warehouse doors. With a thunderous crash, the doors were blown to splinters.

“Go! Quickly!” Qi Jingmo charged in at the head, with Bai Lingquan guarding his flank.

Constables had already ambushed both entrances, raining arrows into the warehouse; now Qi Jingmo led the charge.

“Lie down and you’ll be spared!” Qi Jingmo bellowed, felling a would-be ambusher with a single punch.

The Turks, crazed, rushed at the sword-bearing constables. With Da Zhou and the Turks locked in endless war, enemies meeting in these close confines fought with the fury of blood vendetta.

The Turks had surrendered their weapons upon entering the city; now, unarmed, they were little more than targets.

Swords and crossbows, steel biting into flesh—the sounds of slaughter rose and fell.

In no time, the warehouse floor was strewn with corpses.

“Thirteen? No, two are missing,” Qi Jingmo growled, scanning the dead.

Bai Lingquan looked up and spotted a black hole gaping in the warehouse roof.

“Damn it, after them!” Qi Jingmo, light-footed as ever, leapt onto the roof.

Bai Lingquan, worried for his comrade, followed close behind. From the rooftop, they saw two shadows jump, one after another, into the canal.

Too far away to see their faces, Qi Jingmo noticed one of them carrying a wooden chest.

Qi Jingmo knew Jian’an’s layout by heart—the canal beside Tian Four Warehouse connected to the city moat and even led beyond the walls.

When they reached the canal’s edge, the water was smooth as glass—no trace of anyone remained.

“Search, house by house!” Qi Jingmo commanded quietly.

Bai Lingquan sheathed his sword. “The wolves have fled. Let’s return to the Six Gates and regroup.”

Qi Jingmo clenched his fists, then slowly relaxed them. He knew full well it was Lantern Festival tonight. Stages and lanterns everywhere—any real commotion and even the emperor might mete out punishment.

“Search the Tian Four Warehouse first for any clues,” Qi Jingmo said, regaining his composure.

Soon, the warehouse was cleared. Aside from some herbs and sheep bones, they found only a single sheepskin scroll.

Qi Jingmo and Bai Lingquan unrolled it, and their faces turned ashen. Upon it was a map of Jian’an’s market districts.