Chapter Fifty-Eight: Unraveling the Threads

Tang Dynasty Calendar, the twenty-fourth day of the twelfth month, Spring Begins.

When the eagle soared, the snow began to fall.

This heavy snow persisted for seven days and seven nights, showing no sign of letting up—swirling endlessly, relentless. The whole Tang Empire seemed buried beneath the snow; even the hardiest birds and beasts had retreated into hibernation.

Outside Chang’an, atop Mount Taihua, by the pond in front of the academy’s lecture hall, three esteemed scholars sat drinking and enjoying the snow, occasionally uttering idle, poetic laments.

“A thousand mountains, no birds fly; ten thousand paths, no trace of man.”

“Liu Hedong’s poetry is unparalleled, far superior to mine, Zhao Zheng, but when it comes to the position of Headmaster, he cannot match me.” The Headmaster tilted his face skyward, stroking his beard with a wistful sigh.

Amid the whirling snow, these scholars, though somewhat downcast, displayed a certain air of distinction.

“Yes, Headmaster Liu once accompanied Lord Zheng north, leading hundreds of our academy’s students to defend Yanmen Pass for over a hundred days, holding off three hundred thousand tribesmen of the Ghostfang. His martial prowess, however, cannot compare to Headmaster Zhao Zheng.” Du Shisan took a sip of wine, sighed, and spoke with quiet sorrow.

“Indeed. After the northern campaign, Headmaster Liu was greatly weakened; his righteous aura was nearly depleted, leaving him to dwell in the academy, composing idle verses and cursing the emperor—nothing much, really. Compared to our own Headmaster Zhao Zheng, Liu Hedong is hardly worth mentioning!” Wen Taiyuan, who abstained from wine, pinched a petal from a slender plum blossom and chewed it thoughtfully, echoing Du Shisan’s words.

The Headmaster, enraged, scolded, “You two old fools, can’t drink without bickering?”

Du Shisan and Wen Taiyuan replied in unison, “Headmaster, if you don’t boast for a day, even meat tastes bland?”

The Headmaster retorted, “Li Yishan had it right—if you two old scoundrels went to the brothel to hear music, you’d only dirty the hands of the lady Jinse!”

Du Shisan and Wen Taiyuan mocked, “That rascal He Chang’an said it best—this Headmaster of ours isn’t even as good as the madam of the Pleasure Pavilion. The sole proof of his manhood is that he can stand while relieving himself…”

The three scholars began to tussle and jostle, and from a distance, they were the only beings stirring within hundreds of miles.

And so, an hour later…

Each scholar returned to his room, changed into clean robes, washed away the blood and mud from their faces, and returned once more to the pond, resuming their drinking, snow-gazing, and idle banter.

“Honestly, it’s shameful—us three, Headmaster and Vice Principals, are not even as capable as those students in Yellow Mud Lane,” the Headmaster remarked gloomily, gazing silently toward the distant city of Chang’an.

“Shen Yan is promising, worthy of great responsibility,” Du Shisan nodded.

“Where do you suppose that rascal He Chang’an is hiding? Clearly, he predicted he’d be in Chang’an, yet we cannot find him,” Wen Taiyuan frowned, also looking toward the city.

“Entering the hidden valley, three years without meeting. Li Yishan’s prediction seems accurate,” the Headmaster mused. “Must we truly wait three years for the academy to see a turning point?”

“Nonsense. That old trickster swindled another twenty taels of silver from me…” Du Shisan grumbled indignantly.

He Chang’an is nothing but a catalyst; he is not truly vital,” Wen Taiyuan said, pinching another plum petal and chewing it slowly. “With this heavy snow, who knows how many common folk will freeze or starve to death…

The north is bitterly cold, and the tribes of Ghostfang, deprived of provisions, will likely invade once more.”

“The Western Buddhist Kingdom is even weaker than Tang; being overrun by demons is only a matter of time. The south, the east… all much the same,” Du Shisan lifted a bowl of wine, but could not bring himself to drink, only sighing and stamping his feet.

The three scholars fell silent.

The mountain winds howled. Snow fell quietly. The world was hushed.

…

Chen Shuangdao had become a cripple, escorted from the Demon Suppressing Tower by two yellow-ranked demon slayers, whereabouts unknown.

The chief warden of the first level of the Demon Suppressing Tower had been replaced;

A woman now held the post—curvaceous and robust, reputedly a relentless agent, often undertaking dangerous missions and always coming out unscathed.

He Chang’an’s days were improving.

Since the onset of winter, He Chang’an had personally “subdued” no fewer than three hundred demon spirits, his merit points soaring above five thousand.

This drew much envy from the other demon slayers.

His colleagues now regarded He Chang’an, the “yellow-ranked demon slayer,” with new respect. Though he was seen as uneducated, a scoundrel, and a wastrel,

as a demon slayer, he was ruthless, cunning, and sly—even the most troublesome spirits, once handed to him, never met a good end…

In short, he was considered highly competent.

He Chang’an cared about others’ opinions, for he needed a “bad reputation” to protect himself for some time.

Even though he had schemed against Chen Shuangdao, reducing that wretch to a brain-damaged invalid, and incidentally crippled a “ghost infant,”

He Chang’an knew well that the attempts on his life were not over; beneath this temporary calm, danger might lurk…

“If I were to assassinate a demon slayer, how would I go about it?”

“If I were a Night God Cult officer, what move would I make?”

This thought gnawed at him, so much so that his gaze toward his demon slayer colleagues became increasingly wary.

From brazen attacks to covert schemes, those targeting He Chang’an knew his every move; even in the Demon Slayers’ Bureau and beneath the Demon Suppressing Tower, they could reach him…

It was certain that someone high up was involved.

There must be others in the bureau whose souls were controlled; perhaps even the chief himself.

He Chang’an walked on eggshells, trusting no one, even those whose souls bore no mark of demons—he treated them all as suspects.

The only thing that gave him some peace of mind was the formidable array of the Demon Suppressing Tower. Even though he “freeloaded” every day, not a single demon ever managed to crawl through the “network”…

…

As dusk fell, in the Demon Slayers’ Bureau, seventh floor of the Demon Suppressing Tower, in an ordinary stone chamber, a large basin of charcoal burned brightly.

Lord Zheng, pale-faced with frost at his temples, sat on a low stool, warming his hands by the fire, a scroll resting on his knee. The flickering flames reflected in his eyes, as if the depths of a lake were aflame.

Miss Red Sleeve was engaged in embroidery, every stitch and thread precise, as if she were mapping out a chart.

The bearded man clutched a demon slayer’s badge, staring unblinkingly at the massive jade wall before him, fearful he might miss a single detail…

On the jade wall, an image was projected—the bloody incident in Rouge Alley from days before, when a ghost infant went berserk and devoured more than two hundred people.

Again and again, the bearded man watched, growing increasingly agitated.

If He Chang’an were present, he’d probably marvel: “Good heavens, surveillance playback…”

“I’ve watched it hundreds of times and found nothing unusual,” the bearded man finally confessed, turning to Miss Red Sleeve for guidance.

“There is nothing unusual to find,” she replied, not lifting her head from her embroidery.

“Then, Lord Zheng, what am I supposed to see?” The bearded man complained, sneaking a glance at the middle-aged gentleman.

“If you can spot an anomaly, then it means it’s ordinary.”

Red Sleeve scoffed, “My adoptive father always said—a general must look closer, think deeper, and learn to unravel the threads of battlefield situations.

Zhang Yichao, you’re so dense. Do the people of Shazhou and your wife and children know it?”

“Zheng Hongxiu, you—!” Zhang Yichao sprang up, glaring furiously.

“What about me?” Red Sleeve finally looked up, set aside her needle and thread, and asked softly, “Why are your eyes so wide—itching for a fight?”

“You’re absolutely right!” Zhang Yichao roared indignantly, his voice fierce. “Miss Zheng Hongxiu, you’ve struck a chord with me!

As a battlefield general, I, Zhang Yichao, have yet to master the skill of unraveling… unraveling threads… whatever it’s called;

Hmm, anyway, I haven’t done well enough, not carefully enough, and in the future I must seek your guidance!”

Miss Red Sleeve merely replied “Oh,” picked up her needle and thread, and resumed her embroidery, dignified and elegant—the picture of a true lady.