Chapter 140: Chapter 140

CREAK…

The young man stepped inside.

The beggars who’d been about to approach traded bewildered looks — then scattered like startled birds, shrinking back to their respective wall-corners.

Everyone in Yeci Ward knew this courtyard.

A few months ago, it had sheltered Gao Fu, the Golden Dragon Gang boss, and his inner circle.

Then somehow, the Raging Waves — now the outer city’s biggest gang — had caught wind.

That night, dozens of thugs stormed the yard in a savage brawl.

Blades flashing, blood spraying, screams and pleas and the clash of steel — it had gone on for quite some time.

When it was over, every one of Gao Fu’s men lay dead. Gao Fu himself fled with grievous wounds. The Raging Waves claimed total victory.

To this day, every shady racket in the outer city wards — the protection money, the backroom deals, the dirty work — answered to the Raging Waves.

The courtyard had sat empty ever since. No one dared ask about it. No one dared move in.

And now, someone had the nerve to push open that door.

‘Got a death wish…’

An old beggar tugged his ragged coat tighter and shifted to a more comfortable position.

His mind drifted to the young man from months ago — the one who’d asked him questions and then pressed ten large coins into his palm.

“Good-hearted folk are rare these days. If someone else came along wanting information and tipped me ten big coins, old me would buy three, maybe five of Widow Niu’s steamed buns. Ooh, that smell… and that big rear end of hers, lord have mercy…”

The old beggar lay on the ground, one leg crossed over the other, eyes shut, muttering to himself.

Then the light dimmed. A shadow fell across him.

He cracked an eye open by instinct.

The young man was standing over him — silently, looking down.

The old beggar flinched, scrambled to his knees, and blurted:

“Sir, sir — spare a couple of coppers for this old wretch… haven’t eaten in three, four days, belly’s cutting like a knife…”

The young man frowned. He fished a piece of broken silver from his robe and weighed it in his palm.

“Tell me exactly what you said just now. The silver’s yours.”

The old beggar’s cloudy pupils shrank. His lips quivered. He swallowed hard.

Instinct told him the stranger was dangerous.

But the lure of the silver was too strong. After a moment’s hesitation, he spilled everything — the events of that night, every detail he knew.

The young man listened in silence, face blank.

“The man who gave you those ten wen — do you still have any of the coins?”

The old beggar blinked, rummaged inside his robe, and with trembling fingers produced a single copper coin, worn shiny from handling. He held it up in both hands.

His face was mournful.

“One left… this is my emergency coin. Only spend it when I’m so hungry I could die…”

The young man didn’t bother listening. He snatched the coin, held it close, and studied it.

Then he raised it to his nose. His nostrils flared.

Great Qi Pathfinder Camp Secret Art — Ten-Li Tracker!

In an instant, a deluge of smells crashed into his nasal cavity.

Rotting cabbage-leaf sourness. Coarse salt brine. The greasy film of cheap tallow. The musty reek of mildewed cotton…

And one smell — overpowering, overwhelming — slammed into him like a physical blow.

It was the accumulated filth of years on a human body — sweat, grime, and mud fermented together over God knew how long.

A stench of awe-inspiring, world-class magnitude.

The young man’s face contorted. His gorge surged. Bile hit the back of his throat. He nearly lost his breakfast on the spot.

He clenched his jaw, veins standing out at his temples, and forced the nausea back down through sheer willpower.

He drew a steadying breath and made himself focus.

This Great Qi Pathfinder Camp Secret Art had been devised by a capital-city master, purpose-built for the Pathfinder Camps of Great Qi’s five armies — used to hunt spies and track enemy movements.

The method was exquisitely refined, capable of isolating the faintest, most distinctive thread of scent from among ten thousand.

That Tian Ping’an had risen to centurion in the Longxiang Army was owed entirely to mastering this art.

Within a radius of ten li, even if a year and a half had passed, he could follow a single trace of lingering scent to its source.

“Got it.”

After a dozen or so breaths, Tian Ping’an’s eyes snapped open, a fierce light blazing in them. His gaze swung toward the south of the city.

‘Good, good, good — still inside the walls. Otherwise I’d never have found you.’

Killing intent churned in Tian Ping’an’s eyes. He turned on his heel and strode south.

“Hey — hey! Sir!”

The old beggar panicked, scrambling after him on all fours.

“My silver! My silver!”

Tian Ping’an’s steps hitched. He half-turned, cold eyes cutting back.

“Almost forgot…”

He pinched the copper coin between thumb and middle finger, lips peeling back in a feral grin.

“Catch.”

The word had barely left his mouth —

FWOOSH!

The coin shot from his fingers.

SHUNK!

A burst of red at the old beggar’s brow. A thin line punched clean through between his eyes. The man toppled forward — SPLASH — face-first into the muck, and was still.

The alley was already empty.

…

“Uncle Chen, Auntie Li — come again soon!”

The Shen family courtyard.

Madam Zheng stood inside the doorframe, beaming, waving toward the end of the lane.

Ever since Shen Xiuhan’s meteoric rise at the feast, every great house in the inner city had been sending gifts.

Bolts of brocade and silk. Qi-nourishing herbs. Some had gone so far as to arrive with entire chests of silver, matchmakers in tow.

This family’s daughter, that clan’s young lady…

The rush to arrange a match for Shen Xiuhan was fierce enough to wear out the doorstep.

But Shen Xiuhan had been in seclusion the entire time — never showing his face.

In the end, the gift-givers and matchmakers had no choice but to deliver everything to Mei Hall, leaving it with Jiang Qinghong to pass along.

When Shen Xiuhan returned from the hall today, he’d brought quite a haul.

Salted fish, cured meat, and at the bottom of a bamboo basket, wrapped in blue cloth — twenty taels of white silver.

That was from the Ji clan, so he’d kept it.

Every other family’s silver he’d returned untouched, exactly as it came.

The old neighbors from the outer city, meanwhile, had waited for the excitement to die down, then chosen a day to come congratulate him together.

What they carried was humbler fare.

Eggs. Wild greens. And freshly caught fish from Yunshui Lake, scales still glistening wet.

The gifts were modest, but the sentiment was real.

Shen Xiuhan had thanked each of them, sat and talked a while, and chatted until the light began to fade before they each went their way.

Everything put away and the hour growing late, Madam Zheng was reaching for the door-bolt when a voice came from outside.

“Boss — three bowls of noodles.”

Quiet, but carrying an edge that brooked no argument.

Shen Xiuhan was in the courtyard, watching Shen Momo squat by the wall, cooing over the two newly hatched Purple-Beaked Ducks.

The little girl was clucking and quacking in imitation, cradling the downy ducklings in her tiny hands, utterly absorbed.

At the voice, he glanced over by reflex — and his gaze locked.

The speaker had an unremarkable face and wore a neat grey outfit.

Behind him loomed two barrel-chested men, menace radiating from every line of their faces — the unmistakable look of men who lived and killed by the blade.

Madam Zheng flinched back a step at the sight of them, her voice tripping over itself.

“S-sir, we’re—”

“Ma, go inside. I’ll handle this.”

Shen Xiuhan stepped out, placing himself between Madam Zheng and the strangers.

Madam Zheng exhaled in relief, scooped up Momo — who’d wandered out to rubberneck — and hurried into the inner rooms.

Shen Xiuhan studied the faint golden motes of light shimmering across the young man’s body, his gaze thoughtful.

His voice was easy, his expression unchanged.

“I’m sorry — the eatery’s closed for the night. If you’d like noodles, come back early tomorrow.”