Chapter Eighteen: Betrayed by Treachery

Yang Lian did not act rashly in the room; instead, he waited patiently. This house, seemingly abandoned for a long time, had suddenly seen visitors today, which felt most unusual. Could it be that his unexpected arrival had triggered a butterfly effect? He waited for the time it took an incense stick to burn, until his legs grew sore and his feet numb, before finally rubbing his legs and standing up.

Earlier, he had deliberately used suggestive words to drive Mi Shiwei away. He had a purpose in mind: since the old servant—Mi Shiwei’s grandfather—had arranged for him to stay here, there must be some hidden intention. Perhaps Yang Lian could find a clue in this place.

Certain that no one would disturb him, Yang Lian began to search the room. The room was very dim and thick with dust, making it difficult to find any traces. He tore a piece of cloth to wrap around his ears and nose before searching in earnest.

It took him more than half an hour before he gave up. The room was truly abandoned, with nothing left behind. It seemed this place was not discovered by soldiers of Southern Tang, but rather, the loyalists had lost hope of restoring the country and finally deserted it. Yang Lian couldn’t help clenching his fists. He knew he had to rely on his own strength, but even the bravest hero needs allies; in the great cause of restoring a nation, he could never succeed alone.

But where were those loyalists now? Years had passed. They might no longer be in Jinling, might have already died, or perhaps had changed their hearts. Yang Lian shook his head, stood up, and stepped out of the dark little room.

The setting sun hung on the horizon, its blood-red light spilling over the streets of Jinling. Years ago, at this very hour, in the palace, those vicious ministers had forced his father, the emperor, to abdicate. The power of the Yang Wu court had declined to the point of being at the mercy of others. The descendants of the Yang clan, imprisoned in Hailing, lived lives worse than death. Over a decade later, hundreds of them were all killed by Li Jing—none survived.

Could their fate be changed? Yang Lian clenched his fists, striding determinedly in his own shadow towards the banks of the Qinhuai River. He needed first to settle down, then look for opportunities to build his power, step by step, no matter how long and arduous the road.

Despite the approaching evening, Jinling was still bustling as lanterns lit the streets. Strolling along the Qinhuai River, one could hear singing from the brothels. In the midst of the constant turmoil in the north, Jinling indulged in pleasure and extravagance. In such an environment, the army’s fighting spirit had plummeted, which explained why Southern Tang failed in its campaigns against Min and Chu—gaining nothing but loss.

As Yang Lian walked along the river, women from the brothels would occasionally call out with flirtatious laughter, “Young master, come in and have some fun. Satisfaction guaranteed, or you don’t pay!”

He merely shook his head and walked on. Along the way, he kept hearing a name repeated: Zeng Yiling. It took Yang Lian some effort to recall that, during his rescue of Princess Huairou, someone had mentioned that name. Plainly, Zeng Yiling’s fame had spread throughout Jiangnan. Yet, Yang Lian could not remember such a renowned beauty in his memories; perhaps she had only become famous in recent years. The thought passed quickly—after all, in his view, no matter how respectable a woman from a brothel claimed to be, she could not be truly virtuous.

Yang Lian found lodging at an inn by the Qinhuai River. The inn was modest but quiet, conveniently located, and reasonably priced. He took an immediate liking to it and decided to stay without hesitation. He slept soundly through the night, and the next morning, rose early and asked a waiter for two bags, filled them with half a pound of sand each, tied them to his legs, and began his morning exercise.

He had thought half a pound of sand would be light, but after running just over five miles, he was drenched in sweat and his legs refused to move further. This body was still rather weak, he mused, but gritted his teeth and persevered—he was not one to give up easily.

Running and wiping away sweat, the chilly morning breeze hardly had time to dry him. After another half mile, he slowed to a walk by the river, intending to rest a bit before heading back.

Just then, a drunken man staggered along the roadside, muttering incoherently. Hearing his accent, Yang Lian glanced twice—this voice was very familiar. He was certain he had heard the man speak only a few hours before. Looking more closely, he couldn’t help but laugh—this was the same man who had been making a scene in the tavern, a fellow from the former Min kingdom, and a most amusing one at that.

As the drunkard swayed along, Yang Lian worried he might fall into the river. He watched for a while, but realized his concern was misplaced—the man, though lurching, showed no sign of actually falling.

Passing by, Yang Lian overheard the man’s words and was startled: he was going to the brothel to seek out this Zeng Yiling. Apparently, the leading courtesan of Jinling was indeed famous. But what could be so extraordinary about a woman who claimed to sell only her art, not her body, that so many people were captivated—even a man devoted to the old Min kingdom was obsessed with her? Truly curious.

As Yang Lian reached the inn’s entrance, he saw an old man pacing outside. Upon seeing Yang Lian, the old man’s eyes lit up and he stepped forward. “You’ve returned, sir?”

“I have. Are you waiting for me?” Yang Lian was puzzled. He was just an inconspicuous guest—why would this old man pay him any special attention? He vaguely remembered the old man was the innkeeper.

The old man cupped his hands and said, “Sir, my name is Li Xiongxin, and I am the proprietor of this inn.”

“I see. If you have something to say, please speak directly,” Yang Lian replied forthrightly.

The old man sighed. “Please, sir, come this way.” He led Yang Lian into a private room, ordered tea and some small dishes, and seemed to hesitate, wringing his hands with a troubled expression, reluctant to speak.

Yang Lian grew more curious. “If you have something to say, please go ahead.”

“Alas, it’s a long story. Please don’t be impatient, sir, let me explain,” the old man replied, furrowing his brow in distress.

Just then, the tea and side dishes were brought in. Having run six miles with sandbags on his legs, Yang Lian was tired and hungry, and his stomach rumbled.

“Please, enjoy your meal,” the old man said.

Yang Lian cupped his hands. “Thank you for your hospitality.” He picked up his chopsticks and quickly finished the meal. The food, though simple, was well-prepared and suited his taste. When he realized he’d eaten it all, he gave an embarrassed laugh. “I was hungry—please forgive me.”

The old man chuckled. “No matter, it’s good to eat well.”

Yang Lian pressed him, “So, what is it you have to say? I’ve eaten; surely you can tell me now?”

The old man finally put down his hand from stroking his beard, clapped, and called out, “Come in!” At his command, two burly men with fierce faces and ropes in their hands entered the room.

“What is this?” Yang Lian sensed danger and stood up warily, but suddenly felt dizzy. The realization struck: there had been something in the food. He didn’t know why the old man wanted to capture him.

The old man laughed heartily. “Tie him up well, don’t let him get away!”

The two strong men pounced like wolves and tigers, binding Yang Lian tightly. He tried to resist but, dizzy and with his hands tied behind his back, was helpless.

“Is it because I owe you for my lodging?” Yang Lian asked calmly.

“No,” the old man replied.

“Do I have a grudge with you?” Yang Lian asked again.

“Not at all,” the old man said.

“Then why are you doing this?” Yang Lian sneered. Though captured, he showed no sign of defeat, his eyes cold and fierce.

The old man looked at him, slowly approached, and slapped him hard across the face. Blood welled at Yang Lian’s lip.

“With just you? Wishful thinking!” the old man sneered.

“Old man, if I ever get free, you’ll regret it!” Yang Lian retorted. Though in ancient times, he did not believe, under the emperor’s nose, that the old man would dare kill him—if he intended murder, he would have acted already.

“Your life is finished; you’ll never get the chance,” the old man mocked, rubbing his stinging hand. “You’ve offended someone important. Your life is forfeit. How dare you cross someone like a god? You must be tired of living,” he spat.

Yang Lian was stunned. Offended someone like a god? When?

The old man waved his hand. “Take him away!”

The two strong men escorted Yang Lian outside. Li Xiongxin had already prepared a carriage, which traveled quickly along the Qinhuai River, then turned north out of the city.

Li Xiongxin eyed Yang Lian with narrowed eyes, as if already seeing glittering gold. That morning, not long after Yang Lian had gone out, several armored guards arrived at the inn with a portrait, searching for someone. The man in the painting had a scar on his forehead—clearly no good man. The old man instantly guessed he was either a criminal or a runaway servant. With his excellent memory, he recalled a guest who had checked in the previous evening with just such a scar.

So, hiding his intentions, he cleverly dismissed the guards and decided to capture the man himself for a reward. He had waited outside for the time it takes an incense stick to burn, and when he saw Yang Lian, he was certain he’d found the right person. Fearing he was dangerous, the old man lured him in with a pretext and succeeded.

Now, with Yang Lian securely bound, the old man was sure he could neither fly nor escape. The thought of gold already had him smiling with narrowed eyes. The golden reward was surely within reach.