Chapter 118: Fury

Chapter 118: Fury

Le Wuya returned to the county magistrate's office silently in a small grey sedan chair.

The runner on duty was Yang Zheng.

He had a good memory and an easygoing temperament, so he asked Qin Xingyue, who had accompanied the sedan: "Didn't the magistrate leave on horseback? Why did he come back in a sedan?"

Qin Xingyue, holding the reins of the little yellow horse with one hand, replied calmly: "The magistrate had a bit of wine at my place. You know how he handles his drink—if I'd let him ride, wouldn't he have taken a spill?"

Yang Zheng gave a surprised "Oh!" and asked: "Is he alright? Want me to lend a hand?"

Qin Xingyue waved him off: "I've got him."

Yang Zheng thought about the magistrate's stature—Qin Xingyue could handle him with ease—so he didn't push it.

Before long, Hua Rong, wrapped in a little padded jacket, came running out from the back courtyard.

Yang Zheng asked curiously: "Hua Rong, where you headed?"

Hua Rong blew into his hands and said briskly: "The magistrate's back. He sneezed several times and doesn't look well. Qin told me to hurry and find a physician!"

Yang Zheng grew worried again: "At this hour, where am I gonna find a doctor?"

"I'll just have to hunt around," Hua Rong said. "The magistrate's well-liked and generous—even if I call one out at midnight, he'll pay them well!"

"Ah, in this freezing weather... hurry back, now."

Hua Rong called back in acknowledgment, then dashed out into the wind and snow.

A trail of footprints wound into the darkness.

Half an hour passed.

...

Le Wuya clenched a white handkerchief between his teeth, his face expressionless. They'd already pulled the dagger from his leg, and blood dripped into a brass basin—each drop landing with a tick, like a water clock.

Hua Rong's face had gone white as a sheet. He hugged himself and shrank to the side, tears brimming in his eyes, not daring to look.

Qin Xingyue, used to battlefield bloodshed, didn't flinch, but his brows knitted into a hard frown as he asked the doctor who'd pulled the blade: "Is the magistrate's leg alright? Will it leave any lasting—"

Having been crippled himself, this mattered to him more than anything.

The doctor's hands were shaking too, dusting the wound with styptic powder: "With proper care, he should be fine—"

Qin Xingyue shot him a glare: "...'Should be'?!"

Le Wuya turned his head and spat out the handkerchief: "Qin, don't scare the man."

With that, he pushed himself up and stared at the pale-faced doctor: "Sir, you must know this wound isn't ordinary. Don't overthink it—just treat it. If you can't fix it, I'll take it out on the bastard who stabbed me; it won't come back on you. All I ask is you keep your trap shut and don't go telling people I'm hurt. If you slip up on that, I'll hold you responsible. Got it?"

He'd lost half a basin of blood, his face drained of color, sweat beaded on his lashes, making them dark and wet.

In the stark contrast of his pale face and dark eyes, his gaze turned even more cunning and sinister.

The doctor nodded quickly.

Reassured by the magistrate's words, his hands steadied a good deal.

The magistrate's words made sense.

Still rattled, the doctor vowed to keep this buried and never breathe a word.

...

The whole yamen was kept in the dark—nobody knew Le Wuya had come back hurt.

All they knew was that the magistrate had caught a cold that was getting worse, and he needed to rest and recuperate.

All yamen business was handed over to Deputy Magistrate Sun.

But while the magistrate rested, Hua Rong didn't.

Once the magistrate settled down, he got bored and started wanting things—snacks, drum-story performances.

Hua Rong was constantly running back and forth, using the chance to pass intelligence in and out.

The networks Le Wuya had built in Nanting for so long began to stir.

News came in like falling snow, reaching Le Wuya's ears one piece at a time.

Qin Xingyue studied the severed head of the Liao man and drew a portrait, which he gave to Beggar Head Sheng Youde.

Soon, beggars all over Nanting and the surrounding areas spread the word, having tracked the man's movements in Nanting thoroughly.

Nanting had recently filled up with merchants, and there were indeed Liao merchants out and about.

If the man had just walked the streets openly, the beggars wouldn't have given him a second look.

However, his head was shaved clean, with no burn marks on his scalp—not quite a monk, not quite a lama—and he was tall and imposing. He stuck out like a sore thumb.

One beggar had seen this "big monk" wander out of Zhong Junxiong's place, maybe he'd gone to beg for alms.

With a lead in hand, someone went straight to the Zhong residence and chatted up the servants.

Zhong Junxiong had done this on the sly—so secret that some of the lower servants had no clue about his dirty dealings, and naturally started talking: "A few days ago, the master suddenly got charitable and brought in some barbarian beggar. He told us to clean him up—good lord, we scrubbed two basins of filth off him!"

The Liao man's trail now led to Zhong Junxiong.

Of the other four outlaws, two were infamous river pirates who robbed and killed for a living.

Their faces were on the wanted posters, so they were easy to spot.

The one with the bow and arrow was a lone hunter from the mountains of a neighboring county.

Qin Xingyue searched his mountain home and found the roof caved in under the snow, the pots clean, the rice jar empty—probably couldn't hunt in winter, poor and starving, with no way to survive, someone talked him into this killing job.

The one who survived, after Qin Xingyue worked him over, confessed everything.

He confessed he was from Xingtai, having once served as a local soldier under Shao Hongzhen—respected by the people and had access to opium, life had been great.

When Magistrate Shao fell, Xingtai County went through a big purge.

Many local soldiers fled to the mountains and went back to their old bandit ways.

But once the opium ran out, their bodies fell apart fast—some killed themselves, some died of sickness, some ran off. Not many of their old buddies were left.

This guy gritted his teeth and hung on, kicking the addiction through sheer willpower.

From then on, he hated Le Wuya to the bone—he'd heard that this man was the one who'd ruined their good days.

So when the Liao people found him and let on why they'd come, he said yes on the spot.

But when it came down to it, he was still scared of dying, so scared he blubbered out the whole story.

...

Le Wuya took in all these reports, nodding each time like he couldn't care less.

But his eyes were cold.

All kinds of messy thoughts pooled in his eyes, hardening into a cold, sharp glint.

On the surface, he seemed unconcerned, but deep down, he was about to blow his top.

If his leg weren't acting up, he'd have thrown a fit and rolled around on the bed.

After all, he had indeed meant to poke around and test the local bigwigs of Nanting, hoping to nab one or two troublemakers to make an example of.

But colluding with opium dealers was a new low.

Le Wuya admitted that hadn't even crossed his mind.

He was angry at himself for having grown too comfortable, for thinking everyone was smart enough to cover their own asses, forgetting that when people are stupid enough, their schemes can be poison to the bone.

At that thought, Le Wuya was so annoyed with his own foolishness that he could hardly stand to crack another seed.

...

As luck would have it, these past couple of days, Cui Gangying had come back to Nanting with his prized student.

The Sixth Prince had a deal with him: every six months, he'd swing by Nanting to check Le Wuya's pulse and see how he was doing.

Half a year had passed, and he showed up right on time and walked straight into the mess.

He wasn't a jack-of-all-trades doctor, but having been around and seen a lot, he was better than every wound doc in Nanting County put together.

He put fresh medicine on and re-wrapped Le Wuya's leg, then laid it out straight: as long as he didn't go running around and rested properly, the leg would heal up fine for running and jumping—no way he'd be crippled.

In front of Doctor Cui, Le Wuya hid the cold look in his eyes and turned into a real good boy.

Hearing this, he let out a soft "Oh" and smiled a little, then sat up and said, all serious, "Thank you, Doctor Cui."

He hadn't been in the habit of looking after himself for over ten years, and even now, trying to learn from square one, he'd sometimes slip back into being flippant and careless.

Cui Gangying saw how lively he looked—not like a magistrate, but like some cocky kid who didn't know when to quit.

With the heart of a doctor who cared like a parent, he warned him, dead serious: "Magistrate, I'm not kidding you. If you can't sit still, your leg's gonna ache come winter—that'd be a real pain."

Le Wuya shook his head: "Don't worry, I can stay put. I'm lazy as hell. But with the whole county's livelihood on my back, even if I'm not doing heavy lifting, I really—"

Cui Gangying thought for a moment, then replied: "At the end of the day, it's a bone injury—rest is key. As long as you don't stress yourself out mentally, you'll be fine."

Le Wuya perked up.

Handling these guys wouldn't take much "mental strain" at all.

...

Wen Ren had been holed up at the academy for three straight days, so much that he'd visibly lost weight.

No classes today, so he finally had time to drop by and see Le Wuya.

As soon as he walked in, Wen Ren saw the clerk hopping along, shivering, with papers tucked under his arm.

After saying hello, he asked, "Is the magistrate at the yamen?"

"Yes, he is."

Since the whole yamen had been kept totally in the dark, the clerk didn't know the truth and nodded, puffing out his breath: "The magistrate is ill."

Wen Ren's heart clenched: "What's wrong? Is it bad?"

The clerk replied, "Just a small thing. He's resting."

Wen Ren hurried toward the back courtyard.

Once inside, he smelled something off.

Er Ya was posted under the eaves by the bedroom door, on watch duty and cracking melon seeds.

She sat curled up in a neat little pile, picking out a seed, nibbling it daintily, then spitting out the shell and sweeping the husks together with her paw so someone could clean up easy.

At first glance, she looked like some spoiled rich girl.

Hearing footsteps, Er Ya looked up with her shiny black eyes and met his stare.

Then she tilted her head, looked thoughtful, got up quietly, and trotted over to lead him to the door.

—She knew Wen Ren was family, so no need to bark a warning.

Wen Ren felt even more uneasy. He pushed the door open, and sure enough, a wave of warm, stuffy air hit him, mixed with the bitter smell of herbal medicine.

Le Wuya was in his thin underclothes, head down, putting medicine on his leg.

He looked up, saw Wen Ren, froze for a second, then grinned: "Well, busted."

Wen Ren's heart wrenched. He rushed to the bedside and grabbed Le Wuya's ankle, but didn't dare squeeze—just held it gently: "How'd you get hurt? Does it hurt?"

Le Wuya had been all energy when killing, and careless when treating himself, but now, with Wen Ren here, he instantly put on a pitiful face: "It hurts. I'm gonna die."

Wen Ren lightly pinched his mouth with his other hand, telling him to cut the crap.

Le Wuya kept hamming it up, all wounded: "You didn't even come visit me!"

That actually stung Wen Ren.

He tried to answer seriously: "The academy had stuff going on, I really couldn't—"

But his voice caught, and he couldn't finish.

After a pause, Wen Ren reached out and took Le Wuya's hand.

His hand was warm and soft—he was running a low fever.

Wen Ren said quietly, "I'm sorry. This is on me."

Then, while tucking Le Wuya into the warm blankets, he asked what the hell had happened.

After listening to it all, Wen Ren Yue weighed his words and said flat-out, "Hard to call."

Of the five thugs, four were dead.

The only survivor had been scraped together by the Liao people.

His testimony could only prove the Liao people were the instigators, not that anyone else was pulling their strings.

Though some beggars had caught wind of the Liao people rubbing elbows with Zhong Junxiong, if they'd schemed behind closed doors, it'd be tough to dig up any real proof.

The Liao people were already decapitated; if they'd moved fast enough, they might've been reborn by now.

Bottom line: dead men tell no tales.

The manservant could serve as corroborating evidence.

But if it really came to a full-blown court showdown, it'd still be a tough one.

That servant was a homegrown bondservant of Zhong Junxiong's.

Would he side with an outsider against his own master?

Besides, the Liao people had plenty of motive for murder, but what would Zhong Junxiong gain out of the blue?

Not to mention, he'd paid his taxes in full this year.

Le Wuya leaned against the soft pillow, listening to Wen Ren Yue break down the case methodically while wringing out a cool cloth to ease his fever.

He licked his chapped lips and let out a soft chuckle: "Ha."

Wen Ren Yue laid the cloth over his forehead: "Come up with something?"

"After all this pretending, you really think I'm some goody-two-shoes?"

Le Wuya looked up, his eyes, thanks to the low fever, all dewy and shimmering with a captivating glint.

He said with a sly grin, "Scholar, you know how a good official plays it. But do you know how a crooked one does?"

...

The next day, at the crack of dawn, Zhong Junxiong's son, Zhong Guotai, stretched and sauntered out of a small gambling den.

Ever since Jixiang Fang got shut down, gambling dens had disappeared from Nanting County.

...At least in the open.

But under the radar, lots of small gambling joints had sprouted up like mushrooms, tucked away in ordinary residential courtyards, keeping it low-key.

Lots of old gamblers, like sewer rats, would gather there to get their fix.

Zhong Guotai had gambled all night, lost his shirt, and was now sore all over, caught somewhere between wired and wiped out.

He thought to himself, I really gotta stop gambling.

He'd just wheedled some cash out of his mom, and now it was all gone.

Hitting up the shop counter for an advance was out of the question too.

Those shopkeepers were sly as foxes; they'd bow and scrape to his face, promising the world, but the second his back was turned, they'd rat him out to his dad.

Then he'd catch another earful.

Just as Zhong Guotai was warring with himself over "going straight" versus "where to score more cash," a gang of men suddenly appeared out of nowhere and boxed him in.

Leading the pack was the head constable, He Qingsong.

He'd raided Jixiang Fang with the magistrate before, so he knew the drill. His face was hard as stone as he coldly waved a hand: "Alright, shut this joint down too!"

With that, he jabbed a finger out, almost poking Zhong Guotai in the nose: "—And haul every gambler in with them!"

Zhong Guotai, caught off guard, had his arms wrenched behind him by the constables and yelped in pain.

But he only freaked out for a second before pulling himself together.

Gambling wasn't a big deal; he could just pay a fine and get out.