Chapter Sixty-Nine: The Girl Holding the Lantern

Since Qian Dahai met his end, and Li Zhenren appeared in succession, with Wei Zhuodao perishing soon after, two days had passed.

Yet within the Tidewatch Inn, that strange scent—a mingling of blood and ink—seemed to have seeped into every seam of the beams and pillars. No matter how the sea breeze swept through the halls, it could not dispel it.

Business at the inn, unsurprisingly, had hit rock bottom.

For now, the Tidewatch Inn had been temporarily taken over by Han Lin and the few guards disguised as wandering cultivators from overseas. Outwardly, they claimed that Qian Dahai had died of a sudden illness and that the owner had changed hands, which passed muster well enough for outsiders.

But such tales could not fool the guests within the inn. Those merchants and travelers of weaker nerve, having witnessed the carnage of that night, dared not remain a moment longer. They packed their bundles in haste, choosing to sleep rough on the streets rather than spend another night in this house of ill omen.

In a single night, the once bustling inn became all but deserted.

Those few who remained were all old hands of the martial world, self-assured in their skills and seasoned in its ways. Their reasons for staying were not without ulterior motive.

First, there was the lure of easy gain. With Qian Dahai dead, the grand Tidewatch Inn had become ownerless. Though Han Lin and his men had taken charge, their attention was fixed solely upstairs on their mysterious young master, leaving the scattered guests entirely to their own devices. With no one asking for payment, and food and drink freely available, such fortune could not be casually passed up by these loose cultivators, men who daily stretched each coin as far as it would go.

Second was the irrepressible desire to witness unfolding drama. Having lived through a clash fit for immortals, who among them was not curious as to what would follow? Who was Qian Dahai, truly? And those young men who seemed merely wandering cultivators—if they were all retainers to that young master, just who was he? Why, when he could enjoy the comforts of the Listening Tide Pavilion, would he choose instead to suffer at Wanmin Shoal?

How would the officials of the Demon Suppression Bureau resolve this case? Each of these questions was prime fodder for future tales. If one could remain and see the outcome firsthand, would that not make for even greater boasts at the wine table?

Thus it was, with the shared intent to both profit and be entertained, that these few loose cultivators tacitly lingered.

As for the inn's staff, those who had survived the bloody night were already frightened out of their wits. Han Lin, taking charge, paid them three months' wages in advance and sent them all away. Only Wang Ergou, who had once spied for Qian Dahai and been knocked out by Lu Chenyuan, was left behind due to his "connections" with Shangguan Chuci and the others, kept on as a general errand boy.

For these two days, Wang Ergou had scurried about the inn as a mouse before cats, growing ever more cautious; even in sweeping the floor or wiping tables, he seemed determined to scrub the tiles down three layers. Though Qian Dahai had been a miser, he’d never lost his temper with them. But who could know the temperament of these men, so obviously from great houses?

Thus the Tidewatch Inn came to present a most bizarre scene. The hall was cold and empty, a scant few guests drinking in silence, each with his own designs; behind the counter sat Han Lin, his fierce aura restrained, face expressionless; and in the hall, only Wang Ergou hurried about, serving with trembling hands.

The entire inn was shrouded in an atmosphere of eerie oppression, like a pot of boiling water with its lid clamped down—no one knew what might erupt next.

Shangguan Chuci was sitting in her room, adjusting her breathing, when the clatter of armor echoed up from downstairs, followed by the scraping of chairs and the muffled exclamations of guests. Her heart stirred; she knew the Demon Suppression Bureau had arrived.

She pushed open the door and stepped onto the corridor, where she saw armored soldiers methodically "inviting" each guest from their rooms on the second floor. Their words were polite, but the half-drawn blades in their hands told another story.

At their head was a man in dark robes, about thirty years of age, his features stern and hawk-like, his gaze sharp and intimidating. Wherever he looked, there was an aura of commanding authority.

Shangguan Chuci recognized him at once—it was the very constable from the Demon Suppression Bureau who had quelled the monstrous incident on the street days before.

He evidently remembered her as well. Seeing her emerge of her own accord, his eyes flickered with surprise, but he did not question her. He simply offered a distant, respectful gesture—a silent greeting.

He did not know precisely who she was; yet he had received a hint from his superiors: this was a young master from the Divine Capital, of exceptional background—an ally in both public and private dealings, and not to be offended under any circumstances.

Shangguan Chuci was about to speak when her gaze was irresistibly drawn to the person beside the constable.

It was a young girl, holding a palace lantern of colored glass, nearly half a foot high.

She appeared to be sixteen or seventeen, still slight of stature, and the lantern in her arms seemed rather heavy, requiring both hands to hold steady. Within the lantern burned a mass of milky-white flame, its light gentle, unlike any ordinary fire.

At a glance, Shangguan Chuci sensed that this flame was anything but common, and her heart stirred with a silent thought:

"Externalized heart-fire?"

As the wielder of the Logic Flame, she was particularly sensitive to extraordinary fires. In ordinary people, the heart-fire is hidden deep within the dantian or mind-sea, never revealed except in life-and-death struggles. But to keep one's heart-fire outside the body for so long, housed in a magical artifact—this was unheard of.

Her curiosity piqued, she studied the girl more closely.

She saw a face of delicate, clean lines—an oval, bright with youth. Perhaps from recent exhaustion, faint blue shadows ringed her eyes, making her deer-like gaze all the more timid and endearing. She too wore the dark uniform of the Demon Suppression Bureau, though her style was distinct—likely for convenience in carrying the lantern, her sleeves were cut wider and her robes longer, lending a touch of Daoist elegance to the sober black.

Her inner garments were pale as moonlight, echoing the hue of the lantern's flame; as she walked, the hem of her skirt swayed lightly, and sometimes a corner peeked out, like a solitary pear blossom falling into an ink pool—a striking sight.

The constable in black approached Shangguan Chuci and said respectfully, "I am Ling Jue, Captain of the Demon Suppression Bureau. Greetings, young master. We are here to investigate the disappearances around Zhenhai River and the disturbances caused by the Turgid Current cult. Forgive us for disturbing your peace."

Shangguan Chuci nodded slightly, her gaze never leaving the lantern-bearing girl. She asked, "And who is this young lady?"

Before Ling Jue could reply, the girl took a half-step forward and curtsied, her voice as soft as a mosquito's:

"Greetings, young master. I am Lin Jianyan, the Inspector of Zhenhai River."

"Inspector?" Shangguan Chuci echoed in surprise.