Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Do You Have Any Manners?

The woman’s question made the constable pause.

Then his eyes lit up with understanding.

His hand slid onto her waist, bold and familiar, while his gaze crawled over her from head to toe.

“Perfect timing,” he said. “There’s still a bowl left. Lady, want to come taste it?”

The woman didn’t move. “Any cake left?”

The constable clicked his tongue like he was weighing it, but his hand kept roaming. While she waited for his answer, he pinched hard at her waist.

A soft moan slipped from her throat.

It was light and sweet, the kind of sound that crawled under skin. The constable’s ears reddened.

“Hiss. Little Lady, that voice could send a man straight to heaven,” he said. “Once you reach the Music Bureau, you’ll be a top courtesan in no time.”

He loosened his grip. “As for cake… sure. Depends on how well you serve.”

The woman was filthy and reeked, but the road was brutal. In this heat, everyone stank. And the constable had been hungry for women for far too long.

He smiled to himself.

No wonder his colleagues loved escorting female prisoners. The pay was good, the work was easy, and there were perks like this along the way.

But then the woman placed her hand over his and calmly moved it away.

The constable blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She spoke gently, almost sweet. “I’ve already borne a son and a daughter. How could my looks compare to those tender girls? If you’re worried I won’t serve you well, then why not…”

Her gaze drifted toward Shen Tang.

The constable understood instantly and snorted. “Poisonous woman. You want her to serve me while you drink soup and eat cake?”

“Young Lord, you misunderstand,” the woman said smoothly. “That maid is my own daughter.”

“Your daughter?” Disbelief was written all over his face.

What kind of mother would, for a bowl of soup and a cake, shove her own daughter into a man’s arms?

“The young lord earlier was right,” the woman continued, voice steady. “Once things have gone this far, being sent to the Music Bureau and bullied is only a matter of time.”

She tilted her head, soft as silk. “Rather than let this maid’s untouched body be taken by some lowborn wretch and spend her whole life regretting it, why not let Young Lord be the one? If you’re satisfied, she’ll suffer less on the road.”

It was a performance—devoted, convincing—if you didn’t look too close.

The constable actually looked tempted.

Shen Tang lay there with her eyes closed, fury burning behind her ribs.

[Do you have any manners?]

The woman was maybe in her late twenties, early thirties at most. Shen Tang, starved down and bone-thin, didn’t look much older than eighteen. The lie was barely holding together.

If she wanted to sell Shen Tang out, she could at least have the decency to admit it.

Shen Tang couldn’t take it anymore.

She opened her eyes slowly and looked straight at the woman.

The constable’s gaze flicked between them. “Why isn’t she close to you?”

The woman didn’t miss a beat. “She was born sick in the head. Sometimes she’s mad, sometimes she’s slow. She’s been carefully cared for, so she’s got tender skin. Serving won’t be a problem—”

“Then why is her surname Shen and not Gong?” the constable cut in.

He was cautious. Not every captive in this convoy was safe to touch. His eyes flicked to the tattoo behind Shen Tang’s ear.

Not a Gong. Too low-status. Thinking of the roster, she was likely just a maid.

The woman hurried to patch the hole. “Before I was taken into the Gong Manor, she was my eldest daughter by my late husband, so of course she took his surname. The master pitied her and allowed me to bring her into the manor to raise.”

The constable stared at her for a beat.

Then he shrugged, as if it wasn’t worth thinking too hard.

If she wasn’t an important prisoner, taking her didn’t matter.

He chose Shen Tang.

As for the woman—Xiao City was still far. There would be plenty of chances.

He even kept his bargain. He gave the woman a bowl of soup, still warm, and a cake.

Then he signaled to the colleague on night watch and dragged Shen Tang off toward a small slope.

The night was heavy and black. Shapes blurred into shadows.

The watchman called out with a grin, “When you’re done, let your brother have a turn too. Don’t hog it.”

“Of course,” the constable replied. “I can forget anyone, but I can’t forget my brother.”

Shen Tang’s fingers curled at her side.

If she refused now, they’d beat her for it. Worse, they’d do it anyway.

But alone?

Alone was opportunity.

One bottom-tier Presented Scholar Rank was easier than a whole group. Much easier.

So Shen Tang lowered her gaze and let her face go slack, eyes dull, playing the part of someone with a broken mind.

As she was dragged away, the filthy woman was gulping down soup, cheeks puffed with greedy satisfaction.

She looked up—and met Shen Tang’s gaze.

Not the empty stare of an idiot.

A dark, steady look that made the woman’s skin prickle.

Her smile faltered.

“Crazy,” she muttered, forcing herself to look away.

Behind the slope was a patch of wild grass, thick and tall, rising to a grown man’s waist. The air was muggy and still.

The constable wasn’t worried. Shen Tang was “sick in the head,” and she was tied to the rope—she couldn’t go far.

He dropped to one knee, breath quickening as he fumbled at his belt.

That was the moment Shen Tang moved.

A thick hemp rope snapped tight around his neck from the front and yanked back hard.

The constable’s eyes bulged.

Ambush.

He never imagined this “female prisoner” would attack him.

But he was still a Presented Scholar Rank—bottom-tier or not—and he reacted on instinct, driving his Martial Gall.

His arms swelled, muscle hardening like stone, strength surging through him.

He snapped the rope with brute force, twisted, and struck fast enough to catch an ordinary person off-guard.

Shen Tang was faster.

Her fist flashed up and slammed into his jaw with a crack. His head snapped sideways, and for an instant she thought she heard something slosh in his skull.

Before he could recover, she surged in, locked his wrist, and clamped her other hand over his throat, crushing off his air and his shout at the same time.

There was no hesitation.

Crack.

Crack.

Two fractures rang out almost together.

The constable went limp, his head hanging at a wrong angle.

Shen Tang stared at him for a heartbeat, adrenaline draining so fast it left her dizzy.

“…That’s it?” she whispered. “That’s all you’ve got?”

No time.

She rolled him, searched him fast, and took anything useful—food, valuables, anything she could carry. Then she ran.

Getting away came first.

If they caught her, there were only two outcomes.

Either she killed every constable in the convoy, including that third-grade Hairpin-Bird Rank whose strength she couldn’t gauge—and her gut told her that was a terrible bet.

Or she was dragged back crippled, and what waited for her would be worse than death.

As she sprinted, rage flared again.

That woman.

Once Shen Tang survived, she would visit the Music Bureau in Xiao City and repay that debt in person.

She ran hard, feet tearing on stones, blood slicking her soles. She didn’t slow.

Then—hoofbeats.

Fast. Closing in.

Shen Tang’s mind stuttered.

Hoofbeats?

The exile convoy didn’t have horses.

Before she could decide whether it was an enemy or a stranger passing by, danger flooded her body like ice water.

She dove right and rolled.

An arrow slammed into the ground where she’d been a heartbeat before, burying itself deep.

Shen Tang snapped her head up.

A horse stood in the dark, and on its back sat the constable leader, eyes cold and full of killing intent.

Shen Tang sucked in a breath through her teeth.

“…Fuck.”