Chapter 4

Chapter 4: A Nail in the Coffin of Science

“Why are you the only one on watch?”

The constable leader had finished his patrol and found one subordinate missing from his post.

“Him?” the remaining watchman said with a smirk. “A female prisoner went looking for him. He’s enjoying himself behind the slope.”

That sort of thing wasn’t rare on the exile road.

If a prisoner wanted to suffer less, either someone above had to call their name, or relatives had to pay. If neither was possible, then the only thing left to trade was their own body.

Madam Gong’s household had been confiscated and exiled. Any old allies and disciples who might have helped were busy saving themselves. No one had the time—or the power—to shield these women.

That was why this assignment was considered sweet.

The constable leader knew the unspoken rules as well as anyone.

“How long has he been gone?”

“Not long.”

The leader’s face darkened. “Hmph. Abandoning his post.”

The watchman chuckled. “Don’t worry, boss. With that kid’s speed, he should be done already. Won’t take much time.”

The leader’s mouth twitched like he wanted to laugh, but he forced it down and put on a stern face.

“When he gets back, tell him he’s adding another hour to his watch.”

Time passed.

No one returned.

The constable leader’s patience wore thin. The prisoners were sleeping like dead pigs, and he wasn’t worried about an escape. Quietly, he rose and followed the direction the missing man had gone.

If the two of them were already finished, maybe he’d take a turn himself.

As he neared the slope, unease crept up his spine.

It was too quiet.

No breathy gasps. No rustling bodies. No slap of skin.

Only insects and the whisper of grass in the night wind.

“Old Zhou?” he called, pushing through the tall grass. “Old Zhou, you—”

His voice died in his throat.

He looked down.

An arm lay under his boot.

His stomach dropped. In the dim light, he recognized the corpse with the twisted neck.

Old Zhou.

“Dead—someone’s dead!”

His shout brought the others running.

The body was still warm, not yet stiff. He couldn’t have been dead long.

The leader crouched, examined the snapped neck and wrist, and felt his face harden. The breaks were too clean, too fast—done in an instant. The killer’s grip strength was monstrous.

Worse, there were traces of Martial Gall on the corpse. Old Zhou had tried to fight back—and still died before he could mount a real defense.

That meant the killer was stronger than a bottom-tier Presented Scholar Rank.

The leader’s eyes narrowed. “The female prisoner—did you find her body?”

One subordinate swallowed. “N-no, boss. No sign of her. Just Old Zhou.”

The leader went still.

Old Zhou dead.

The female prisoner missing.

Someone had escaped.

Or someone had rescued her.

His face darkened in a flash. “You go back. Watch the prisoners. If anyone looks suspicious, kill them on the spot.”

“Yes!”

The leader followed the trail through the night, moving fast, and soon caught sight of a running figure ahead—small, ragged, frantic.

He didn’t hesitate. He drew his bow, nocked an arrow, and fired.

The shot should have dropped a fleeing prisoner without question.

But the figure rolled at the last possible moment, as if she had eyes on her back. The arrow buried itself in the ground where she’d been.

The leader rode past, yanked the reins, and turned the horse in a smooth arc, blocking her path.

“I didn’t expect a fish that slipped the net like you,” he said coldly. “Using your feminine face to sneak into the female prisoners, then running at the first chance. The Gong traitors planned well.”

Shen Tang spat grit from her mouth and pushed herself up, cheeks burning where the gravel had torn her skin.

Male? Feminine face?

Gong traitors?

Her anger flared, but the leader was already stacking certainty like bricks.

The male prisoners of Madam Gong’s household—no matter their age—had all been crippled at the Dan Palace Stage. It stopped them from escaping and from seeking revenge later.

This one was alone. No obvious rescuers. In the leader’s mind, the story snapped together clean: “Shen Tang” had used their looks as bait, lured Old Zhou away, and struck when his guard dropped.

But even careless, a bottom-tier Presented Scholar Rank shouldn’t die instantly to an ordinary woman.

Old Zhou had driven his Martial Gall and still died without a real struggle.

So the killer had to possess a Literary Heart or Martial Gall.

Women couldn’t.

That meant this “female prisoner” had to be a man.

A man who’d hidden among the female prisoners for this long without being exposed could only have done it with help. The prisoners must have covered for him.

Which meant he mattered.

And if someone like that got away, how could the leader ever explain it?

In the blink of an eye, he convinced himself he’d found the truth.

Shen Tang straightened, wiped blood and sand from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, and stared at him.

“Heh. And what do you want?”

“Come back with me,” the leader said. “I’ll spare your dog life.”

That made Shen Tang laugh, sharp and humorless. “Spare my dog life? You’re full of shit.”

Then she bared her teeth. “You ugly bastard. Dream bigger.”

“If you won’t come willingly,” he said, calm as frost, “then—”

He drew in a slow breath. The air around him seemed to tighten, as if something unseen had settled over his shoulders.

“Spears and blades, swords and halberds; bows and crossbows, daggers and spears—kill!”

Shen Tang blinked. “…Huh?”

Before the question could fully form, the bow in his hands warped and reshaped in a blink, turning into a long halberd with a cross-shaped head.

It was nearly a zhang in length. The point flashed cold as it drove straight for her face.

Shen Tang jerked back and twisted aside, barely avoiding the strike. The blade hissed past so close she felt the wind of it.

A weapon like that was all advantage—reach, power, control.

He swept and thrust without pause, the halberd moving like an extension of his body, points and shadows stitching the air into a net.

Shen Tang was empty-handed.

If she ran, she’d be skewered. If she stayed, she’d be worn down until she slipped.

And that chant—two lines, and he conjured a weapon—explained the horse under him too.

So much for science.

The halberd’s point grazed her left arm and slammed into the ground. Shen Tang’s scalp prickled. If she’d been a fraction slower, it would’ve punched straight through her chest.

Desperate, she tried to mimic him between dodges, words tumbling out like a gamble.

“Spears and blades, swords and halberds; bows and crossbows—”

She didn’t finish. The next thrust cut her off.

The leader’s mouth curled. “An insect trying to imitate a dragon. You don’t know your place.”

When the halberd stabbed again, Shen Tang’s anger snapped.

She reached out bare-handed and seized the point.

Pain flared as the edge bit into her palm, but she didn’t let go. She yanked hard, dragging the weapon off-line and wrenching the leader’s balance.

“Enough!” she roared. “Are you done yet!”

A nameless rage surged in her chest, scorching hot, and with it came a line of text—bright, sharp—etched into her mind as if someone had carved it there.

Her instincts screamed that it mattered.

“A kind mother holds a sword…”