Chapter 2: Knocking at the Door in the Night Rain

The rain lashed against the blue tiles of the riverside alley in Lin'an like a whip, each strike sounding like a drumbeat urging death itself.

Song Huaijin still clutched the unburnt wick in his hand. A single drop of molten wax fell onto the freshly wrapped oil paper, scorching a tiny, brown spot. The mark wasn’t noticeable, but it served as a glaring warning of the crisis closing in. In the distance, the gongs on the canal embankment had fallen silent, replaced by a suffocating stillness—the kind of heavy, oppressive air that only precedes a storm.

“Huaijin, are you sure they haven't found the alley entrance yet?” Lu Zhibai stood by the second-floor window frame, rain dripping from the hem of his robe, pooling into a murky look of anxiety in his eyes. The composure this academy tutor usually carried was completely gone; he gripped the letter in his hand so hard his knuckles had turned white.

Song Huaijin tucked the oil paper into his robe, pressing it against his heart. His voice was cool, bordering on cold. “Three long strikes, two short—that’s the signal for a levee breach. But the smell of gunpowder is too strong. That’s a proprietary mix from the Fire God Camp. Nie Yunzhou wouldn’t let the canal transport rules break under his nose. He’d just send men to ‘clean up’ any obstacles.” He turned and walked toward the inner chamber at the back of the loft, a secret room stuffed with ancient, fragmented texts, his last remaining hideout in Lin'an.

“Clean up?” Lu Zhibai followed, his steps hurried. “They haven’t even crossed the threshold. How do they know the map is on you?”

“Because restoring the *Yingzao Fashi* requires a specific ratio of camellia oil and shellac,” Song Huaijin pushed open the wooden door to the secret room. A wave of old mold mixed with pine resin hit them. “In the entire city of Lin'an, only the procurement lists from Jiushui Tower specify that exact blend. Nie Yunzhou’s caravans are unloading at the docks, and his eyes are in every shop.”

Before he finished, a dull thud came from below. It was the sound of a heavy wooden door being hammered repeatedly by iron tools, followed by the crisp snap of splintering stone.

“Strip and seize the loot. That’s Nie Yunzhou’s final ultimatum for any ‘knowing parties.’”

In the darkness, a cold, sharp female voice drifted down from the crossbeams, breaking the tension in the room. Chu Hanyi landed silently beside the desk like a light-footed night cat. She wasn’t wearing the rain-soaked outer robe from before; her black combat gear was dry and neat. The silver needle case at her waist gleamed with a cold metallic sheen in the candlelight.

“Hanyi?” Lu Zhibai’s eyes widened, then he lowered his voice. “How did you get in? The floor below is heavily guarded.”

“I climbed in through the drainpipe in the backyard. I also snipped that heavy door bolt of yours for good measure.” Chu Hanyi scanned the room with a blank expression, her gaze finally settling on Song Huaijin. “A coroner’s ears are sharper than a swordsman’s. I heard the footsteps downstairs. Not ordinary river bandits. These are death-seekers who trained in the Bone-Breaking style.”

Song Huaijin nodded, quickly pushing the *Yingzao Fashi* to the side to reveal the complex beam and column structure beneath. The loft wasn’t an ordinary residence; it had been converted from an abandoned canal warehouse, preserving the intricate mortise-and-tenon joinery of Song-dynasty official architecture. The intersecting wooden beams were dense as a spiderweb.

“Since you’re here, we can’t just send you away.” A resigned smile tugged at the corner of Song Huaijin’s mouth. He looked at Chu Hanyi. “Are those arrays of silver needles you brought still usable?”

“Only three boxes left.” Chu Hanyi pulled out an oilcloth bundle from her robe and unfolded it gently. Inside were dozens of silver needles, fine as cowhair, with transparent silk threads tied to the tails. “These are ‘Soul-Confusing Needles,’ a mix of datura flower juice and snake venom. Contact causes instant drowsiness, lasting for half an hour. But remember, they only seal acupoints. They can’t kill anyone. It’s the rule of the jianghu: you can’t save the dead, but the living can talk.”

“I don’t need them to talk. I just need them to walk into the wrong room.” A sharp light flickered in Song Huaijin’s eyes. He quickly arranged pre-prepared tools on the desk—a sharp carving knife, a pot of thick glue, and several spare pieces of oilcloth. “I’ve modified the structure of this upper floor three times. I moved the load-bearing beams and left only a surface camouflage. Nie Yunzhou’s men will just take the stairs, thinking everything is normal.”

Lu Zhibai watched him with worry. “Huaijin, you’re a civil servant. If this turns into a fight...”

“I’m a restoration specialist for ancient architecture. I know how to make a building ‘collapse’ better than anyone.” Song Huaijin cut him off, tapping his fingers lightly on the table. “The second they rush in is the moment the traps spring.”

The pounding downstairs grew more violent. Finally, with a massive *crack*, the heavy wooden door was blown open. Rain mixed with mud flooded the entrance. Several black shadows darted in like ghosts. The lead figure held a guillotine blade, rain dripping from the edge and carving deep lines into the floor tiles.

“Hand over the scrolls and you can keep your corpse intact.” The leader’s voice was drowned by the rain, but it carried an undeniable cruelty.

Song Huaijin didn’t retreat; instead, he stepped forward, standing in the shadow of the stairwell corner. His movements were blindingly fast. The carving knife in his hand traced a silver arc through the air, precisely cutting the rope of an old lantern hanging overhead.

The lantern fell, and the flame instantly ignited the pile of dry straw below.

“Move!” Song Huaijin hissed.

Chu Hanyi followed close behind. She flicked her wrists, and three silver needles shot out like shooting stars. They didn’t target the black-clad men; they aimed for the ventilation grate on the side of the loft. The needles hit the iron bars with a crisp *ding-ding* sound, and the trace of smoke carried on the needle tips was sucked into the room by the cross-breeze. The smoke was colorless and odorless, but it was a special confounding powder. Once inhaled, it induced brief hallucinations and a loss of directional sense.

The black-clad men instinctively stepped back, covering their noses and mouths, their eyes going vacant.

“Where?”

“The map!”

They began to search blindly in the haze, their formation instantly dissolving into chaos. Amidst the confusion, Song Huaijin quietly triggered the preset mechanism. He stepped on a loose board on the floor—a stress point he had intentionally left.

*Click.*

The mechanical sound was barely audible in the smoke, but enough to alert the observant.

The floor of the second-floor corridor suddenly tilted. The straight path instantly became a steep slope. Two black-clad men lost their balance while running, screaming as they fell, crashing heavily into the crossbeams of the floor below.

“Trap!” The lead black-clad man realized, roaring as he swung his blade at the stair rail.

But beneath the rail wasn’t solid wood; it was a fake structure that Song Huaijin had hollowed out and filled with fine sand. The blade cut into nothing. The momentum was too great, and the man pitched forward, falling into the “funnel” trap that had already opened below.

It was a deep pit disguised as flooring, filled with slippery grease and spikes. The spikes weren’t lethal iron nails, but polished bamboo shards. They wouldn’t kill a person, but they would create enough friction and pain upon falling to incapacitate them completely.

“Don’t bother with the ones below! Follow me up!” The black-clad leader snarled, ignoring his companions’ cries for help. He forcefully breached the final barrier leading to the loft.

The interior of the loft was pitch black, save for the faint light source in Chu Hanyi’s hand, flickering erratically.

Song Huaijin stood before the bookshelf, holding the pot of thick glue. He took the oil paper from his robe, quickly tore it into pieces, and soaked each one in glue. Carefully, he pressed them into the innermost grooves of the bookshelf’s backing board.

“Huaijin, get out of there now!” Lu Zhibai urged from the side, his face pale as paper. The confounding smoke had affected him too, blurring his vision.

“It’s too early,” Song Huaijin said without looking up, his hands steady as stone. “Nie Yunzhou’s men are good at tracking scents. I have to completely erase my ‘trace.’”

He pressed the last piece of paper into place, then ignited the oilcloth beside him. Flames shot up instantly, swallowing the decorative pictures on the surface and the old book covers.

“Are you insane?” Chu Hanyi frowned, trying to pour water on it, but Song Huaijin blocked her.

“What’s burning is the camouflage, not the map,” Song Huaijin watched the flames lick at the bookshelf, no panic in his eyes. “The surface books are fakes; I replaced them long ago. The real *Yingzao Fashi* and map fragments are now part of the bookshelf itself. The fiercer the fire, the better it masks the scent.”

Heavy footsteps came from below. The black-clad leader, following the smell of burning, rushed up. He saw the burning bookshelf, a mix of greed and confusion flashing in his eyes.

“Where is it?” He raised his guillotine blade, the cold light sharp. “Song Huaijin, do you think this pile of junk can fool Jiushui Tower?”

Song Huaijin stepped out from the fire, his clothes barely dusty. He brushed his sleeves, wearing a calm expression that was almost mocking. “If Lord Nie is smart, he should know that the most dangerous places are where things are hidden the quietest.”

“Cut the crap!” The black-clad leader roared, swinging his blade at Song Huaijin.

Just as the edge was about to touch his robe, Chu Hanyi’s figure swept past like a ghost. She didn’t counterattack. She simply plucked a hanging silk thread nearby.

It was connected to another set of mechanisms on the loft’s exterior facade.

*Boom!*

With a thunderous crash, the wooden lattice on the exterior shattered. The wet, swollen blocks of wood, expanded by the rain, shot out like bullets, hitting the black-clad leader’s arm holding the blade with pinpoint accuracy.

“Ah!”

The man screamed, collapsing to the ground. The guillotine blade slipped from his hand and rolled into the burning ashes.

“That’s enough.” Song Huaijin walked up to him, looking down at his pitiful opponent. “Tell Nie Yunzhou that I’ve ‘destroyed’ the map. But I left some fragments hidden in Lin'an’s largest bookshop, sealed with the code he knows. If he wants them back, have his men look for the characters ‘Hong Yan’.”

The black-clad leader stared at him in shock, clearly not expecting the enemy to counter-attack and set up such an uncertain puzzle even in a desperate situation.

Chu Hanyi walked over to the man, pulled out three Soul-Confusing Needles, and said coldly, “This is the price. If he doesn’t believe you, he’ll pay a higher price.”

Lu Zhibai, leaning on the railing, asked weakly, “Huaijin, what does ‘Hong Yan’ mean? Did you really leave it?”

Song Huaijin didn’t answer directly. He walked to the window, watching the shadows receding in the rain curtain and the faint sight of canal transport fire-ships on the distant waterway.

“Brother Lu, you’ve spent your life writing letters and delivering messages. You should know that ‘Hong Yan’ isn’t a guidepost. It’s a warning.” Song Huaijin’s voice was clear despite the storm. “The fragment I left doesn’t contain the map’s dimensions. It contains the names of those truly responsible for the levee breach back then. Nie Yunzhou wants the map because he wants to cover up the scandal of the canal transport seizing disaster relief funds. That list is his death warrant.”

Lu Zhibai’s pupils contracted, a chill shooting up from his feet to the top of his head. “You’re saying you deliberately hid the real evidence to lure him into a trap?”

“No,” Song Huaijin turned around, his gaze deep like a pool. “I scattered the evidence. Part is in the bookshop, part is in the hidden layer of Chu Hanyi’s needle case, and the rest...”

“The rest is on you?” Chu Hanyi looked at him in surprise.

Song Huaijin pulled the jade pendant he always wore close to his skin and pried it open. The inside was hollow, containing a tiny fragment of oil paper, layered with protective talismans.

“Nie Yunzhou can search his body and find nothing, because he has no idea that my family’s heritage includes the ‘Art of Hiding.’” Song Huaijin closed the jade pendant, a light smile on his lips. “The stronger he is, the less likely he is to suspect that a frail scholar is hiding anything. And that ‘hiding’ is the biggest satire to his greed.”

At this moment, the rain began to ease, and a hint of pale blue broke on the eastern horizon.

From the direction of the distant canal, the rapid sound of paddling approached. A solitary boat broke through the rain curtain. Standing on it was a man in white robes, sword at his waist, his garments snapping in the wind. It was Yan Guihong · Chu of Sword Forging Mountain Villa. He seemed to sense something; his gaze pierced the rain curtain, fixed on this loft. Then, with a flash of cold light, his long sword left the sheath, shattering a massive boulder blocking the path in the distance, clearing the way for the arriving reinforcements.

Song Huaijin looked out the window, and the last thread of tension in his heart snapped.

“Brother Yan is here,” he said softly. “It seems this game has only just begun.”

Chu Hanyi put away her silver needles, nodded at Song Huaijin, and turned to walk toward the back window, leaving a black silhouette in her wake.

The first piece of the puzzle had landed.