Chapter Fifty: Calamity Behind Bars

The prison in Wuan County was vast, its walls built from solid granite blocks—each small one weighing thirty or forty catties, the larger ones over a hundred. These stones were bonded together with mortar mixed from boiled glutinous rice soup and lime, rendering the place a veritable “Prison of Ten Thousand Years.”

Inside, the space was divided into numerous small cells—dark, damp, and airless, the floors alive with countless rats and cockroaches scurrying about. Even in the depths of winter, the stench was overwhelming. Among the reek, there lingered a heavy scent of blood, a telltale sign that people often died here, and rarely of natural causes.

Some cells stood empty, others housed prisoners—each one disheveled, gaunt, eyes vacant, their necks weighed down by heavy cangues. They slumped weakly on the ground, barely distinguishable from the dead.

Such a place was less a prison and more a living hell.

...

Chief Constable Deng, to his credit, kept his word. He instructed the gaolers to assign Li Zhao to the best cell available. This one measured over twenty square feet, was relatively clean, its floor covered with thick straw, and even contained bedding, a pillow, a chamber pot, and other necessities.

Compared to the other cells, it was as different as heaven from earth.

Furthermore, this cell was situated deep within, far from the others, separated by two sets of barred gates. The foul stench was much diminished here.

Spending a night in such a place—perhaps it was not wholly unbearable.

However, it was not a solitary cell, but one shared with three other inmates—more precisely, three burly men, each with distinctive features: one with a single eye, one with only one ear, and one without a nose. They lounged on the straw, casting furtive glances at Li Zhao, like three hungry wolves lying in wait, ready to pounce.

“Young Master Li, there’s only coarse tea and plain fare here. Please eat what you can.”

“I understand.”

The gaoler brought in a tray—one roast chicken, a small dish of pickled vegetables, three steamed wheat buns, and a pot of tea—then left, securing both gates behind him.

From that moment, whatever happened outside was lost to those within; and whatever occurred inside, the outside world would never know.

Was this arrangement meant for his comfort, or was there some other, darker intent? Li Zhao could not help but give a cold, faint smile—most likely, it was the latter.

He did not touch the food or the tea, but sat cross-legged, resting and pondering—how had Black Whirlwind died? Who was the mastermind? Why had he been framed?

Meanwhile, the one-eyed man addressed him in a cordial tone: “Brother, what’s your name? What brings you here?”

“My surname is Li. I was brought in on false charges.”

“Heh, nine out of ten men here claim they were falsely accused. Brother, with such a fine meal, why not eat?”

“No appetite. My mood is poor.”

“In that case, we won’t stand on ceremony. After years in this hell, I’ve nearly forgotten the taste of chicken.”

“Help yourselves.”

The three men wasted no time, devouring the food greedily, but left behind two chicken legs and a bun.

“Brother, you should eat a little—don’t starve yourself.”

“Yes, even if you can’t eat, at least have some tea.”

The one-eared man handed over a chicken leg and a bun, while the one-eyed man poured a bowl of tea. As he did so, his left pinky flicked, and a small black pill dropped into the tea.

“Very well, thank you.”

Li Zhao accepted the tea, offered his thanks, then, following proper etiquette, sat upright, covered his mouth with his sleeve, and appeared to drink it all in one go.

“This tea tastes a bit...”

Before he could finish, he collapsed to the ground, the bowl shattering at his side.

“Hmph, I’d heard this lad had some skill, but it turns out he’s a greenhorn—downed with a touch of knockout powder. Let’s hurry and send him on his way!”

“Hold on, brother. The boy’s skin is smooth, his lips red and teeth white—prettier than any courtesan in the lane. Let me amuse myself first.”

“Second Brother, restrain yourself. Old King Chen gave strict orders: as soon as this boy entered, he was to be killed—clean and without a trace.”

“The night is long, what’s the rush? Let me have my fun, and come third watch, we’ll kill him and make it look like suicide—no one will know.”

The one-eyed man, leering, moved toward Li Zhao, intent on touching his face. But Li Zhao suddenly sprang up, chopping hard at the man’s carotid artery. The one-eyed man collapsed, limp.

In truth, Li Zhao had not drunk the tea at all, but poured it down his collar. Feigning unconsciousness, he had hoped to overhear their conversation and learn the identity of the mastermind. While he gleaned little useful information, he did attract the attention of a lecherous wolf. For his own safety, he had to act.

“The boy is cunning—he didn’t drink the tea!”

“Get him!”

The one-eared and the noseless men lunged at him, but Li Zhao met them head-on. In just five or six exchanges, he had both men on the ground, their joints dislocated—save for their jaws, left intact for interrogation.

“Speak! Who are you, and why seek my life?”

“Bah! So you were playing the fool. If you’ve got the guts, kill me now, or I’ll kill you first chance I get!”

“Still defiant, are you?” Crack, crack.

Li Zhao seized the one-eared man, landing a flurry of punches, but the fellow spat bloody saliva and refused to talk.

Two fingers broken, writhing in agony, yet he remained silent.

The other two were just as stubborn—hard as rocks in a privy: foul and unyielding. This infuriated Li Zhao; it seemed more extreme measures were needed.

“Fine, since you’re all so tough, let’s play a little game—see if your bones or my skills are harder.” With that, Li Zhao retrieved a small cloth pouch from his boot, inside which were several steel needles.

Needle torture.

Once, when Pei Min roamed the martial world, he encountered a notorious thief—expert in both martial and medical arts, able to kill unseen with silver needles. Pei Min, ridding the world of this villain, discovered on his corpse a manual detailing myriad methods for killing and tormenting with needles.

Pei Min had considered destroying the manual, but the techniques within were so exquisite that, if cross-referenced with acupoint arts, they would yield double the effect. So he kept it for study.

Li Zhao, upon learning of this, pestered Pei Min until he acquired the manual, and then studied it relentlessly.

Within the manual was a most dreadful technique: the Thirteen Needles of Death.

Each needle pierced a vital acupoint, inflicting agony far exceeding that of racks, branding irons, or tiger benches, driving victims to madness and despair.

Each of the thirteen needles inflicted greater torment than the last; the final one was called the “Regret Beyond Redemption.”

Why such a strange name? Because any who experienced it would soon meet their end, but not before succumbing to overwhelming regret—regret for not ending their lives sooner, for being born at all, and most of all, for crossing the one who wielded the needle.

Li Zhao had mastered only the first three needles, but that was more than enough for these desperate men.

...

“I’ll give you one last chance—will you speak?”

“Bah!”

“Very well, you asked for this. The first needle won’t hurt, but you’ll itch unbearably, as if a thousand insects were crawling through your bones and into your heart... Well? How does it feel?”

“Youngster, kill us if you dare! If I so much as frown, I’m no man—what kind of skill is it to torture... ah! The itch, it’s killing me... end it!”

Some men may not fear pain, but cannot bear to itch—for the latter is a far crueler torment.

The three men writhed on the ground, even smashing their heads against the granite walls, just for a moment’s relief.

Still, their resolve held—they would not yield.

Li Zhao had no choice but to use the second needle: those struck by it would sweat as if in a monsoon, their insides burning as though roasted alive.

The third needle plunged them into a glacial chill, shivering uncontrollably.

...

After nearly half an hour—

“Master, stop! Please, no more—we’ll talk, we’ll tell you everything!”

“Names and pasts, now.”

“We’re three brothers: Shi Guozhu, Shi Guoliang, and Shi Guoqing. We made our living on the road, engaging in all manner of risky trades, earning the name the Shi Brothers. We failed in a heist and were imprisoned here over three years ago.”

...

“We’ve no grudge against you—why try to kill me? Were you put up to it?”

“It was Old King Chen—he ordered us to assassinate you and stage it as a hanging. He promised us three days of feasts if we succeeded.”

...

“Who is Old King Chen, what does he look like?”

“He’s the prison chief here—over thirty, bald, ruthless. He’s killed more inmates than anyone can count, hence the nickname Old King Chen. He and Chief Constable Deng are both adopted sons of Vice Magistrate Zheng. One arrests, the other imprisons—both his most trusted hounds. That’s all I know, Master, please no more needles...”

“So that’s how it is!”

Li Zhao, ever sharp, quickly pieced together the plot from the Shi brothers’ confessions. He was the last direct descendant of King Wu’s line, with no other close kin. If he perished in prison, the ancestral home and distillery would fall into Li De’s hands. Li De’s wife was a Zheng, her father Vice Magistrate Zheng. Zheng’s adopted sons were Old King Chen and Chief Constable Deng. Old King Chen manipulated the Shi brothers... a chain, each link connected.

It became clear that Black Whirlwind—Li Dayong’s death—was their doing, meant to frame Li Zhao, imprison him, and then murder him at their leisure.

It was a vicious, poisonous, and insidious scheme.

Had he not been vigilant and skilled, he would have fallen prey to these despicable men.

What now? If others do not trouble me, I will not trouble them. But if they strike at me, I will repay them tenfold. Once free, he would exact harsh retribution.

The trouble was, this was a chain of traps. The case would be tried at dawn—could he clear his name? That remained an open question.