Chapter Twenty-One: The Suspended Secret Realm

A few lingering rays of the setting sun pierced through a narrow crack in the brickwork, spilling into the dim prison cell, only to be swallowed by the boundless darkness, leaving a small patch of light upon the floor.

The air was dank and oppressive, heavy with an unpleasant stench—the reek of dried urine mingled with a faint hint of blood. With no circulation and never seeing the light of day, even the breath exhaled was thick and foul.

Two oil lamps flickered with feeble light, casting shifting shadows upon the walls. The men’s hands moved in an endless sequence of gestures, back and forth between them.

“Come on, drink up…”

“Two little bees, flying to the flowers… Hahaha! You’ve lost again, drink, drink!”

“Sir, I really can’t drink anymore!”

Four men, led by Li Pingyang, were seated around a table, upon which lay the remains of a roast chicken, a dish of peanuts, and a large jug of fragrant, potent liquor.

All four had rolled up their sleeves, their faces flushed from drinking, their spirits high. The finger-guessing game that Li Dog Egg had just taught them was still unfamiliar, but brought them much amusement.

With nothing else to do, Li Pingyang had summoned three wardens and the head of the cell to share a drink and while away the tedious hours.

This was a solitary cell, the walls of white rock, the door wrought of pure iron, the bars as thick as a man’s wrist, and the space nearly twice the size of a wooden cell.

Against the left wall stood a wooden rack, holding stacks of old newspapers and several clean prison garments for changing.

The uniforms here were looser, the fabric and workmanship finer than the average prisoner’s attire—more like old-fashioned pajamas.

As the rounds of the game wore on, the last warden finally collapsed, his head hitting the table with a crash, dead to the world. Li Pingyang nudged the others and confirmed they were all drunk.

Satisfied and full, a blade of wild grass between his teeth, Li Pingyang found a clean spot in the corner, sat cross-legged, and closed his eyes, emptying his mind.

It had been some time since he last practiced his swordsmanship.

He felt the flow of true energy within his dantian, his body warm and relaxed as if soaking in a hot spring, a strange and wonderful comfort enveloping him.

In his mind, the ancient book of the Dominating Sword reappeared with abrupt clarity. The little figure practicing the sword emerged again, guiding him through every move, every stance.

This time, unlike before, he found himself in a vast and open world, shrouded in swirling clouds with no end in sight. Above, the Milky Way stretched across the sky in dazzling brilliance, but all around, there was not a flower nor a blade of grass.

Yet in the distance, atop a mountain peak, nine waterfalls cascaded down like celestial white dragons, their thunderous roar shaking the heavens as they crashed into the depths below.

Standing upon a broad boulder opposite the falls, Li Pingyang began his training in earnest. Each move was executed with utmost care. When he stumbled over a motion, he would practice it dozens or even hundreds of times with unwavering diligence.

As his mastery increased, the broken blade in his dantian began to glow with green light. The radiance spread from his core, rising up through his body and out the crown of his head, the blade’s aura growing ever more formidable.

With a resounding crack, he slashed toward the waterfalls. Red energy burst from the sword’s edge, cleaving a gap in the rushing water and striking a boulder behind, splitting it cleanly in two.

Elated by his ever-strengthening swordplay, Li Pingyang lingered a while longer in that void. When he finally stood up, his legs were numb from sitting so long.

He opened his eyes—it was already the next day.

Though he had not slept a wink all night, he felt no fatigue. On the contrary, his spirit was alight as if he’d been injected with new vitality.

Shortly after dawn, two wardens arrived to fetch him. They roused the other slumbering men, then escorted Li Pingyang to the main hall.

Outside, a crowd had already gathered to watch the proceedings. As soon as Li Pingyang was led inside, two rows of men armed with batons began to beat them together, raising a din to add to the gravity of the moment.

If one listened carefully, there was a rhythm to the pounding—a rapid, urgent cadence meant to intimidate the accused and plant anxiety in their hearts.

Those with guilty consciences would find their courage faltering under such a display. The faint of heart might confess before the magistrate’s gavel even struck.

High above the hall hung a prominent plaque, four golden characters inscribed upon it: “The Bright Mirror Hangs Aloft,” a symbol of impartiality and incorruptible justice.

The bailiff soon took his seat, and the registrar handed him the indictment. Even as he accepted the document, the bailiff’s hands trembled.

And when a loud voice outside announced, “Minister of Revenue, Lord Guo has arrived!” his legs began to shake uncontrollably.

He had served as an official for five years, presiding over no fewer than a thousand cases, both great and small. He made no claims to extraordinary integrity, but not one false conviction had ever passed through his hands.

Yet even with experience handling the most bizarre and terrifying cases, he had never felt as tense as he did today.

The bailiff hurried down from his chair to greet an elderly man in official robes and hat, his belly protruding. As he approached, he was brusquely pushed aside.

It was clear Lord Guo had come in anger, his eyes glinting with murderous intent. As he passed Li Pingyang, their gazes met briefly before he mounted the dais.

Taking the bailiff’s seat, Lord Guo picked up the cup of tea prepared for him, removed the lid, and swallowed it all in one gulp, leaves and all.

With a meaningful glance from the bailiff, the registrar hastily picked up a document and began to read the autopsy report aloud. His nerves got the better of him; stumbling over several words, he fell to his knees in terror.

Lord Guo kicked him over with a curse, snatched the report, and read through it himself. When he finished, he brought his palm down hard, shattering the desk before him.

With Lord Guo’s approval, an autopsy was performed on Guo Xian. The cause of death was a slit throat, inflicted by a sharp weapon, and judging by the stiffness of the body, the time of death was estimated to be during the previous night’s second watch.

The murder weapon had yet to be found, but from the size and depth of the wound, it was determined to be a sharp dagger.

One of the suspects was Guo Xian, son of Guo Qishu, and the woman who had shared his bed that night was brought forward. She had clearly been tortured—unable to walk, she had to be supported by the arms.

When she was presented in the court, the wardens shoved her to the floor. Her fingers, pierced with wooden nails, dripped blood from all ten tips—a ghastly sight.

Liu Yan’er was also brought forward from the other side. Her face was bruised, blood trickled from the corner of her lips, her hair ungroomed, hanging disheveled over half her face, and lash marks striped her body.

She glanced at Li Pingyang, managed a reassuring smile, and shook her head to indicate she was unharmed. She took one step forward, but her legs gave way and she collapsed.

Seeing this, Li Pingyang rushed to help her, but the bailiff shouted for his arrest. Several men together forced Li Pingyang to the ground.

With his cheek pressed to the floor, Li Pingyang looked toward Liu Yan’er and saw her struggling to rise on her own, failing again and again, until she could only kneel there, exhausted.