Since returning to the capital, Su Yan had been attending early court more often, and his biological clock now woke him at the fourth watch. When he opened his eyes, the room was still pitch dark… No, there was a dim light coming from the corner, made even murkier by a screen, casting a blurry shadow on it.
“Who’s there!” Su Yan called out warily. Besides Ah Zhui, who else could enter silently? But Ah Zhui wouldn’t light a lamp while he slept.
A voice replied immediately from behind the screen, “Don’t panic. It’s me.”
Hearing that voice, Su Yan’s first reaction was to throw off the covers to check whether his sleepwear was intact and whether his body felt any discomfort. Relieved, he snapped, “Didn’t you leave? Why sneak back in while I’m asleep—what are you trying to pull!”
Yu Wang was still seated at the writing desk behind the screen, his tone casual: “I heard you close the window and reattach the bell—are you afraid of being assassinated by a Seven Kills assassin? Right now, with Shen Qi and Jinghong Zhui both out of commission, who else can you rely on but me? I kept watch for you all night. You should be thanking me.”
The logic was sound, but his tone was enough to annoy anyone.
But upon further thought, Su Yan let it go. When Yu Wang used to pursue him, he was all “my sweet little heart” and “my darling,” spewing nauseating, greasy lines. Now, he spoke casually and freely—wasn’t that proof that Yu Wang now saw him as a colleague or a comrade-in-arms?
His mood improved significantly. He got out of bed and, while dressing, said, “This official thanks Wangye. But there are guards in the front yard—no need to trouble Wangye to stay up.”
Yu Wang scoffed: “Those imperial guards—unless you let them bunk in your room—won’t be any help if a Blood-Eye assassin slips in.”
Su Yan knew he was right. If the Seven Kill Camp really wanted him dead, he needed a top-tier bodyguard by his side to have a chance at survival.
But it wasn’t proper for a royal prince to camp out in his room every night acting as a bodyguard.
“I’ll set up two couches outside and have two guards take turns keeping watch each night. That should suffice,” Su Yan said. “Your Highness is of noble body and precious life. Better return to your manor and rest.”
Yu Wang neither agreed nor objected. He reached for the oil lamp to shed more light on something in his hands. Su Yan, now dressed in his fourth-rank official uniform, glanced at the screen’s shadow and asked, “What’s Your Highness studying?”
There were only a few ordinary books on the desk—nothing special.
Yu Wang said, “Come look. Where do you think this came from?”
Su Yan buckled his plain gold belt and walked behind the screen. He saw Yu Wang holding several tattered pages that looked somewhat familiar.
“…Ah, I remember now. Weren’t we chasing Fuyin through the hidden passage at Linhua Pavilion two days ago? After the underground ‘Mingtang’ exploded, this stuff got blown onto me. I looked at it with a firestarter—it seemed like scripture fragments. Didn’t know if it was connected to Seven Kill Camp, so I stuffed it in my clothes and brought it back.”
Su Yan bent down to study the charred page edges. The handwriting was fairly legible, but many phrases were incomplete, making the meaning hard to grasp. It seemed to be scripture of some sort.
He’d glanced through it after returning and found nothing of use, so he tucked it randomly into a book and almost forgot about it.
Yu Wang took a blank sheet and began copying down the words from the fragments.
His calligraphy—bold and sharp, unrestrained but not wild—exuded the force and spirit of a warrior. Every time Su Yan saw it, he couldn’t help but admire: Great handwriting!
After transcribing, Yu Wang left blanks where the pages were burned, then picked up a cinnabar brush to fill in the gaps.
“Suddenly understood… something… Before there was heaven and earth, there was something something…”
Su Yan was completely lost and mumbled, “Sounds like the Big Bang.”
Yu Wang chuckled, not understanding the reference, and skipped ahead to the next fragment:
Mountains and rivers may fall, but this peace shall endure, understood through [blank blank], [blank blank blank blank].
[Blank blank blank blank], and no living beings. This thing shall last forever, [blank blank blank blank].”
After pondering, he filled in the blanks with: “this,” “eternally unbroken,” “no gods or buddhas,” “nothing else.”
Su Yan read it again and scoffed: “Doesn’t even acknowledge mountains or living beings—what arrogance!”
Yu Wang replied, “I’m not sure if the words I filled in are right, but they seem to match the context.”
“Despite the grand tone, the wording is simple—like it was written for commoners with low literacy,” Su Yan tapped the page. “But what is this so-called ‘this’?”
Yu Wang shook his head. They moved on to the third page.
This one was larger and more complete:
…Before heaven and earth opened, light and darkness had already separated. Thus came the Three Epochs—Green Sun, Red Sun, and White Sun. We are now in the ‘Red Sun’ era, where light and dark struggle endlessly. Calamities erupt across the land. A great catastrophe is imminent. Only…
“This bit is vague and mystical—totally sounds like a religious charlatan’s spiel,” Su Yan said with disdain, tossing it aside and picking up the final fragment.
It was tiny, burned down to a single line:
“When catastrophe meets heaven and earth’s darkness, the Red Lotus shall emerge into the void.”
Beside the text, there were faint dark red marks—what looked like the blurred edges of some kind of symbol.
Su Yan stared at the words “Red Lotus,” a spark lighting in his mind. He snatched the cinnabar brush from Yu Wang’s hand and began by tracing the unclear edges onto a blank sheet of paper, then slowly sketched outward, finally producing a blooming, eight-petaled blood lotus.
“This doesn’t make sense… Why is the secret symbol used by the assassins of the Seven Kill Camp connected to this cryptic religious scripture?”
He compared it to the couplet and the more he looked at the red lotus image, the more his mind filled with thick fog—no matter how he tried to brush it away, it stayed. It was like he was holding two completely different ropes in each hand, but no matter what he did, he couldn’t join the ends together.
“What exactly does the red lotus represent? What is this ‘great calamity’? And where is the ‘void’?” Su Yan frowned and muttered, “Why would the underground base of the Seven Kill Camp have a ‘Mingtang,’ complete with a shrine, meditation cushions, and sacred scriptures? Something’s wrong. Is this a killer organization or a cult?”
“What’s wrong about it?” Yu Wang asked back. “Why can’t it be both a killer organization and a cult? Or more likely, these assassins were raised by a cult from the start—whether they themselves know it or not.”
That single sentence from Yu Wang cut through the haze in Su Yan’s mind like a blade. He suddenly saw things clearly. “No wonder Shen Qi had exhausted all the resources of the Northern Surveillance Bureau, and still couldn’t trace the origin of the red lotus symbol through martial sects and factions. It’s because it wasn’t related to sects—it was a matter of religion!”
“That underground hall wasn’t meant for assassins to meet. The ritualistic layout was too intense—it looked more like a place for preaching… no wonder it’s called ‘Mingtang!’
“‘The Son of Heaven builds the Mingtang to commune with the spirits, harmonize with Heaven and Earth, and align the seasons.’ That’s right—and the next line is ‘to spread teachings among the people.’
“Naming the hall ‘Mingtang’ wasn’t just about seizing divine mandate—it also implied a mission to ‘enlighten the masses’!”
Throughout history, religious cults had been as numerous as stars. Some gained legitimacy and were publicly revered, like the Buddhist and Daoist faiths, even protected by emperors.
Others, unrecognized by those in power, had to operate secretly, either hidden among the people or as underground networks—countless in number. Each cult had its own doctrine, but ultimately they all sold the same dream: a paradise in the clouds, an ultimate goal so perfect that believers would sacrifice blood and life just for the chance it might be real.
Followers gave their wealth and lives, while leaders reaped fame and fortune, sometimes even merging religious power with militant force to pursue that age-old, tireless, repeatedly-failed yet ever-persistent grand cause—rebellion.
Then again, not all failed. Some actually succeeded.
Su Yan suddenly thought of Great Ming’s founding emperor—who had risen from humble beginnings. Wasn’t he the one who overthrew the previous dynasty?
According to unofficial histories and rumors, the founding emperor’s rebel army had once been entangled with a certain religious cult—one that stirred the hearts of the people against the tyrannical Yuan rule. But after ascending the throne, to secure his reign, he quickly banned the cult and wiped it out.
Could that ancient, buried story be related to this eight-petaled blood lotus?
Su Yan almost blurted out to Yu Wang: How much do you know about your Zhu family’s ancestral secrets?
But reason reined him in. Not to mention that Yu Wang had no heart for court matters—even Emperor Jinglong himself might not know the full truth. And even if he did, he might not tell Su Yan. Worse, he might beat his backside for asking. What was the point? If he was going to inquire, he couldn’t do it so directly.
Su Yan took a deep breath, gathered the four fragmentary pages, and tucked them back into the book. He said to Yu Wang, “Since we can’t make sense of it now, let’s leave it be. If I don’t leave now, I’ll be late for court.”
Yu Wang pointed to his own cap—through the gauze veil, a bandage could faintly be seen. “Our Lord Master Su seems to have forgotten—we’re both still wounded. It’s barely been three days. Royal Brother granted me half a month of leave. Seems he’s far harsher on you.”
Su Yan laughed. “You’re mistaken, Wangye. His Majesty gave me half a month off too. But look at the current situation—can I really rest? Even if I skip court duty, I still need to go to the Dali Temple and the Northern Surveillance Bureau.”
“The Northern Surveillance Bureau?”
Su Yan briefed him on the progress of the investigation.
Yu Wang immediately said, “I’ll go with you.”
Su Yan replied, “This is my duty, there’s no need to trouble—” he hadn’t even finished saying “Wangye” before Yu Wang interrupted.
“How is it not my business? The Seven Kill Camp planted spies in my residence, tried to assassinate me with a flute trap, and killed Han Ben. Don’t I have the right to avenge him?”
That was a very reasonable point. Su Yan had no argument.
“Then let’s head to the Northern Surveillance Bureau first.”
As he went to open the door, he happened to run into Su Xiaobei standing outside holding a basin of hot water, clearly hesitating about whether to wake his master.
“Sir, you’re awake! Are you going to court—” the second half of the sentence died in his throat. Su Xiaobei stared past Su Yan at Yu Wang like he’d seen a ghost.
In his heart, he thought: Our Lord truly is… a paragon standing alone on high cliffs, a sea that embraces all rivers! Such open-mindedness and generosity… It’s not something ordinary people can hope to match. But if Shen Tongzhi or Brother Zhui finds out one day and raises a fuss, how will I cover for my lord then?
“We just… just drank all night, that’s all,” Su Yan mumbled, feeling vaguely guilty, though it wasn’t clear who he was trying to explain it to. He picked up a towel from the basin, wrung it out, wiped his face, then grabbed a cup and toothbrush with salted honey, and went out to brush his teeth.
Su Xiaobei was about to turn away when Yu Wang said, “Wait.” He reached into the basin, wrung out the towel Su Yan had just used, and wiped his own face and neck with it.
Su Xiaobei was shocked a second time.
Yu Wang chuckled and tossed the towel back into the basin. “As you can see, it really was nothing.”
And so, unbeknownst to Su Yan—who was brushing his teeth three zhang away—a new scandal, confirmed by the household servant alone, was unofficially established.
