Chapter 26 : Chapter 26

Chapter 26: Parade

“To catch a spy, you must think like one.”

“If I were the Jing Dynasty’s Military Intelligence Division Lord, who in the Prince’s Mansion would I turn into a spy?”

I sat on the shared bed, chin propped, analyzing silently:

“Not a guard—they can’t enter the inner quarters.”

“…The physicians and apprentices of Taiping Clinic can interact outside and access the inner quarters.”

I froze: “Could I really be a Jing Dynasty spy?!”

I seriously considered it:

I was at Zhou Chengyi’s residence at midnight. The steward knew I was a clinic apprentice the first time we met, meaning my original self visited often.

Alum, used as medicine, is stocked at Taiping Clinic. If I were a spy, that explains the alum at Zhou’s…

Hiss!

I sucked in a breath.

Wait, no, no.

From Zhou Chengyi’s messages, the spy had already met the mansion’s key figure, confirming trust, prompting the Division Lord’s trip south.

When I visited Evening Star Courtyard, Chunrong wanted to beat me to death. Consort Yun rose to leave, and Consort Jing stayed silent. If I hadn’t fought for myself, I’d have died there.

If I were a spy, one of those key figures should’ve protected me.

I rose quietly, opening our shared wardrobe, searching everyone’s clothes—collars, cuffs, everything—for hidden items.

No clues.

I crouched, running my fingers over the bricks of our shared bed in the dim light.

Hm.

One brick protruded two millimeters, the surrounding clay loose.

Using my thumbnails, I pried it out. Behind it, a hollow held five silver ingots!

What?!

Each ingot was ten taels—far beyond an apprentice’s means, unless funded by the Jing Dynasty’s Military Intelligence.

I’d mocked my paranoia when suspecting a spy in the clinic, but seeing evidence, I took a deep breath.

Were these She Dakang’s? Liu Quxing’s?

…Or mine?

I replaced the ingots and brick, returning to bed quietly.

…

…

At dawn, before the rooster crowed, Old Man Yao, sleeping, was roused by courtyard noise.

He slipped into his white-soled black shoes, hands behind his back, ambling out. In the courtyard, I poured water into the tank.

He glanced at Liu Quxing, asleep on the kitchen stove, then at me, vibrant, frowning: “…Did you wear him out?”

I: “…No, Brother Liu’s just sleeping.”

Old Man Yao grunted: “Rooster hasn’t crowed, and you’re making noise, waking me. Why not replace the rooster and crow yourself?”

I smiled, used to his venomous tongue: “Master, I’m fetching water. I’ll fill the tank before the rooster crows, not delaying your morning lesson.”

I rolled my sleeves to my wrists, picked up the pole, and headed out.

But before reaching the gate, a copper bell rang in the distance, clear and approaching.

Old Man Yao frowned, quickly pulling me back inside before I could step out.

I stumbled back, the pole and buckets swaying.

A procession carrying a majestic Buddha statue passed through Anxi Street in the dawn’s dim light.

Thirty-two monks in gray robes, one shoulder bare, steadily bore a massive Sumeru pedestal.

Beside it, a monk held a copper bell in one hand, incense in the other, occasionally striking them, sparking brilliant embers and crisp chimes.

The incense burned unceasingly, embers soaring like silver blossoms, a dance of fish and dragons.

I whispered: “Master, why pull me back…”

Old Man Yao, expressionless: “Don’t ask.”

We stood side by side, silently watching the monks pass the clinic.

As I watched, I stepped back.

For a moment, the Buddha statue seemed to glance at me, its gaze indifferent yet faintly compassionate.

Liu Quxing, woken by the bells, hurried over: “South City’s Tuoluo Temple monks. Who’s got the money to hire a Buddha parade for the Double Ninth Festival?”

I hesitated, asking: “Master, are there really gods and Buddhas in this world?”

Liu Quxing answered first: “Of course! Two years ago, in Liu Family Village, a man’s mother was gravely ill. He knelt before a Buddha parade, and her illness vanished on the spot!”

I was skeptical, knowing religions often staged miracles to attract followers.

Liu Quxing continued: “Three years ago, a filial son in west Luocheng lost both parents to plague. He went to Tuoluo Temple, donating all his wealth, deeds, and inheritance, asking Abbot Yun to hold a Water-Land Dharma Assembly to honor the ten directions’ Buddhas.”

“What happened?”

“His parents came back to life, the plague gone, though they lay bedridden, immobile,” Liu Quxing said.

I frowned, turning to Old Man Yao: “Master, is Brother Liu’s story true?”

Old Man Yao, hands behind his back, said lightly: “When they were sent to me, they were on death’s door. I told him to take them away—don’t die here and ruin my reputation.”

Liu Quxing muttered: “Master, you said they were beyond saving, better to save money for the living…”

Old Man Yao ignored him, continuing: “I saw them die. When I heard they revived, I visited to confirm. The old couple was alive, bedridden, without consciousness, but with pulse, heartbeat, and breath.”

I froze. Then my parents…

Old Man Yao scoffed: “What’s the point of living like that? Better to let them go in peace.”

I pressed: “Master, has anyone fully revived the dead?”

He glanced at me: “Rumor has it, Chief Chancellor Xu Gong’s only son died in an accident. Xu spent a fortune to have Yuanjue Temple’s abbot craft a new body with a Seven-Treasure Lotus Lamp, letting his son live again.”

“Is his son still alive?”

“Alive. He’s Xu Shu, deputy director of the Imperial Observatory.”

My mind cleared as if cleaved by an axe. If I’d been reborn, could I find a way home and revive my parents?

Money.

Cultivation.

My heart burned.

To cultivate, I couldn’t avoid the icy current. I needed to understand what it was, how it formed, how to harness it!

As the monks vanished at Anxi Street’s end, dawn broke.

Neighbors, sleepless, removed shutters early, greeting each other joyfully, setting up stalls.

I didn’t return to the courtyard, heading to the well with my pole.

A young man carrying firewood approached, calling out. As we passed, I stopped him: “Tell Lord Yunyang I need to visit the Inner Prison.”

He looked shocked: “What’re you talking about, Little Doctor Chen? I don’t understand.”

I said calmly: “A firewood seller, weathered by sun and wind, wouldn’t have a spy’s fair face. Nor would he linger on one street, selling nothing all day. A Jing Dynasty spy would be cautious, not arrogant. Tell Lord Yunyang I want to see the prisoners and records in the Inner Prison—maybe I’ll find him new merits.”

I walked off to fetch water.

I’d noticed this firewood seller’s oddity that day I waited for family at the clinic’s threshold.

I wanted to visit the Inner Prison—a place others avoided—because…

Where do the most die?

The Secret Spy Division’s Inner Prison.

The firewood seller’s smile faded, watching my back. He thought his disguise was flawless, but I’d seen through his poor act, quietly observing.

He dropped his firewood and pole, striding away.