Southwestern corner of the city.
Because the terrain was low-lying and lay downwind year-round, the entire district was shrouded in smoke and haze.
The walls were stained with thick soot. Filthy water flowed through the narrow streets, while the endless buzz of mosquitoes and flies grated on the ears.
Rows upon rows of neat brick houses stood cramped, dense, and crowded, their construction dating back to the era of Great Ancestor Zhou. As all the wealthy residents moved away, the south of the city became a complete slum. Less than twenty percent of the capital's area housed half its population.
The censors submitted memorials calling for redevelopment, but the Ministry of Revenue's senior officials repeatedly refused on the grounds that the national treasury was empty.
As for why, during the founding years, when wars raged on both northern and southern fronts, Great Ancestor Zhou had still had spare money to build homes for laborers—that was impossible to know.
Night fell.
Bai Shiyu moved through the shadows, avoiding the drunkards sprawled by the walls. As he passed a tavern, he heard the noisy clamor of drinking games.
The exhausted laborers had no other entertainment. Once they received their copper coins, they gathered to drink cheap, harsh liquor, easing the weariness of body and mind. Then, drunk and muddleheaded, they found any place to sleep, only to return to work the next day.
"Ding Ninety-Eight."
Bai Shiyu knocked on the door three times, each in a pattern of three long and one short. He could not help despising it inwardly. Only those old-fashioned Divine Kingdom people would use such an ancient code.
Creak!
A middle-aged man opened the door. He wore a grimy hemp outfit, his hair a disheveled mess, and looked no different from those alcoholic laborers. He asked coldly.
"Who