High-Level Deliberation

County Office, Main Hall.

The sandalwood incense table stood neatly arranged, its faint fragrance drifting through the air. At the corner of the table, a censer brimmed with accumulated incense ash, thin wisps of smoke curling upward like gossamer threads, spreading through the hall.

On the wall hung a large plaque inscribed with the four characters "Justice and Integrity," the brushwork bold and vigorous. Yet at this moment, the atmosphere in the hall was as heavy as a storm about to break, thick with tension.

Outside the window, cicadas chirped incessantly under the blazing summer sun, but inside the hall, the oppressive silence seemed to crush even that sound.

At the seat of honor, Yang Jing, the County Magistrate of Nanning County, bent his head over a scroll of official documents.

He was around fifty, with a gaunt face, but his eyes were as sharp as a hawk's, and his brow carried an unspoken authority. Though dressed in official robes, he exuded a Sha Qi honed on the battlefield, as if he were no civil servant but an old general who had crawled through blood and fire.

To his lower left sat Wu Heng, the County Assistant. Thin and pale-faced, his eyes were narrowed slightly, carrying a hint of cunning. His fingers tapped unhurriedly on the table, as if calculating something.

To the right sat Wang Hao, the head of the Martial Guard Division. Broad-shouldered and thick-waisted, with a swarthy complexion and a face full of rough features, his eyes were like hooks, and a heavy blade hung at his waist. He looked every bit a fierce and daring man.

The air seemed frozen, even the incense smoke halting midair.

Yang Jing set down the scroll in his hand gently, looked up, and furrowed his brow. His voice was heavy:

"Black Tiger Stockade has become a great scourge on Nanning County."

His sharp gaze swept over Wu Heng and Wang Hao, his tone turning cold:

"In recent months, they've raided trade routes, plundered villages, burned homes and destroyed fields, killing and looting without restraint. Yesterday, the Chen Family Caravan suffered heavy losses. Elder Chen personally delivered a petition, his words earnest. The Prefectural Capital sent an urgent order overnight, demanding we resolve this bandit calamity."

"Now the people are crying out in misery, and the Noble Families are voicing their complaints. If we don't suppress these bandits and sit idly by, we'll be the ones charged with dereliction by our superiors."

Wu Heng's face shifted slightly, and he sighed softly:

"Your Honor may not know this, but Black Tiger Stockade is no longer an ordinary bandit den. Their chief, Li Heihu, is said to be a Seventh Rank Martial Artist."

"Under him are four fierce generals, known as the 'Black Wind Four Fiends.' Each is a master above the Ninth Rank, with terrifying martial skill. Add to that over a thousand hardened bandits in the stockade, with tight organization and no fear of blades. If we attack head-on, our county's forces can't match their edge. Even this county town might be shaken."

Wang Hao spoke in a low voice, his fists clenched, his tone rumbling like muffled thunder:

"These mountain bandits aren't like scattered stragglers. They fight with discipline, retreat with strategy, and have even begun imitating military systems, setting up posts and camps. This kind of setup clearly has someone behind the scenes plotting for them."

He gritted his teeth and cursed under his breath: "I had people probe around. The bandits are tight-lipped, but occasionally they let slip—'the Bai Family of Jingzhou.'"

As the words fell, Yang Jing's eyes sharpened.

"The Bai Family? The Bai Family of Jingzhou?"

His brow lifted, his gaze cold as frost, and he snorted softly:

"If the Bai Family is truly backing them from the shadows, then this... is no longer just a matter of suppressing bandits."

Wu Heng's expression grew grave: "Though the Bai Family isn't the top Noble Family in Jingzhou, their roots run deep and tangled. Their scions are spread across prefectures, counties, and towns. Some even hold military posts in the Prefectural Capital. If we move against Black Tiger Stockade, it's no different from striking at their interests."

"If they bite back, accusing us of rashly wielding arms and disturbing the people's livelihood, or even pinning the label of 'framing a Noble Family' on us... then we'll be thrust into the storm's eye."

Wang Hao slammed his fist on the table, his voice booming: "So we just swallow it? Watch them plunder the people? I may be a rough man, but I know what an official's duty is!"

His fist struck the desk, rattling the teacups and sending incense ash scattering.

The hall fell into silence, broken only by the curling smoke from the censer and the grating cicadas outside, weaving together into a stifling tapestry.

Yang Jing pondered for a moment, then slowly raised his head, his eyes growing deep as a still pool:

"This fight can't be a head-on clash, nor should it be fought openly. Black Tiger Stockade may be fierce, but they're still grass bandits. The Bai Family may be strong, but they won't step onto the field for mere outlaws."

He paused, his voice low but laced with killing intent:

"If we can take Li Heihu's head, the stockade will lose its leader and fall into chaos. When the Bai Family sees they can no longer profit from Black Tiger Stockade, they'll abandon it."

"After all, raising a tiger to bring disaster is no good reputation. The Bai Family won't tarnish their name for a mere Black Tiger Stockade."

Wu Heng froze for a moment, then caught on, asking in a low voice:

"Your Honor means—assassination?"

"Exactly." Yang Jing nodded.

Wang Hao frowned deeply, his voice cold: "Your Honor, Li Heihu is a Seventh Rank Martial Artist. The only Seventh Ranks in Nanning County who could act are those old monsters. Why would they listen to the County Office? And they certainly won't risk their lives for us."

"Besides... even a Seventh Rank isn't guaranteed to beat Li Heihu."

Yang Jing nodded, his gaze calm as ice, his tone steady: "There's no rush. We still have time to arrange things slowly."

He looked up at Wang Hao and shifted the topic: "How is the recruitment of constables going?"

Wang Hao was taken aback, then replied: "It's underway. We've recruited two hundred so far. Some are strong farmers and hunters, others are elites from martial arts schools. The quality is decent."

Wu Heng interjected, his tone flat but laced with calculation:

"Speed it up. Once we've recruited three hundred and given them some training, we can mobilize the county troops and join forces to wipe out the miscellaneous bandits outside Black Tiger Stockade."

"Clear the periphery first, clip their wings, then see how the situation develops."

Wang Hao's face darkened at the words.

He could clearly hear the implication behind Wu Heng's speech.

The so-called "combined force" is nothing more than using the newly recruited constables as a suicide squad, a death brigade.

After all, those county soldiers?

Most of them are gilded youths from Noble Families, each draped in armor that never touches a speck of dust—when real fighting breaks out, they're the fastest to flee.

If something actually goes wrong, those constables die, and no one cares.

When bandits are killed, the credit mostly falls on these county soldiers.

Though Wang Hao is the Director of the Martial Guard Division, with mostly rough-and-tumble men under him, he still understands the dangers of officialdom at this moment. He lowers his voice:

"...I understand. I'll speed up recruitment as much as I can and try to fill the ranks within these few days."

Yang Jing nods slightly and says softly, "Mm, I trust you to handle it."

His tone remains gentle, but the moment the words fall, it's as if an invisible hammer has struck, making the air in the main hall even heavier.

Wu Heng gives a faint smile, glances sidelong at Wang Hao, and adds in a low voice:

"This matter brooks no delay, Director Wang. Once it's done, the County Magistrate will naturally credit you with the top merit."

Wang Hao doesn't reply, only nods silently.

He knows that in this hall, he has no right to speak further.

Outside the window, the cicadas still drone on, but inside the hall, it feels as if they're pressed into an invisible, stifling pot—even the blue smoke from the incense burner seems to have grown sluggish.

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