The night wind in the Divine Capital was even harsher than in the Western Desert, lashing painfully against their faces. It scattered the bloody stench of Willow Slope across the hills and fields. The bodies sprawled every which way were rapidly growing cold. A few wild dogs with keen noses poked their heads out of the distant bushes, greedy green light glinting in their eyes.
Fang Mo stood before the carriage, the fire striker in his hand still burning. Flames licked the pile of discarded ledgers and useless letters they had sorted out. The paper curled and blackened, turning to ash that spiraled upward.
Qian Dagui was directing Iron Bull and Mo Qianshan as they carried the sealed chests. The fat man displayed astonishing potential now, running at a tremendous pace with a chest of pure gold on his shoulder. Not a trace of his usual simple-minded foolishness remained on his round face; it was all shrewd calculation.
"Set those chests of Eastern Pearls and blood agate aside." Fang Mo did not turn around, his voice especially clear in the night. "Common things like gold and silver draw too much attention. Anyone intent on investigating could follow the vine to the melon. Those gems are small and valuable. They're our biggest windfall this time."
Old Yan tucked the stack of crucial ledgers into his robe, keeping them against his body. Those books were more than paper; they were thunderbolts that could blast a hole in the sky over the Divine Capital. He tapped out his pipe bowl and watched the embers gradually die in the fire. "Boss, this fire you've set is a bit big. If that old dog Zhang Tao discovers everything's gone tomorrow, he'll go mad for sure. With so much contraband missing from the Ministry of War,