After Li Mingyue left, Fang Mo didn't hurry to move.
The private room in the teahouse was quiet, with sandalwood incense curling through the air and shutting out the bustle beyond.
Fang Mo leisurely drank the entire pot of fine Pre-Rain Longjing, not even sparing the dregs.
He narrowed his eyes, his fingers tapping soundlessly on the tabletop.
The gaze fixed on him from the tavern across the street was still there.
It held no murderous intent, only scrutiny.
That kind of gaze was more unsettling than bloodlust, like a venomous snake flicking its tongue in the shadows, sizing up its prey and searching for the best moment to strike.
"Knock, knock, knock."
Someone knocked at the door.
Unhurried, with only three knocks, each perfectly measured.
Fang Mo raised an eyebrow, not at all surprised.
He set down his empty teacup. He didn't even bother to straighten his somewhat wrinkled official robe, merely answering lazily, "The door's unlocked. Come in."
The door swung open.
There was no black-clad assassin, nor any imposing official.
Instead, a middle-aged man in a green cloth long gown stepped inside.
He looked utterly ordinary, the sort of face one would forget in an instant in a crowd. He held a food box and wore a genial smile, looking just like an old teacher from some academy.
But the boots on his feet were spotless satin thick-soled boots, with faint cloud patterns embroidered on the uppers.
They were the uniform of an Imperial Guard.
"Captain Fang, I've heard much about you." The middle-aged man closed the door behind him. He didn't bow, merely inclining his head slightly, his tone as casual as if greeting a neighbor. "This old servant's surname is Liu. I hold a minor post in the palace."
This old servant.
Fang Mo's suspicions