The sky was black as ink.
A fine drizzle pattered outside the window.
Puff, puff, puff!
Inside a private home, a clay pot outside bubbled atop a small red-clay stove, white steam puffing out as waves of medicinal fragrance spread through the air, carrying a bitter tang.
Droplets fell from the green tiles like strings of pearls, gathering into a stream upon the ground, turning clarity into turbidity...
Inside, Ghost Blade Liu Qi lay facedown on the bed, his back and buttocks covered in bloody welts. The three-day deadline had arrived; having failed in his task, he had suffered the rod.
What was more, his immediate superior—a Subordinate Ninth Rank inspector—did not believe any talk of demons, divine men, or strange arts. Instead, because a squad of riflemen had been lost, he had beaten Liu Qi with thirty strokes without so much as a question.
Had Liu Qi not possessed a body hardened by martial training, that beating alone would have taken half his life!
The divide between officials and clerks of Great Zhou was simply a heavenly chasm.
A lowly runner like Liu Qi could never become a Subordinate Ninth Rank official in his lifetime. Not even a posthumous honor would be possible.
The contempt of those above for those below—even their power to grant life or take it away—was practically instinctive.
Even with the testimony of other martial school masters, the inspector merely concluded that a bandit of the rivers and lakes had committed the crime. He ordered a likeness drawn and a wanted notice issued.
"Dear..."
At that moment, the door opened. A woman entered carrying medicine, only to see Liu Qi's face twitching. She immediately asked in alarm, "Is it acting up again?"
For Liu Qi, the most agonizing thing was not the rod punishment, but