The surrounding Martial Suppression Guard soldiers swarmed forward and pinned the assassin down. But when they turned him over to interrogate him, they discovered a trickle of black blood already seeping from the corner of his mouth.
He had killed himself with poison.
Zhao Feng crouched down, gripped the assassin's jaw, and pried his mouth open. A tiny wax pellet had been hidden beneath the root of his tongue. It had already been bitten open, and black poison was corroding his mouth and gullet. Zhao Feng was all too familiar with this method. It was standard equipment for death soldiers.
Zhao Feng recalled the death soldiers who had ambushed him while he was escorting the prisoners back to the capital. They had done the same thing.
"Could these still be remnants of the Prince of Jin's faction?"
Zhao Feng frowned.
He stood and glanced at the rooftops. The Martial Suppression Guards had already finished the battle. More than thirty crossbowmen now lay sprawled in every direction.
Yue Lang crouched beside one of the crossbowmen and examined him, then looked up and shook his head at Zhao Feng, his expression frighteningly grim.
"My lord, they all took poison. Not a single one was left alive."
"Exactly like last time."
Zhao Feng said nothing. He stood silently in the middle of the ravaged street. The civilians on either side had long since fled, leaving only a few bold souls peeking out from distant corners. Crossbow bolts, overturned stalls, trampled vegetables and fruit, and the bodies of more than thirty crossbowmen littered the ground. Black cloth covered their faces, and their exposed skin had turned an eerie grayish blue-the color of death after potent poison took effect.
Yue Lang walked over to Zhao Feng and lowered his voice. "My lord, these men were