Chapter Six: The True Form of the Divine Tiger

After understanding why this Taoist was investigating the matter, Liu Chen realized their goals did not conflict. He shared what he knew with the Taoist.

“So that’s how it is. No wonder for the past three days, no matter how I tried to look into it, everything seemed shrouded in mist. Now it appears the city’s powerful families have joined forces to protect their own. That’s just as well—I won’t have to waste time sorting out who’s innocent,” the Taoist muttered after hearing Liu Chen recount the ambush in the valley and the events in the army. He then raised his head and glanced at Liu Chen.

“I see the resentment knotted between your brows—you must be deeply troubled by this. Come with me. I’ll help you dispel that bitterness as thanks for enlightening me.”

The Taoist’s words made it clear he intended to take revenge himself. Liu Chen had no objection; as long as those responsible received their due retribution, his purpose was served—who actually carried out the deed was of no concern.

Still, for the sake of caution, Liu Chen thought it best to join him. After all, an extra pair of hands meant fewer chances of anyone escaping. Left alone, the Taoist might let a few slip through the cracks.

“Then I shall gladly accept your invitation,” Liu Chen replied.

At that, the Taoist wasted no more words, motioned for Liu Chen to follow, and swiftly darted through the tangled alleys of North City, heading west.

When they reached the border between North City and West City, the Taoist slowed his pace. Up ahead lay the yamen, seat of the city’s magistrate, where the crowds grew thick.

Once they crossed into West City, the atmosphere changed abruptly. A river wound from west to east, and grand mansions with carved beams and painted rafters dotted the banks in elegant disarray—a stark contrast to the squalor of North City.

“That courtyard is the ancestral home of the Fu family, the city’s most powerful clan. Nothing of consequence happens here without their involvement. Tonight, we begin with them.”

Standing at the entrance to West City, the Taoist pointed to a seemingly modest estate and addressed Liu Chen. Judging by his familiarity, he must have spent the past three days keeping an eye on the Fus.

“Striking at the ringleader first? Not a bad idea,” Liu Chen remarked. He had no particular concept of what the so-called most powerful family meant here, but the Taoist was in charge tonight—he would simply stand by to catch any that got away.

With that, the two drew near the Fu residence. Seeing carriages and horses crowding the gate, they slipped around to the side to avoid attention. Among the carriages, Liu Chen spotted the one he had followed earlier. He guessed those inside were likely conferring on how to deal with Zhao Qian’s troops.

He shared his thoughts with the Taoist, who nodded in agreement. “If they’re all here, that will save me no small amount of trouble.”

They vaulted over the wall and landed in a garden. Directly ahead, voices clamored from a large hall—clearly the gathering place.

Liu Chen and the Taoist crossed the garden toward the hall. Halfway across, a sudden tiger’s roar sounded by Liu Chen’s ear, and he instinctively recoiled three steps.

Startled, he wondered if there was a real tiger in the estate—could it be that the Fus kept one as a pet? He searched for the source and found only a stone slab, upon which a black-inked image of a crouching tiger had been painted.

What was this sorcery? Was he hallucinating?

Liu Chen steadied himself, half-convinced he must be imagining things. Yet the tiger’s presence had felt so real, he found himself doubting his senses.

“That is the True Form of the Divine Tiger, a Lingbao talisman especially potent against ghosts. You’re protected by your corpse body; as long as your mind remains calm, it can’t harm you,” the Taoist said, noting Liu Chen’s troubled look.

Lingbao talismans—so the Fu family had ties to that sorcerer as well? It made sense; otherwise, why would he have appeared in the valley that day? Recalling Zhao Qian’s warning that the Lingbao sect specialized in talismans, Liu Chen felt sure the sorcerer, Lu Qingtai, must be connected to the Fus.

But this was no time for distraction. While Liu Chen’s thoughts raced, the Taoist had already reached the hall and pushed open the door.

“Who are you to trespass in my house!” came a voice, silencing the room. It sounded robust, likely the head of the Fu family.

Looking through the open door, Liu Chen saw a group of middle-aged and elderly men—three of whom he recognized from outside the army camp, dressed in finery. They lounged on low couches arranged in a circle. Inside that circle, five or six deathly-pale women stood around a bronze basin, which was not filled with wine or water, but with a great quantity of fresh blood.

The sight of so much blood made Liu Chen’s eyelids twitch; it must have been drained from the women, and judging by the basin’s size, their lives would not last much longer.

“Fools,” the Taoist sneered, “do you think a few sorceries make you untouchable?”

The speaker, still the same robust voice, was not a middle-aged man as Liu Chen had expected, but an elderly white-haired gentleman. Noting the Taoist’s sword, he shrank back, his tone shifting from rage to cautious warning.

The Taoist glanced at the Fu patriarch, then slowly unsheathed his sword. The cold gleam sent panic through the room; some of the more cowardly men began to shout in terror.

“Desist, Taoist! Ours is a family of scholars and statesmen, three generations of high officials. Kill me, and the whole realm will shake—there’ll be no place for you in the empire!” The Fu patriarch scrambled up, hiding behind a couch, poking his head over to plead and threaten in the same breath.

A single note rang out as the sword left its scabbard. In a blur of light and steel, the Taoist swept through the hall. Bodies thudded to the floor in rapid succession.

“You—you—how dare you!” the Fu patriarch gasped, clutching his chest, eyes burning with venom. Blood soaked his silk robes, his once-rosy face twisted by terror and rage.

With a final effort, the patriarch seized a palm-sized bronze token from the low table and smashed it to the ground, splitting it in two. His life ended then, but with his dying breath, he looked up at the Taoist, a strange smile twisting his features.