27: Chapter 27 The Empress's Interests, Secret Investigation

Chen Xuan leaned against a pillar, humming a tune no one could understand, his toe kicking at a pebble on the ground rhythmically.

The sun had already dipped to the west. The crowd in the venue flowed out like a receding tide, the noise gradually fading until only a few scattered individuals remained, still arguing over the outcome of a match.

He flexed his wrists and stretched his shoulders and back, feeling a sense of ease seeping into his very bones.

"This round is in the bag."

He muttered to himself, "I didn't stand out, I didn't show any flaws, and I managed to get a win recorded in the register—this is how a smart person should live."

He tucked his hands into his sleeves and shuffled forward slowly, his gait still lazy, as if he had just woken up from a nap at a teahouse.

Passing by a broken piece of the arena floor, he deliberately took a detour and casually straightened a tilted flagpole nearby.

The flagpole was embroidered with the four characters "Great Zhou Selection of the Worthy." As the wind whipped it, making it rattle, Chen Xuan patted the base twice and muttered, "Don't fall over. This is a royal event, after all."

On the high platform in the distance, palace attendants had already begun clearing away equipment. A ceremonial official was carrying the register toward the side door, and several guards were lining up to await the departure of the imperial carriage.

Chen Xuan glanced over, didn't look for long, and dismissed it as a standard wrap-up.

He turned and headed toward South Street, which was a shortcut back to the inn, and he could stop to buy two freshly baked sesame flatbreads on the way.

Just as his figure was about to disappear around the street corner, a person in black emerged from the shadows of the high platform, thin and gaunt, moving without a sound.

He stood still until he saw Chen Xuan enter a flatbread shop at the street entrance. Only then did he lower his head slightly, pull a neatly folded slip of paper from his sleeve, ignite it with a fire starter, and let it burn to ash before scattering it into the wind.

Meanwhile, the curtains of the imperial carriage were lowered. Empress Murong Wan sat on soft cushions, her vermilion brush resting gently by the inkstone, her fingertips unconsciously twirling her earring.

A contestant register lay open before her, and she stopped when she reached the entry for "Chen Xuan."

The name was ordinary, his place of origin was listed as "Wuding County," the section for his master was blank, and his only record was the one just logged: "Defeated Iron Palm Gang Disciple Zhang Meng."

A palace maid gently reminded her, "Your Majesty, it is time to return to the palace; the hour for the evening meal is approaching."

Empress Murong Wan did not respond, her gaze still fixed on that page. After a moment, she raised her hand to close the register and said indifferently, "Send someone to investigate this person."

The palace maid was startled, "Which one?"

"The one on the arena earlier." Her tone was calm, as if she were discussing what to have for a meal, "The one in black martial attire, walking lazily, hiding his skills during the fight, yet whose eyes were never idle."

The palace maid lowered her head in acknowledgment, not daring to ask more. But just as she was about to withdraw to pass on the order, she was called back.

"Wait." Empress Murong Wan picked up the vermilion brush and made three dots on the cover of the register, forming a triangle, "Do not alert him. Investigate secretly. His ancestral home, his past, who he has been in contact with, what cultivation arts he practices—get to the bottom of all of it. If there is the slightest anomaly... report to me immediately."

"Yes."

The wind rose outside the curtains, causing the lanterns beside the carriage to sway. Empress Murong Wan leaned toward the window and glanced in the direction of South Street.

There, a young man was holding a steaming hot flatbread, eating as he walked, his cheeks bulging, his face full of satisfaction.

She withdrew her gaze and whispered, "A person like this is either trash or a ruthless character. I don't believe he is the former."

The imperial carriage slowly started moving, the axles grinding over the bluestone road with a dull sound.

After the palace maid retreated, a secret agent in black quietly leaped onto the roof and darted toward South Street, his figure blending into the twilight without attracting any attention.

Chen Xuan was completely unaware of these events. He finished the first flatbread, tucked the second into his robe to save for a midnight snack, and stretched as he walked.

Passing by a well, he stopped to take a drink of water. He took the opportunity to peer at his reflection on the water's surface, saw sesame seeds stuck to the corner of his mouth, and couldn't help but laugh out loud.

"Still quite handsome," he said.

An old man selling candied haws by the well heard him, looked up, and glanced at him, "Young man, what are you so pleased about?"

"Pleased with myself, of course." Chen Xuan wiped his mouth and handed over a copper coin, "Trouble you to keep an eye on the well, don't let my face run away."

The old man chuckled, "You youngster, you have a sharp tongue."

"That's true." He patted his shoulder, "The Jianghu is treacherous; how would one survive without being able to talk?"

After speaking, he continued walking forward, his steps light, his shadow stretched long by the setting sun. When he reached the mouth of the alley, he stopped suddenly and looked back toward the imperial palace. Its golden tiles and upturned eaves gleamed in the sunset like a painting.

He didn't think too much, just feeling that the sky was exceptionally blue today and the wind exceptionally comfortable.

So he began humming that tune no one could understand again, hands in his pockets, and sauntered deep into the alley.

A cloth shop in the alley had just closed, and the clerk was rolling up the banner. Seeing Chen Xuan approach, he asked casually, "Do you live nearby, sir?"

"Just staying for a few days," he smiled, "I'll leave once the grand event is over."

"Then you'd better be careful," the clerk lowered his voice, "This afternoon, several groups of unfamiliar faces were asking about where the participating Martial Artists were staying. I don't know which family sent these spies."

Chen Xuan blinked, "Oh? Who were they asking about?"

"It seems... it was someone surnamed Chen."

He grinned, took the warm flatbread from his robe, broke off a piece, and handed it to the clerk, "That's quite a coincidence; I happen to know him. If you see those people, just tell them he eats flatbread every day, loves humming little tunes, is afraid of dogs, and doesn't dare go to the latrine at night. That will surely scare them off."

The clerk took the flatbread, amused and exasperated, "You're quite good at making things up."

"It's not making things up," Chen Xuan waved his hand, "This is the Jianghu nickname I wrote for myself: 'Flatbread Hermit'."

After speaking, he turned and walked away, his back bathed in the afterglow. The clerk watched his figure, shaking his head with a smile as he put away the last sign.

Meanwhile, in a hidden courtyard on the east side of the imperial city, three men in black were seated around a table. A map was spread out on the table, with over a dozen red dots marking different locations. One of the dots was right at the entrance of "Yuelai Inn" on South Street.

One of them took up a brush and wrote three characters next to the dot: Chen Xuan.

The tip of the brush paused, then added a note: Behavior is lax, suspected disguise, pay close attention.