At the third quarter of the *mao* hour, Qinglan City was still steeped in a thin mist. When the pivot of the assembly hall door creaked open, Elder Chén’s gray robe swept across the threshold first. The iron sword at his waist struck the doorframe, sparking a single fiery star—this old sword, which had followed him in slaying Northern Rong spies, felt several jin heavier today than usual.
Ye Fan stood in the center of the hall, his fingertips tapping lightly against the desk. The sheepskin scroll unrolled on the table had been cast down by Elder Chén just moments before; the wet red dots of ink resembled beads of blood, marking Zhao Wuji’s twelve covert strongholds and three grain depots in the city, along with the three hundred private soldiers he kept in the West Market.
"Prefect Zhao hasn't eaten his official salary in vain these past ten years." Elder Chén tugged at the corner of his mouth, his withered-branch-like finger pointing at the red dot in the very center. "The cellar in the back hall of the assembly hall hides the secret letters detailing his communication with the Northern Rong."
Chapter 108