Chapter 1: The Assassin

“Dong, dong, dong!”

“The weather is dry, beware of fire!”

...

The night sky was studded with countless twinkling stars, yet the moonlight was conspicuously absent.

On streets shrouded in darkness, the rhythmic call of the night watchman echoed, his shouts carrying a unique cadence. Perhaps he did this to bolster his own courage, or perhaps because the city was restless and the watchman had learned to pay no heed to the world’s troubles.

Suddenly, he caught a faint noise, seemingly coming from the rooftop to his right. Glancing over, he glimpsed a shadowy figure flitting across the rooftops with remarkable speed. The movement was nearly silent; only in the stillness of night would one notice such a sound.

Night watchmen were all folk of humble means. Observing this, he guessed the shadow must be someone with extraordinary skills, daring enough to act in such a way. Better to avoid trouble, he thought.

“Dong, dong, dong!”

“The weather is dry, beware of fire!”

Shouting out the warning, the watchman continued on his way, his voice fading into the distance.

...

The shadow, clad from head to toe in dark clothing, hair bound and face concealed, dashed across the uneven rooftops as if walking on flat ground.

After some time, the figure came to a halt, crouched atop a high point overlooking a grand manor. Though it was nearly the third watch of the night, the residence was ablaze with light—a sure mark of wealth and nobility.

Ordinary families relied on simple oil lamps and retired early to save on lamp oil. Only those with abundant means could afford such extravagance, burning candles so lavishly.

The black-clad figure moved cautiously along the rooftop, carefully observing the patrol routes below, the changing of guards, and their rest periods.

It was the sixth night in a row. Each night, the shadow would come to the manor, meticulously studying the situation.

For an assassin, the foremost skill was to vanish from sight—observing the target in secret, mastering their routines, and ensuring that when the time came, the strike would be swift and fatal.

After moving to a new vantage point and observing for another half hour, the figure faded silently into the night.

It was as if nothing had happened. On the wall, a night cat appeared, its eyes gleaming as it scanned the distance. With a leap, it vanished into the trees.

...

As dawn approached, the distant crowing of roosters heralded a new day.

Early risers among the vendors were already opening their stalls. Wisps of white smoke rose from kitchens, signaling the start of a busy day.

A small shop selling mutton offal soup bustled with activity, preparing for the rush of customers—a routine honed by experience.

A servant boy in a plain gray-blue linen tunic diligently cleaned the tableware, making ready for the coming patrons.

“Boss Jin, a bowl of mutton offal soup, make it a big one, and three flatbreads on the side.”

“All right, Old Li, have a seat, it’ll be right out.”

Boss Jin called, “A-Feng, tell the kitchen to put extra offal in Old Li’s soup, and three flatbreads.”

“Got it!” the servant, called A-Feng, sprang up and dashed into the kitchen.

In no time, A-Feng returned, carrying a wooden tray with a steaming bowl of soup and three golden, fragrant butter flatbreads, placing them before Old Li.

“Uncle Li, enjoy your meal.”

Old Li laughed heartily and said to Boss Jin, “You always pick the right ones, this A-Feng is as quick and polite as ever—you’ve found yourself a clever little helper.”

Boss Jin grinned, though he grumbled, “The boy is handy enough, but his background is a bit lacking.”

Old Li waved a hand, “Times are hard for everyone.”

A-Feng chuckled beside them, and, seeing Old Li dig in, turned away to resume his chores.

Soon, more customers entered, and A-Feng bustled about serving them.

Those who came to Boss Jin’s shop for mutton offal soup were of modest means. The offal was considered refuse by most, but Boss Jin, though called “Boss,” came from humble origins himself. It was said he’d once met a master who taught him the secret to removing the off flavors, and thus he made a living. Life was not easy, but it was enough.

As A-Feng carried a tray of soup, he overheard a group chatting animatedly.

“Did you hear? Last night, the head of the Ouyang family was assassinated.”

“What? Who told you that? Isn’t the Ouyang family one of the most prominent in town?”

“There’s no mistake. The news is everywhere. Old Sun, who works as a servant for the Ouyang family, sent word home this morning. Said he won’t be back for a while and not to worry.”

“So why say the head of the family was killed?”

“You know how bad news travels fast. Old Sun said the manor is under lockdown and the authorities were notified at dawn. Even the Prefect has been alerted.”

“Heavens, this is a huge scandal. Even the Prefect shows respect to the Ouyangs.”

“Who would have thought something like this could happen?”

These words reached A-Feng’s ears, and his pupils shrank in shock. He quickly regained composure and delivered the food to the group.

Listening to their lively discussion, A-Feng asked in his usual guileless way, “Uncle, did I hear someone died? Who was it?”

Seeing it was A-Feng, the man replied gravely, “Little A-Feng, they say the head of the Ouyang family was killed. The times are dangerous—best keep your ears open and be careful.”

A-Feng continued, “But the Ouyang family is so wealthy, how could they be murdered?”

“Who knows? Maybe they offended the wrong person, someone seeking revenge.”

As the group began to eat, A-Feng turned away, returning to his work.

The busy breakfast hour lasted but an hour. The customers, all from poor families, ate early to gather strength for the day's labor.

Soon, the shop emptied. Boss Jin silently tallied the accounts behind the counter, while A-Feng cleaned tables, removing any filth.

With the chores done, preparations began for the next day. Boss Jin led A-Feng and the others to the market in the eastern district to purchase sheep offal, which they brought back, cleaned, and prepared.

When the final seasoning was added, Boss Jin would send everyone else out, handling the recipe alone. Once cooked, the aroma filled the courtyard, all trace of odor gone—the work was done.

By then, dusk had fallen. After a simple meal, the staff went their separate ways—Boss Jin provided no lodging—leaving only A-Feng to tidy up.

Boss Jin said, “A-Feng, once you’re done, get some rest. Don’t wander these days—the city isn’t safe.”

“All right, boss,” A-Feng replied.

With that, Boss Jin retired, leaving A-Feng to finish cleaning.

Not long after, with the bowls and chopsticks put away, A-Feng returned to his room—a simple space with a bed, a worn quilt, a square table, and a few changes of clothes.

His gaze turned deep and pensive. The news of the Ouyang patriarch’s death had truly shocked him, for the man had been his target.

A-Feng glanced outside; Boss Jin’s light was already out. In the month he’d been here, A-Feng had learned that no one would disturb him at night—perfect cover for his nocturnal investigations.

It had taken over two weeks to win Boss Jin’s basic trust. For six nights, A-Feng had scouted the Ouyang residence, planning to infiltrate tonight—only to hear that his target had already been killed.

What was really going on?

A-Feng sensed hidden depths to this affair. Now that his target was dead, he needed to uncover the truth.

He went to the bed, pulled a bundle from beneath, and unwrapped a set of dark clothing.

Changing swiftly, he arranged the bedding to look undisturbed, then slipped out, closing the door gently behind him.

With a swift movement, he vaulted over the wall and vanished into the night.

The night was as usual, with only a few stars twinkling above.

The murder of the Ouyang patriarch had thrown the city into turmoil; the streets were nearly empty, and the few shops with lanterns were closing up for the night.

The Ouyang residence, however, was on high alert. Guards were posted, and lanterns lit up the area for a hundred paces as if it were daylight.

A-Feng appeared silently atop a nearby rooftop, his clear eyes fixed on the brightly lit manor.

Night had always been the perfect cloak for an assassin.

For A-Feng, infiltrating under these conditions was routine—a task well within his skill.

His form melted into the darkness, drawing ever closer to the Ouyang estate.

...

Within the Ouyang residence, near a rock garden in the front courtyard, two voices could be heard.

“Little Cui, I’ve missed you so much. Let me have a good look at you.”

“Oh, you heartless man! With everything that’s happened, how could we dare? I’m still a maid to the old madam, and I barely squeezed out this time to see you—I have news for you.”

“Nothing is as important as you,” came a low laugh, mixed with a flirtatious squeal.

“Stop that! Be serious. The old madam has given strict orders—the whole manor is under lockdown. Don’t put yourself in danger. If you’re caught, you’ll be in real trouble.”

“But if I miss you, what am I supposed to do? Let me see how much you missed me.” Another mischievous laugh.

“Don’t! Someone might come!”

As she finished, a sudden noise startled them. They broke apart and peered into the darkness, only to see a black cat.

“You damn cat, ruining everything.”

“It’s bad luck to see a black cat at night, especially after someone has died. Let’s go.”

Their footsteps faded away into the distance.

Behind the rock garden where the two had met, a shadowy figure slowly emerged.

To be continued...