“Is this the man you were talking about?” a mature voice boomed.
The monk’s gaze shifted to the speaker: a short, middle-aged man, thin but with a protruding belly, wearing a scribe’s hat and sporting a goatee. Any local from the area would immediately recognize this man as Liu Xue, the scribe of Ningyang’s county office.
The monk was not a local. Besides, his temperament meant he’d never pay attention to what the scribe looked like—not even how many eyes or mouths he had.
However, the monk retained a vague impression of the man Scribe Liu was questioning: It was none other than the short waiter from Jiuwei House.
It turned out that, after studying the wanted poster by Jiuwei House, the waiter had decided to pay the county office a visit. With such a hefty bounty on his head, the monk had to be a dangerous criminal, perhaps even a serial killer. Upon receiving this report, the office immediately dispatched men to arrest him.
The monk’s gaze fell on the waiter, who shrank back a little out of guilt. “M-Master,” he stammered.
The young monk had already turned away before he could finish his sentence. He raised a finger, and a dark object soared through the air, landing squarely in the waiter’s arms. Shocked, the waiter snapped his eyes shut, fearing it was a weapon of some sort. Then, he heard the sound of clinking coins and cautiously opened his eyes.
A purse! It was the same purse the waiter had shoved at the monk earlier, now tossed back to him.
It was as if the monk had discarded a burden. His expression calm, he stepped forward again. The group’s obstruction seemed to have finally registered to his nerves.
“Step aside,” he said to the officers, his words clipped.
“My lord, this…” The county officer standing in the monk’s way glanced at the scribe, pleading for guidance.
“Wait.” The scribe pulled a thin piece of paper from his robe and spread it beneath the light of the lantern. “Where are you from, young shifu?1 Which temple do you serve under? Do you have a Dharma name?”
The monk frowned at him. He seemed disinclined to answer, but it also seemed as though he was thinking something over.
At his impudence, the scribe’s tone grew harsher. “Young shifu, someone reported you to us, saying you look like a criminal wanted by the court. If you refuse to speak, we’ll need to bring you back for a thorough interrogation!”
The young monk stared at him coldly. “My Dharma name is Xuanmin,” he said after a moment. “A wandering monk with neither home nor temple.”
A real monk would never respond in such a manner. Those who professed to have neither home nor temple were often little more than swindlers—con artists masquerading as experts in the supernatural. The scribe sized him up, a hint of ridicule in his gaze. He flipped the wanted poster he was holding and ordered for the lantern to be brought closer, then compared it with Xuanmin’s face.
Concealed within Xuanmin’s pouch, Xue Xian had heard everything and was overcome with schadenfreude. Your fault for barging into someone’s den. Now you’re going to be arrested yourself? Serves you right!
He had found nothing useful during his rummaging. Other than a peach twig and two pieces of flint, the pouch had only held a cloth bag. He’d meticulously felt around the bag’s insides, which were filled with needles of various lengths, but nothing useful to him.
Xue Xian was in no mood to wait any longer. He hoped to slip out of the hidden pouch while the monk was distracted. He was sure he could do it. As long as he wished to draw no attention, most people would be unable to detect any sounds or movements he made. Xue Xian waited until the scribe was about to speak again, then flattened himself into a single thin sheet and shimmied toward the pouch’s sliver of an opening. But the moment he poked his head out, his vision went black.
That accursed bald donkey had the audacity to shove Xue Xian’s head back into the pouch with his finger!
Xue Xian seethed. With his recalcitrant nature, he was sent into a rage by the gesture. In his fury, he flailed around in the pouch and grabbed one of the needles inside the cloth bag, which he then stabbed right into the monk’s side.
Xuanmin kept his mouth firmly shut.
Just as Xue Xian was about to explode, the scribe finished his comparison. He frowned and shook his head. “That’s not right…”
“Not right?” The officer behind him shot him a couple of quick looks.
“His age doesn’t match up. There’s too much of a difference,” the scribe remarked. “His appearance isn’t a good fit either. You might think so from a distance, but up close, in lantern light, it’s clear he’s just too young. The one we’re trying to catch is said to be a dangerous high monk, but this shifu…”
The scribe swept his gaze toward Xuanmin’s hip, his eyes flitting over the string of dull gray coins. Although he didn’t voice it, his expression spoke volumes. This monk was clearly a novice; his coins hadn’t even developed a sheen yet. A high monk? Ridiculous! No one would show any respect to a con artist as obvious as this one.
The scribe’s expression grew even more disdainful. He raised a hand and waved at Xuanmin. “All right, we’re done here. You can leave.”
Xuanmin went to leave, treating the entire interlude like a leaf drifting down upon him—easily brushed aside and wholly irrelevant. However, after he’d taken a few steps outside, he coolly glanced at the scribe’s face.
“You won’t live long,” he said.
Inside the hidden pouch, the thrashing Xue Xian had been in the middle of hatching a new plan. But when he heard this, he slipped and almost tore himself in half. Fantastic! He didn’t even have to work for it—this idiot had just signed his own death warrant!
Unfortunately for Xue Xian, when he fell, he accidentally pressed against Xuanmin’s lower spine. A droning noise abruptly sounded in his head, as if someone had rung a great bell inside his skull. The sudden blow left him stunned, and he sank back into the depths of the pouch.
For a moment, he was both confused and filled with disbelief. Then, he inched back within the hidden pouch, returning to the spot he’d just been in. He pressed himself against the rough white hemp and gave a listen, but this time nothing happened, even as he scoured the area.
“Could it be the effect of the needle?” Xue Xian muttered to himself, picking up the slender object once more.
“Argh, what just poked me?” Jiang Shining groused, his voice muffled. “What nonsense are you up to now?”
“Wait, how are you speaking again?” Xue Xian asked suddenly.
Jiang Shining froze. That was right; he’d used up all his time for today. He shouldn’t have been able to move or speak. Did the change have something to do with that sound earlier? No, that couldn’t be it. Jiang Shining had spoken before then, but the implications just hadn’t occurred to him or Xue Xian.
Does he really have something valuable on him? Xue Xian wondered, growing even more curious. Without a second thought, he jabbed the needle into the acupoint on Xuanmin’s back once more.
Xuanmin had been about to step out of the encirclement of officials but came to a halt.
Xue Xian was probably the first captive in history to act so brazenly after being caught—truly something else. Frowning, Xuanmin pinched the misbehaving paper doll and plucked it from his pouch.