Chapter Sixty-Five: Bloodshed in Leland City

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Although these three books had been passed down since the Qin dynasty, what caught his attention was that both Mr. Zhong and the elderly man were exceptionally shrewd individuals; there was no way they did not understand the true value of these texts. Yet, observing the elder’s demeanor—who abruptly tossed the book to him as if hoping he would accept it—despite some of the elder’s intentions remaining concealed, one thing was unmistakable: his gaze, which Li Zisheng keenly caught. He could clearly sense the unspoken wish behind it.

They hoped he would take them.

Fully aware of the worth of these three volumes, Li Zisheng carefully placed them among his own collection. As he settled into the tunnel, he meticulously reviewed the events he had encountered recently.

Five days had passed swiftly. Li Zisheng and Balang gathered their belongings, preparing to depart. As for the luminous pearl, Li Zisheng harbored no greed; after all, it was not his—belonging to Sanwei Residence, a formidable and influential establishment. It would be unwise to sully his reputation by coveting petty gains from such a powerful entity.

Once ready, Li Zisheng and Balang retraced their steps toward the Lingzhou military camp, leaving the tunnel behind.

When the two saw the sunlight streaming in, they realized this exit was different from the one Li Zisheng had used before. Though still within the Lingzhou camp’s vicinity, this exit led beyond the rear mountains. The cave’s entrance was extremely well concealed, cloaked in wild undergrowth, almost indistinguishable from the surrounding hills.

Li Zisheng was not surprised. Even a crafty rabbit has three burrows—how much more so a mysterious leviathan such as this.

After they reached the back mountain, before them lay a lake behind the camp. Li Zisheng approached its shore and drew in a deep breath of the fresh air.

Yet, since emerging from the tunnel, a nagging doubt troubled him. At this hour, the sounds of military drills should have been echoing throughout Lingzhou camp, but all was silent. Given nearly five days had passed, and the Qingming festival’s home visits should have concluded, why was the camp devoid of any activity or noise? Though puzzled, Li Zisheng found no immediate cause for alarm.

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He had been hiding in the tunnels for nearly five days, missing many developments—especially the matter concerning the Turkic script, which troubled him deeply. After all, Deng Qing was no fool.

Slowly, the two made their way deeper into the camp, which remained eerily quiet. Yet, Li Zisheng detected a faint but growing scent of blood in the air.

His heart skipped a beat as he hurried to his tent, only to find it ransacked; belongings scattered everywhere. His usual desk, where he kept books, was in disarray. The review materials he had painstakingly copied at the academy were torn into shreds, strewn chaotically across the floor.

“Master, what on earth is going on? Why is the camp deserted? Could it be haunted? Or are we caught in some ghostly trap?” Balang whispered anxiously, inching closer to Li Zisheng, seeking comfort.

“Balang, let’s go to General Deng’s tent and see for ourselves,” Li Zisheng said firmly.

Inside Deng Qing’s tent, the odor of blood was overwhelming. The folding screen still stood, but draped across it was a corpse: Ashina Zanghe, the Turkic noble. A military saber was plunged through his heart; the blood had long since dried, but his face bore a peaceful smile, as if he had died content.

What struck Li Zisheng was that Ashina Zanghe’s death on the very screen commemorating Emperor Taizong’s destruction of the Turks did not evoke pity or regret. Despite being a formidable figure, Ashina’s mere desire to kill Li Zisheng did not command respect.

With Ashina Zanghe dead, Deng Qing’s objective seemed achieved. But why was the Lingzhou camp utterly deserted? Despite the thick bloodstains and heavy scent, no other bodies were visible.

Li Zisheng gathered his belongings, slung the various bags over his shoulders, and left the Lingzhou camp, heading toward Le City.

The wind whispered through the barren landscape, the withered grass chilling the air.

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Le City’s former bustling life had vanished, replaced by desolation. Even the city gates stood wide open, an eerie sight of abandonment.

Li Zisheng and Balang quickened their pace into the city. The once lively streets were reduced to ruins—charred walls, jagged scars of fire and steel everywhere—clear signs of a fierce and tragic battle.

The pervasive stench of blood was even stronger here, far exceeding what Li Zisheng had sensed in the Lingzhou camp.

Unease gnawed at him, growing ever more intense. Suddenly, it became clear why the portly shopkeeper had insisted he hide in the tunnels for four or five days before emerging.

What had happened during those five days? In the blink of an eye, Le City had turned into a ghost town. All the soldiers from Lingzhou camp had vanished. The thick, metallic scent of blood lingered ominously. What calamity had befallen this place?

Li Zisheng’s spirit was deeply disturbed. Surrounded by the city’s oppressive aura of death, his body ached with discomfort.

Balang, too, was overwhelmed by the atmosphere, retching uncontrollably.

Despite his unease, Li Zisheng found himself inexplicably drawn toward the Lingzhou Academy. He had been in Lingzhou for some time but had visited the academy only three or four times, always briefly. With Le City in such ruin, the academy would surely be no exception. Though he did not understand why, an unshakable urge compelled him to go and see for himself.