Ding Weixiang, sitting near the window, lifted the curtain a crack and looked out, his expression growing somewhat grave. “What is Zou Sifang doing in the marshlands?”
Xiao Nanhui stiffened, and looked out as well.
Beyond the carriage window stretched a vast expanse of dull grey. Not far off, the morning sun had already risen, yet its light could not pierce the mist that lingered over the land.
The wind carried the smell of damp rot — the distinctive scent of the northern marshes.
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Thirty li beyond Mu Er He city lay the edge of the marshlands. From that point onward, there were no proper roads — only the faint ruts left by occasional travelers, from which one could barely discern a path. Where the marshlands began, stone steles had been erected to warn ordinary wayfarers: beyond this point lay treacherous bog, and without a guide the danger was extreme.
Yet for Zou Sifang, none of this merited the slightest concern.
He had walked this northern marshland road for many years — it was as familiar to him as the entrance to his own home.
In the past he had ventured into the marshlands several times a month, to inspect what quality of goods the Xiong family had gathered that month. Now that he was getting on in years, he had handed such matters over to those below him, and came only once every two or three months, staying no more than two or three days at a time — any longer and the damp would seep into his bones, and his joints would ache beyond endurance.
Thinking this, he instinctively pulled the hand warmer in his arms closer.
This recent serious illness had left him feeling that his health was far worse than before. And he still had no son or daughter to speak of. If he could not keep a firm grip on this business, it would sooner or later fall into the hands of the Xiong family. The only solution he could think of, after much deliberation, was to buy out Xiong Shi’s land entirely.
But buying that land would require no small sum of silver — and Xiong Shi was no fool and would certainly not yield easily.
Fortunately, he would soon have the means to assemble that sum.
Zou Sifang lifted the curtain and glanced at the sky, then asked casually, “Nearly there?”
The coachman was an old servant who had followed Zou Sifang for nearly twenty years. Knowing the master had important affairs today, he dared not be careless. “Less than a li to go now. Today we took the old shortcut, but some areas flooded badly in the recent rain and we were held up a little.”
Zou Sifang murmured a low acknowledgment, indicating he understood. He gazed at the box in his hands, and the unease that had stirred since leaving the city welled up in him again.
But he had deliberately chosen Xiong family territory to negotiate this deal — that was a precaution he had taken. Even for the sake of the silver and gold, the Xiong family would surely lend him some support in the moments to come.
This was his territory. Who in the world knew it better than he did?
Thinking thus, Zou Sifang’s heart settled back down in his chest.
Deep within the gloomy marshland lay a stretch of flat ground nearly a hundred mu in area, upon which sat a compound built on a foundation of pine timber and rammed earth — high walls, small windows, rarely a human sound. This was the Xiong family’s old manor.
Any wandering soul who stumbled upon it without knowing its nature might well have taken this house in the wilderness for a haunted dwelling.
Zou Sifang’s carriage rolled through the manor’s front gate, yet no other carriage or horse was to be seen.
The courtyard was empty, not a soul in sight. Through the morning mist one could make out only a white lantern hanging beneath the central window of the building ahead — seemingly lit the night before and not yet extinguished.
Zou Sifang instructed his old servant to wait outside the main gate, then carried his box and walked slowly toward the building.
The ground underfoot was laid with smooth river stones, and each step produced a crisp crunching sound.
River stones were not native to this area — Zou Sifang had spent silver to have them hauled in from elsewhere and laid here to deter herb thieves. After all, this was where Xiong Shi stored medicinal ingredients, and in such a remote wilderness it was inevitable that people would take an interest.
Zou Sifang stopped about ten paces from the building.
He could already see the door-god paintings pasted on the wooden door. The Xiong family’s people should have heard him by now, yet still no one came out to receive him.
Could it be—
Zou Sifang’s heart began to beat a little faster. He was on the verge of turning back, when that wooden door suddenly creaked open halfway, and a half-bald old man poked his head out.
It was the Xiong family’s steward.
Zou Sifang exhaled in relief, then felt a trace of dissatisfaction. “The buyer will be here any moment — how is it that you haven’t sent even one person out to greet me?”
The steward’s eyes had a somewhat vacant look. He hemmed and hawed for a moment before saying, “The person is already inside waiting for the master.”
Zou Sifang was taken aback — he had not expected the other party to arrive before the appointed time.
Growing impatient, he quickened his steps to the door and yanked the old man aside, about to enter.
His left leg had barely crossed the threshold when it stopped, suspended in midair.
His gaze locked onto the ground beneath his left foot and could not move. There, a thick, dark, viscous substance was still slowly spreading outward.
It was blood.
Zou Sifang raised his head, stiff with shock. The steward was looking at him with the same rigid expression, his trembling whiskers dotted with several drops of blood.
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