Han Qian and his group were assigned to a stilt wooden building.

Zhao Wuji, Tian Cheng, and Gao Shao had their weapons confiscated upon entering the stronghold. Only Han Qian still received some courtesy—Feng Jin hadn’t required him to remove the sword at his waist, presumably assuming the weapon was merely decorative for Han Qian.

Before and behind the building, over a dozen stronghold soldiers stood watch. Han Qian assumed Ji Kun’s quarters in Jingyun Stronghold were similarly guarded.

Standing at the window, Han Qian had a better view of the valley south of Jingyun Stronghold. He turned and asked Zhao Wuji, Tian Cheng, and Gao Shao, “If you had five hundred elite troops, how would you capture Jingyun Stronghold?”

“Attacking from the Jingyun Creek entrance would be utterly impossible. The terrain is too narrow and treacherous. Not only would we face interception along the way, but even reaching the stronghold’s entrance wouldn’t provide space to deploy forces. Unless we could circle around to the valley behind, five hundred elite troops might have a chance,” Tian Cheng said.

“Circling around from Langxi appears to offer easier terrain, but there’s no existing road. Opening a passage through the deep mountain forests couldn’t be accomplished by three to five hundred men in three to five months!” Gao Shao shook his head, unconvinced that storming Jingyun Stronghold held much chance of success without overwhelming force.

Both Tian Cheng and Gao Shao had served as mid-to-lower-ranking officers in Great Chu’s enemy armies and had experience with small to medium-scale offensive and defensive battles—an advantage that Zhao Wuji, Lin Zongjing, and others currently lacked.

Seeing the strict security within Jingyun Stronghold with no opportunity for deception, both Tian Cheng and Gao Shao felt that even if willing to pay a heavy price, a successful assault wasn’t guaranteed.

Han Qian smiled faintly.

At that moment, two tribal soldiers came upstairs and walked around the exterior corridor to guard the south-facing window. Apparently noticing Han Qian and his men peering out suspiciously, they simply stationed themselves there to thwart whatever Han Qian’s group might be planning.

“Hey, you come here.” Gao Shao walked to the doorway and gestured emphatically at one of the tribal soldiers, calling him over.

“Ji Kun has several subordinates in the stronghold. How many days have they been here?” Han Qian stood by the window, positioning himself behind Gao Bao to ensure his figure couldn’t be seen from outside, and asked in a low voice.

“I heard Ji Kun first made contact with the young clan chief in Qianyang City five days ago, but he only brought two subordinates into Jingyun Stronghold,” Gao Bao said, raising his hand to cover his mouth and nose as if wiping it while speaking quietly to Han Qian.

“Put this in the food served to Ji Kun and his men.” Han Qian pulled a small paper packet from his breast and secretly passed it to Gao Bao.

Gao Bao pinched the packet, feeling some powdery substance inside. His heart jumped, and he said with a whimpering tone, “I have no opportunity to poison Ji Kun and his men!”

“Who said this is poison? It’s a laxative. If Ji Kun and his men consume it, at worst they’ll have diarrhea for a few days, as if afflicted by miasma. No one will suspect you. If you don’t believe me, try feeding some to a dog first,” Han Qian said quietly.

Gao Bao feared that if his recruitment by Han Qian were exposed, Feng Jin would skin him alive. Seeing that Han Qian had only given him a laxative that shouldn’t reveal their arrangement, he felt relieved and took the small packet, hiding it inside his belt.

Watching Gao Bao leave under some pretext with only one tribal soldier remaining outside the corridor, Zhao Ting’er asked worriedly, “Will these tribal barbarians agree to the conditions Young Master proposed?”

Zhao Ting’er worried their conversation might be overheard by the soldier outside. After all, they couldn’t be certain whether these tribal soldiers understood the official language. Even leaning close to Han Qian’s ear to speak, her body pressed softly against him.

“Even if these tribal barbarians harbor ulterior motives, they’ll choose temporary forbearance due to insufficient preparation. Besides, the price I offered isn’t too harsh,” Han Qian said with a smile. “You should know, ‘three years as a clean magistrate yields a hundred thousand taels of silver’—that’s the normal rate of extraction. Xuzhou is rather impoverished, but calculated annually, five million coins equals only five thousand taels of silver.”

Although both gold and silver were precious metals in this era, silver circulation and usage remained extremely rare—far less common than gold—and hadn’t formed a stable exchange rate with copper coins. When Han Qian mentioned silver, Zhao Ting’er seemed somewhat confused.

Calculated by population and farmland, Xuzhou’s fiscal potential might not equal even one or two-tenths of superior prefectures like Runyang. However, since the previous dynasty, even when the central government dispatched officials to Xuzhou, beyond symbolic tribute collection, these officials held no real local power and lacked means to extract wealth. Yet Xuzhou’s great clans and powerful families continuously transported timber, medicinal materials, copper, iron, metals, cinnabar, tung oil, tea, and other products down the Yuan River to downstream areas and beyond. The Feng, Xi, Xiang, and Yang families actually controlled considerable wealth.

Han Qian had consulted extensively with his father before settling on the figure of five million coins annually to intimidate them.

A price set too low wouldn’t sufficiently relax the four families’ vigilance; instead, they’d assume it was merely a delaying tactic. Set too high, even with effort the four families couldn’t raise such funds, and the situation would remain deadlocked.

Determining an amount that demonstrated their determination to extract local wealth while remaining bearable for the four families had required considerable thought from Han Qian and his father. However, without eighty to ninety percent certainty, Han Qian wouldn’t have risked his own life by entering Jingyun Stronghold with Gao Shao, Tian Cheng, and Zhao Wuji.

After a while, Feng Jin brought two household slaves carrying food.

“We’re not accustomed to the stronghold’s food. We brought our own provisions,” Han Qian said. Though unafraid that Feng Changyu or Feng Jin would poison them, thinking about how he’d arranged for Gao Bao to drug the food served to Ji Kun and his men made him feel like a guilty thief. He feared Ji Kun might have bribed stronghold servants to poison their food, so he declined Feng Jin’s goodwill and had Zhao Wuji retrieve dried provisions and preserved meat from their bundle for the group to share.

Seeing that Han Qian actually feared they’d poison the food, Feng Jin’s face filled with contempt. He said nothing, simply had the two tribal slaves remove the food.

When Han Qian requested permission to tour the stronghold or visit the valley settlements south of it, Feng Jin naturally refused. In the end, Han Qian asked Feng Jin for some old books stored in the stronghold. He sat reading under lamplight to pass the tedious time.

Han Qian read late into the night. Just as he was about to extinguish the oil lamp, he heard strange sounds from the rear wall of the wooden building. His hair stood on end. He grabbed the oil lamp, had Zhao Ting’er hide behind him, and took the sword from the corner of the table to rap twice on the wooden wall panel, alerting Zhao Wuji, Gao Shao, and Tian Cheng resting next door that an assassin had broken in.

Before Zhao Ting’er could open the door to let Gao Shao and the others enter, a hole broke through the rear wall of the wooden building and a petite figure with a black cloth covering their face crawled inside.

Han Qian didn’t dare let Zhao Ting’er leave his protection, pulling her back behind him.

Seeing Han Qian standing in the corner, the figure moved like an agile wildcat, brandishing a short sword and suddenly thrusting along the wall toward him.

Gao Shao and Tian Cheng, weaponless, directly broke through the door, smashing it in half. Each wielding half the broken door, they charged fiercely at the assassin. Upon seeing the assassin’s petite figure, both men froze.

They hadn’t expected Feng Changyu or Feng Jin to attempt anything. After all, if they truly died in Jingyun Stronghold, both Feng Changyu and Feng Jin would bear responsibility, meaning Qianyang City and the four families would completely tear apart relations. So if the Feng father and son truly intended harm, they wouldn’t need to hide behind sending assassins. Therefore, they’d spent the night fully guarding against the possibility that Ji Kun might send his subordinates to assassinate them.

Never had they imagined the assassin would be female.

Based on the intelligence they possessed, Ji Kun had no female scouts following him.

Was this woman from Jingyun Stronghold?

Should they kill the assassin directly? Tian Cheng and Gao Shao hesitated, merely knocking the short sword from the woman’s hand and using the door panels to knock her flying.

The female assassin proved quite skilled. After being knocked back by Gao Shao’s door panel, she pushed off the wall with both feet, twisted her body mid-air in a circle, and landed steadily like a feather.

Even with her weapon knocked to the ground and picked up by Gao Shao, the female assassin showed no intention of retreating. She moved along the wall, trying to circle around Gao Shao and Tian Cheng to attack Han Qian with bare hands.

“Keep her alive!” Han Qian didn’t know what position this female assassin held in Jingyun Stronghold. Seeing Zhao Wuji charge forward like a wildcat, he gave this instruction, then cried out in pain as if his body had struck the door frame, causing the oil lamp in his hand to spill onto nearby gauze curtains, which immediately caught fire.

Gao Shao and Tian Cheng glanced suspiciously at Han Qian, both thinking this accident seemed too deliberate—was he trying to frame the female assassin?

They didn’t extinguish the fire, silently protecting Han Qian and Zhao Ting’er as they retreated outside.

Without bow and arrows, Zhao Wuji’s combat effectiveness was significantly reduced, but in the cramped room fighting barehanded against the similarly unarmed female assassin proved perfectly suitable.

After Han Qian and the others withdrew from the bedroom, they heard Zhao Wuji and the female assassin exchanging blows inside—bang, bang, bang—fist meeting flesh in a manner that made listeners’ teeth ache.

“Ninth Madam!”

Gao Bao and the tribal soldiers guarding outside the building had long been alerted. They rushed up the wooden building brandishing weapons and surrounded the bedroom. They happened to see Zhao Wuji tear away the black cloth covering the female assassin’s face, revealing a stunningly beautiful visage that Zhao Wuji mercilessly scratched with five bloody welts. They cried out in alarm, fearing Zhao Wuji would beat their Ninth Madam to death.

Regardless of what madam she was, Gao Shao moved behind her and without warning kicked the female assassin to the ground. Gao Bao and the others rushed forward in confusion to pin the assassin down, preventing her from moving.

After Han Qian “accidentally” ignited the gauze curtains with the oil lamp, the fire gradually intensified. They were forced to retreat to the open ground outside the wooden building, where they could now see flames shooting through the wooden wall panels.

“Who is this woman?” Taking advantage of the chaos, Han Qian quietly asked Gao Bao.

“Madam Xi is Feng Changyu’s ninth concubine and Xi Cheng’s younger sister. I could only report back to the stronghold that Xi Cheng leaked our movements and was killed by Young Master, while I merely managed to escape detection. I never expected Madam Xi would sneak over tonight to assassinate Young Master!” Gao Bao said miserably in a low voice.

Han Qian observed that the female assassin was only seventeen or eighteen years old, delicate and stunningly beautiful. Meanwhile Feng Changyu was a withered old man over sixty. What damned good fortune that bastard had.