Meng Jianqing carried wound medicine with him. He quickly applied medicine and bandaged the wound on Meihong’s neck, left Uncle Yanfu to watch over her, then turned and walked toward the man collapsed on deck, crying out in pain. Stopping about ten feet away, he coldly observed him for a moment, then suddenly whipped out a long rope, wrapped it around the man’s neck, and dragged him up. The rope danced, and in an instant, the middle-aged man was bound tight, left hand forward, right leg back, hanging from the mast.

Uncle Yanfu said quietly, “This position is called ‘Immortal Points the Way.’ Once tied up like this, even a perfectly healthy person can’t last three hours. This fellow comes from the Imperial Guard—he’s truly skilled at binding people.”

His words carried either praise or sarcasm—Meihong couldn’t help but smile faintly, though a chill arose in her heart.

The hanged middle-aged man’s screams had turned to wails.

Meng Jianqing held another short blade, watching the man and saying, “The Imperial Guard has one hundred and eight types of major and minor tortures, but I only learned one. Would you like to know?”

Without waiting for the man to speak, he continued, “I use blades, so I learned the straw raincoat torture. You’ve surely heard of it, right? Is that why you look so terrified?”

The fear on the middle-aged man’s face was visible.

Meihong and Uncle Yanfu exchanged glances.

They’d both heard of this infamous, cruel punishment. Flesh cut into pieces like a straw raincoat, and the slightest touch brought agony to heart and lungs, yet one couldn’t die quickly.

Only those skilled with blades could truly administer the straw raincoat torture.

Meng Jianqing suddenly leaped up, and as he swept past the middle-aged man, his short blade flashed. When he landed, three strips of skin hung from the man’s left cheek, blood trickling as his howls suddenly rose in pitch.

Meng Jianqing sheathed his blade behind him, saying unhurriedly, “I ask, you answer. When I’m satisfied, I’ll give you a quick death.”

He already held a pill in his left palm, flicking it with his finger to send it into the man’s mouth.

The pill dissolved instantly on contact, and in moments, all bodily pain became numb and unfelt.

The middle-aged man exhaled deeply.

Meng Jianqing added, “This medicine’s effect lasts only one cup of tea’s time.”

But even half a cup of tea’s time was imperial mercy.

Seeing the man’s expression, Meng Jianqing knew it was time. He immediately asked, “How many of you are there? Where’s your ship?”

The middle-aged man didn’t hesitate, immediately answering, “Thirteen men, ship’s on the island’s west side.”

Meng Jianqing stared into his eyes, “What are you people?”

The middle-aged man answered everything. Their leader was also a former subordinate of Fang Guozhen, which is how he knew the secret of the island treasure. Because those surnamed Fang had been relocated to various places under strict supervision, he’d never had the opportunity until recent years, when, as time passed, local officials gradually relaxed their vigilance. Only then did he find a chance to fake his death and escape. He spent two years gathering followers—all desperate fortune-seekers who agreed to split the take equally. They chose the New Year season to go to sea because fewer ships traveled these waters then, avoiding detection. Who knew that after landing, they’d discover smoke rising from the island’s other side—

Hearing this, Meng Jianqing glanced at Meihong, who opened her mouth in great chagrin. She’d lit the fire on the ship to prepare dinner—who could have predicted such trouble?

The man continued confessing that, seeing the smoke, they sent four men to investigate. They snuck aboard the ship and killed three of Meihong’s retainers who’d stayed behind, though they also lost one man. They’d intended to kill Meihong too, but she said there were still people ashore hunting treasure, so they kept her alive to lure and kill the others.

Meihong approached and looked up at the middle-aged man, suddenly asking, “What’s your leader’s surname, Fang name?”

The middle-aged man only answered that he didn’t know.

Meihong continued, “The one responsible for hiding treasure on this island was Fang Guozhen’s cousin, Fang Guohao. The soldiers who transported the treasure were all silenced afterward. Fang Guohao hadn’t yet married or had children then, fearing that if he died, no one would know this place, so he told his sister Fang Guoxiang. Fang Guoxiang died early and entrusted this secret and her daughter to someone trustworthy. Did Fang Guohao also entrust this secret to you people? Is he still alive?”

The middle-aged man stared at Meihong, his face suddenly showing a ghostly expression, “You—you’re Guoxiang’s daughter!”

Meihong’s heart jumped, but she steadied herself and said, “If you’re Fang Guohao, what proof do you have?”

The middle-aged man hurriedly said, “That dressing table! When hiding the treasure, I got greedy and picked out some jewels, hiding them all in that dressing table. I hid the table separately in the deepest part of the stone cave and transplanted a palm-sized stalactite on top as a marker, planning to get it someday as dowry for Guoxiang!”

Meng Jianqing untied the dressing table from his back.

The middle-aged man cried out, “Ah, that’s it! The first layer contains—”

Meihong screamed, cutting off his words, “Don’t say it! I believe you!”

The middle-aged man—no, it should be Fang Guohao—exhaled in relief, then suddenly screamed again.

The medicine had worn off.

Meihong urgently said, “Quickly give him medicine, let him down!”

At this moment, the last trace of sunset finally fell into the distant western mountains, the sea surface immediately darkened, and cold winds rose.