Chapter Twelve: Walking

Qu Hanchen walked along the crimson corridor of the prison, clothes in his left hand, scratching his already thinning hair with his right. He had never expected that Tang Changhong, who always seemed timid and meek, had once killed a man. And when Tang Changhong produced that strange white dagger, Qu Hanchen felt as though Tang Changhong had become an entirely different person—violent and savage.

“Should I report this to the Prison Administration?” he muttered, sighing softly. Though both he and Tang Changhong hailed from Northern You Province, the region was so vast that there was little camaraderie to speak of. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to be so heartless. Qu Hanchen considered himself no saint, but he wasn’t an irredeemable villain either.

“Changhong shouldn’t be able to do much in this prison, right?” he murmured, recalling how Tang Changhong had abruptly left during their night shift. Could it be that whatever he intended was already done? Yet judging from the quiet in the prison today, whatever happened last night must have been a trivial matter.

His heart tightened, but he reassured himself, and gradually relaxed. But when he looked up and saw where his steps had taken him, he shivered.

Leaving the wardens’ quarters, there were two corners: one led along the outer edge of the Shrine of the Prison God to the outer ward, and the other along the same edge to the inner ward, built of black bricks. His charge, the Biluo Dungeon, sat at the prison’s center, so whichever corner he took, he could reach the alley to the dungeon. Yet, out of instinctive fear, Qu Hanchen had never passed the inner ward’s cell entrance, always taking the outer route.

“Qu, it’s rare to see you pass this way today,” came a feeble voice, and Qu Hanchen’s tense heart eased; he recognized the speaker. With a familiar face nearby, he no longer feared the sinister depths of the inner ward.

“Xiu An, aren’t you on night duty? Why are you out before dusk?” Qu Hanchen turned to look at the slender, refined young man perched atop a statue of a golden-eyed white tiger. He was dressed like the other wardens, except for the white cap instead of a red one.

“You never pass the Death Cell, so what brings you by today?” The young man’s pale face and heavy dark circles matched his weak voice, making him look close to death. He carried not the usual chains or blade, but hugged a white paper banner suspended from a slender willow branch, about ten feet tall, its streamers blank.

“I was distracted and wandered this way,” Qu Hanchen replied helplessly.

“Is that so?” The young man laughed quietly, seated on the tiger statue.

Qu Hanchen looked up and noticed, for the first time, the curved peachwood plaque above the inner ward’s door, and the images of the gate gods, Shentu and Yulei, on either side—one with his head touching the lintel, feet on the threshold, leaving scarcely a gap between.

“Leave quickly,” the young man said, voice suddenly cold as he saw Qu Hanchen staring at the Death Cell.

“I’m going,” Qu Hanchen replied, raising his brows and grumbling inwardly as he hurried from the darkness. Once he had gone, the young man’s figure melted away like winter’s thin snow, leaving only the golden-eyed white tiger and a golden rooster statue standing at the doors.

“It’s just a few glances at a prison gate, not your wife—such stinginess,” Qu Hanchen muttered, turning at the corner to look back at where he’d paused.

Having been interrupted, he’d forgotten Tang Changhong’s odd behavior in the wardens’ quarters. Rounding the corner, he could see the silver-armored guards standing by the Biluo Dungeon’s entrance.

These two were not ordinary wardens; rumor had it they’d been transferred from the Imperial Forbidden Army. Their backgrounds aside, their martial prowess far surpassed that of anyone here. So Qu Hanchen always greeted them with a smile—after all, no one strikes a smiling face.

“Brother Xiaocheng, Brother Weiyang,” Qu Hanchen said cheerfully as he approached.

“As usual,” Xu Weiyang replied, tapping a wooden panel on the black door with his red-tasseled spear. The panel spun, revealing a bronze mirror.

Qu Hanchen’s weary face and tall, thin frame appeared in the mirror.

“Token,” Xu Weiyang said, glancing at the reflection.

Qu Hanchen produced a token from his coat: its crow-black color bore a tiger’s head at the top and two archaic characters at the bottom—Prison Administration.

“Go ahead,” said the silver-armored guard wielding a phoenix-headed axe. He glanced at the token, then used an ancient bronze key at his waist to unlock the door, waving Qu Hanchen inside.

“Wait, what are you doing in the dungeon this time?” Xu Weiyang, usually not one to meddle, felt a strange unease today and questioned Qu Hanchen just as he picked up a torch to enter.

“Delivering clothes,” Qu Hanchen replied honestly.

“To whom?” Xu Weiyang’s brow furrowed.

“To a prisoner,” Qu Hanchen answered.

“Which prisoner?” Xu Weiyang scowled. Was this fellow deliberately being evasive? If not for the prisoner, who else would he bring clothes to?

“Prisoner Number One,” Qu Hanchen replied, somewhat dissatisfied, though he kept his face composed.

“Alright,” Xu Weiyang relaxed, asking no more.

Busybody, Qu Hanchen muttered inwardly, lighting the torch and heading down the dim stairway.

The torch’s yellow glow barely lit five or six steps ahead, but Qu Hanchen had walked this path for three years—he could traverse it blindfolded.

At the arched doorway, he paused. Before him was not the usual darkness, but a corridor illuminated as bright as day by priceless luminous pearls.

Blocking the passage lay an enormous rotting corpse, nearly filling the space. Prisoner Number One, clad in a deep yellow robe, stood at the corpse’s head, calmly raising his gaze.

As those black eyes fixed on him, Qu Hanchen did not hesitate. He dropped the torch and fled without looking back.